Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

In the darkness of his soul he has long dwelt, in a life lost and absent of meaning.

In the light of revelation she seeks to find purpose, in a world shrouded in fear.

Fate condemns this forbidden union -

but only together can they survive. 

E/C manip/bookcover made by me -

(still a work in progress, so you might see changes on above pic. from time to time)

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 PART ONE - Oath

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I

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Bonfires lay scattered and burned throughout the village in the chill night, but the darkness was prevalent, eating into one's soul.

Tongues of consuming flame lapped at dry tinder and the scarecrow-like effigy of the nearest conflagration, its head that of a pumpkin afire with dreadful eyes and leering mouth. Men parading as devils and ghouls rushed past in decadent celebration. Women in varying degrees of costume and dress danced with wild abandon to music so evocative it heated the blood. In darkened corners, couples writhed in shadowed embrace, causing the lone figure to avert her eyes awkwardly as she hurried past each in turn. Wine and ale flowed freely, while the beat of distant drums and the mournful haunt of a reed instrument called out to her and echoed in the rapid pounding of her heart.

The night and its strangeness closed in on Christine, much as the costumed villagers did. In a tense sort of desperation she carefully picked her way through the crowds and searched the unfamiliar street.

She never would have attended this festival had she known she would be separated from her escort, wandering alone through a crazed and unholy crowd. Never, in her near eighteen years, had she witnessed such a lack of inhibition and excess of debauchery. The scandalous nature of the Paris Opera House was tame in comparison.

But this was not home, she reminded herself. Never would it be. She had been forced to leave her position in the chorus and take up residence with her aloof great uncle on the outskirts of this remote village, once a part of fierce Scotland, but whose borders had shifted and now inhabited England. A world apart from the elegance of Paris.

Christine sidestepped a group of revelers dancing around the bonfire and walked directly into the path of a stout man in a red devil's mask. He slammed into her, nearly knocking her to the ground.

"Oh!"

Flailing for purchase, Christine's hand swung back and found contact where no one had stood before - a man's strong shoulder she reached up to grab at the same time the drunken invader staggered away, barking some insult unintelligible. Through the thick wool cape she fiercely gripped she felt the strength of lean muscle.

The stranger clasped her around the waist, in one smooth motion preventing her fall and bringing her around to him. She wondered if she was again falling at the dizzying sensation when she looked up into eyes that glowed behind a sparkling ebony mask…eyes the hypnotic gold of candle flame, intense and burning, framed with lashes black as coal. The bonfire seemed to dance inside his eyes, twin flames that drew her to their warmth. His lips curved in a slow twisted smile, wicked enough to set her pulse racing.

"You must exercise more caution. It is a dangerous place for the unwary, with regard to those merrymakers who've not yet learned to hold their cups."

The inflection of his voice, a velvet purr, deep and seductive, turned her insides to molten wax. God, had she ever heard such a voice…? He spoke with a cultured accent she couldn't place, neither English nor Scottish. His hair shone black as midnight, and what she could see of his skin beneath the mask was ghostly pale. His gloved hands at her waist burned through her thin woolen dress. Even through layers of petticoats, his touch singed her.

Flustered at so intimate a contact, she pressed her palm against his solid bulk to push away. The action scalded her, not with heat but with cold, and she became powerless as she felt the chill of his skin beneath his fine silk clothing. Her eyes dropped to the middle of his torso. The sight of her small pale hand against his crimson waistcoat caused her face to flame. Grateful that her spangled white mask likewise covered her forehead to dip beneath her cheeks, she broke free of his hold.

"Merci." She swallowed over a dry throat. "The street is so crowded. Impossible to traverse. The revelry has surpassed the dictates of propriety, I think …" She shook her head at her nervous prattle and attempted to regain her poise. "One cannot walk two feet ahead without being run down."

She spoke of propriety but ideas wholly inappropriate whirled through her mind, fed by what she'd seen this night. The riotous music, the stifling air - when had England ever felt so hot? - the close proximity of her mysterious dark savior whose eyes burned into her soul. All of it threatened to unbalance her a second time, to sweep her away to a moment forbidden. Her gaze slowly dropped and fastened to his mouth.

"You look lightheaded still. You must be parched in so heated an atmosphere." His smile suggested more than words conveyed. "I see you are without refreshment of the spirits that flow so freely. You should take some wine and find somewhere quiet to rest."

Did he mock her? Did he know his effect on her? Christine tried to discern his expression behind the mask, but his attention rested beneath her face at her throat, devoid of adornment. Her pulse there throbbed at his steady gaze, which then dipped lower to the pale half moons pushing up against her ruffled bodice with each uneven gasp of breath. Her skin grew flushed at his bold stare. Before she could think to move away or express offense, his eyes again flicked up to hers.

She forgot to scold, forgot to breathe. Their intensity called out to her … coaxing her to follow the example of the villagers and release all inhibition.

The festival faded into the background, the drums and pipes falling away. No thoughts stirred inside her head, no sound assaulted her ears. There was nothing except him…

This stranger she felt she had known since the beginning of time.

He held up his hand, his long fingers curling inward in a beguiling manner.

"Come, my Angel," he softly intoned.

A persuasive invitation, a silken command.

She felt powerless to resist, did not even want to, and lifted her hand inches from his own that had lowered toward her. Her fingertips grazed the palm of his glove, at last meeting it fully, the touch of his hand against hers further constricting breath and sending little shocks through every nerve ending. His eyes flared as if he, too, felt all she did. Slowly, he retreated back into the shadows, leading her by the hand as she matched each step to his.

She would follow him anywhere …

"Christine!"

The sound of her name being called from a distance once more scattered the thick dreamy haze from her mind. She blinked up at the stranger and snatched her hand from his light grip. Swinging around, she spotted her escort's fair head in the crowd.

"Raoul! I'm here." She waved her hand high to cover her embarrassment at what she'd almost done.

"I must go," she said and turned back to the stranger –

To find no one there.

Christine blinked in stunned confusion, with how he had vanished so quickly with nowhere to go...

A wall of stone with a chained and shadowed door stood several feet behind the area to which he'd been leading her, the area to her right side closed off by another wall crawling with ivy. She looked past Raoul, into the crowd, but saw no sign of a cloaked man with raven-black hair pulled back in a queue who stood taller than most and would be easy to spot. Mystified, for he would have had to brush past her to find his way into the thick of the festival, she struggled to understand.

Certainly her sensitivity to the riotous celebration and talk of this legendary night had not conjured him up in her mind. She had felt his eyes, his touch – burn to the very depths of her core.

Strange, when he'd been so cold…

"Christine," Raoul reached her, out of breath, and took relieved hold of her shoulders. "Thank God. I was worried. It's too easy to lose one another in a crowd of this magnitude – every villager must be out celebrating tonight. The festival has become far too wild. I would never forgive myself if something were to happen to you."

She nodded vaguely, her mind elsewhere, her eyes looking past him to see if she could catch sight of her dark savior who had called her his angel.

"We must leave for Montmarte, the carriage awaits. Fearsome creatures of the night inhabit these lands, Christine. You must always be on your guard - and never walk alone."

Christine barely refrained from rolling her eyes at his penchant for drama. "Please, Raoul, no more of such talk. It wasn't as if I intended to wander. I thought you were by my side and didn't realize you must have gone in the other direction."

All day and all night she had been informed of the legend of Samhain: when dead souls returned to former habitations and all manner of supernatural beings, dangerous and powerful, afflicted the living – the bonfires created to ward them off.

She linked her arm through his, grateful to have him again by her side.

"I would prefer …"

She questioned her hesitation. What would she prefer? To search the streets for a masked man of questionable repute about whom she knew nothing? A man of mystery with whom she had been so unreserved... So ready and willing to do whatever he asked …

She averted her face so Raoul wouldn't see the blush that stained her skin beneath the mask. "Yes, yes you're right. Take me back to Montmarte."

It was this pagan festival, this night of wicked revelry that made her act so unlike herself.

But as the carriage moved along the rutted road toward the dense forest and she looked back over her shoulder at the multitude of fires burning across the dark landscape, she knew something within her had changed. An equinox of the soul, when good and evil converged for one blinding moment of one shadowed night…

And she sensed she would never be the same.

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"Fearsome creatures of the night, indeed!" Christine scoffed beneath her breath.

She sat at the long dining table with her great uncle, the Earl of Montmarte at the head and Raoul facing her. Next to him sat their cousin, Lucy, the earl's daughter, an odd girl a year behind Christine in age and a decade younger in mind. Lucy was more curvaceous where Christine was slender, but her cousin's shapely figure was all that proved she wasn't a child. Expressions she'd heard the maids use of Lucy being a bit tetched in the head were generous. With fair hair like Raoul, Lucy's a silvery-white, and ice blue eyes, she resembled a Dresden doll, much like one of many with which she played. Lucy was rarely quiet, but conversations held were mostly with herself or her little porcelain friends.

At the moment, Lucy ate her tartlet, softly humming off-key and staring at her plate, not one bit concerned by the morbid conversation, if she heard it at all.

Strange that Raoul added little to the discussion of a subject Christine knew intrigued him greatly.

"You mock what you don't know?" her taciturn uncle reproved, holding up his fork with the tines directed to Christine as he stressed his points. "Perhaps if you acquainted yourself with all that has occurred in outlying provinces this past year you wouldn't be so quick to cast aspersions on caveats that could well save your life. Men and women have gone missing in the night. Bodies were found, drained of blood -"

"My apologies … my lord," she added the title as an afterthought, not the least bit sorry for her feelings on the matter. His hearing must be as acute as a bat, since she'd barely muttered the scornful words. "But I hardly think village gossip is of any merit. Legends are stories of pretense and not worthy of serious consideration. There must be another explanation for what happened. Perhaps those missing ran off and don't wish to be found. As for the other," (Hardly a topic she enjoyed with her meal) "there are wild animals hereabouts surely... "

Her uncle cast her a withering glance that dripped with disapproval. Madame Giry, her instructor at the Opera House, often scolded Christine for being too outspoken.

She owed him no loyalty, had never even known of his existence until Mama Valerius died. Still, though he'd shown her no real welcome in the two weeks since she arrived, she did owe him respect. Her great uncle had opened his home to her, though she suspected Raoul urged the courtesy. He alone had expressed interest and delight to see her again. Their mothers had been first cousins, and his mother married a French count, partly what caused the rift of distance between them since childhood. At least Raoul didn't show any pompous airs with his acquired status, still the boy she had known and loved.

Their great uncle on the other hand…

"I understand you lost your way the other night," he scolded. The crags near his thin mouth deepened into disapproving furrows above his white whiskered jaw. "A foolish choice to wander off in a festival of such a depraved nature, though with your unfortunate upbringing, I'm not surprised."

Her nerves prickled at his slur. "Nothing happened. I was unharmed."

"Raoul mentioned that a man pulled you with him, away from the crowd."

She turned her head in surprise toward her cousin, who displayed a sudden extreme interest in his raspberry tartlet. Raoul had seen? She wondered why he had made no mention of it...

"One of many costumed merrymakers. He saved me from taking a spill."

"That Valerius woman never cautioned you about the dangers of gallivanting about unescorted?"

"I had an escort," she gritted through her teeth, ignoring the slight against Mama Valerius, a sweet elderly woman who'd taken care of Christine since her parents died. "Raoul was my escort. We were only separated for a time and quite by accident."

"He mentioned you seemed quite taken with the man."

She glared at Raoul, who kept his eyes averted to his plate. They would certainly have a talk at the first opportunity!

"I hardly know why he would arrive to such a conclusion." She picked at her food with her fork, not wishing to invite further ridicule by speaking of the encounter. "Raoul was too far away to see well, and the man left before he got there." At this her cousin lifted his head in surprise, as if to object. "It really was of no consequence," she continued, staring coldly at him. "I fail to see why he would even bring up such an insignificant matter."

"I'll decide if it is of consequence or not. Such an 'insignificant matter' could ruin your reputation. Running about in a scrap of costume in the midst of a pagan festival, your attributes on display for any passing rogue to sample – all of it behavior entirely inappropriate. Such shocking displays could ruin your chance of securing a wealthy husband."

Her cheeks burned with indignation. There. It was out. She had suspected as much. Why else would he send for a grand niece he had never met... Marital prospects for his only living child were slim to none, and so he hoped to control Christine's future, at no small benefit to his personal coffers, she was sure.

"I don't intend to marry," she declared.

He scoffed. "Nonsense. Of course you'll marry. I have a few worthy prospects in mind. At the ball I shall soon host, you will make their acquaintance then."

She set down her fork and calmly declared, "I have no interest in marrying any man."

A half truth. She would be so inclined, but only if it led to love, the type of deep abiding love she'd been told her parents had. The ever-after kind on which fairytales were spun. Not a forced marriage to a stranger she might never truly know, or worse, come to loathe. Madame Giry and Mama Valerius both had spoken of the deep love her musician father and her gentle mother shared, one that providence determined could not separate them and had mercifully allowed them to partake in death as they had in life, though Christine knew little of how they died, only that it had been a horrible accident. Her parent's tale had become legend to the child she'd been, though her once endless questions about the death of her French father and his Swedish lady bride had been met with hushed reprimands and silent refusals to speak of such things.

He waved aside her declaration as trivial. "I have made my decision. As I am your present guardian, you have little say in the matter."

"I could leave," she argued, though she had nowhere to go, or more to the point, no money to take her there.

"Really? I understood that all of what Madame Valerius possessed went to pay off the creditors, including the sale of her cottage. Your mother was of course disinherited when she married your father, a penniless musician. And as I paid for your transport here, I doubt you have any funds to call your own."

He ticked off the bald truths with all the aplomb of a bully who knew he had cowed a timid child. Yet she was not timid, and wouldn't give in so easily.

"So you see, your presence here is reliant solely on my goodwill," he continued, "and I should think you would be more cooperative to my wishes."

"Send me back to Paris then," she replied crossly. "I wouldn't mind." Indeed, she had enjoyed the dancing and bit parts of singing she had earned at the opera. She only wished she'd been more frugal with her financial earnings.

"The lifestyle of a thespian is corrupt and unsuitable!" he roared, banging his fist on the tablecloth and causing the silverware to jump. "I'll not have you tarnish the family name!"

Lucy stopped humming and whimpered. Raoul took a long pull of wine. Christine glared at the bully to her left.

"This far from Paris, it is doubtful anyone would know the depraved levels to which you have lowered yourself," he said, more calmly but no less stern. "You must never speak of your unfortunate past at the theatre again. From this day forth, it doesn't exist."

Christine rose quickly from the table and threw her napkin to her plate. "If you'll excuse me, I find I have no appetite for dessert."

She spun on her heel and quit the dining chamber without being dismissed, knowing her behavior was hardly befitting a lady and not caring one whit. Until a fortnight ago, she had been quite content with being a lowly ballet rat and had no desire to learn the stodgy etiquette of the noblesse.

Too vexed to meekly withdraw to her sitting room, likely to pace from wall to wall, she wished for an outlet to vent her ire. As she drew abreast of the staircase, a faint scratching came on the wood from the other side of the door leading outside.

Warily she drew near.

A pitiful whimper accompanied the scratching, and she opened the door slightly.

Lucy's ragamuffin of a pup looked up at her and let out a yip of a bark. Shaggy, with brown fur, it wagged its tail, but remained on the stoop when she opened the door wider to let it in.

"So, you're going to be difficult too?" she said dryly, bending down to collect the mutt.

It evaded her grasp and ran back out into the dusk, stopping to look at her, then again scampered away.

Normally she would balk at chasing the contrary little beast, but a walk in the twilight might be exactly what she needed. She grabbed her cloak from the rack in the foyer and hurriedly left the manor.

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Chapter Text

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II

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Christine relied on her sense of hearing to track the rebellious pup, its occasional yips directing her on which way to go. Her mind wandered, as did her feet, taking her further into the gathering darkness. She could see no harm as long as she stayed on the grounds and close to the manor. She considered going back for a lantern but might lose the pup, so trudged onward.

If not for Lucy's hysterics and tears when she did not have her pet near to sleep on her bed each night, Christine would surrender the chase. At least the moon would make an appearance, having partially risen to light the way. What was that silly dog's name again? Oh yes…

"Topsy," she called out. "Come here this minute! Lucy will be missing you."

She had never owned a pet and had no idea how to manage one. Several more shouts for the stubborn mutt yielded nothing. She walked on, only just able to see. Much further in the distance than she'd last heard it, Christine made out faint yipping.

A light mist wet her face and she grimaced, pulling the hood of her cape over her head, her mind playing back her atrocious arrival to the estate a fortnight ago.

The carriage, when it finally rattled near to collect her at the station, came late. Upon her arrival, in the pouring rain, no less, she had entered Montmarte's wide doors with all the finesse of a drowned rat. Her uncle had not been present to greet her, and Raoul had been absent on an urgent matter. Through the manservant's haughty airs, Christine was made to feel every inch the poor relation seeking dubious shelter in one of the countryside's most notable manors, or so the driver told her, surpassed by none other except Castle Dragan situated deep in the forest.

This distant uncle who so unexpectedly materialized in her life had never even known her sainted parents. Christine never knew of his existence until the eve of Mama Valerius's funeral, when the invitation came from Montmarte. Shocked to learn she wasn't alone in the world, that she had other family, however removed and distantly related, Christine spent her last francs on a proper outfit and answered the missive, but now wished she had torn it to smithereens and remained in training at the Opera House.

How dare Raoul inform their great uncle of the bizarre incident at the festival! An incident which Christine had repeatedly tried to push from her mind. Three nights had passed since the enigmatic stranger first haunted her thoughts. Most of the time, she could divert her attention to other things, but when she lay still and quiet in bed, eyes of seductive flame in a masked face filled the black scope of vision beneath her closed lids.

"Stop it," she ordered aloud, more to hear her voice in the deepening gloom and dispel the fear of the present unknown than for any true chastisement. "You are a reasonably intelligent female and not some besotted simpleton, so stop acting like one."

It unnerved her that in those scant minutes of their acquaintance, he had affected her more strongly than any man she'd known, though she had little by which to compare...

Potential suitors, none of interest, had made their desires apparent once she'd gained a womanly figure, but under the vigilant eyes of both Mama Valerius and Madame Giry, few dared get too close. Those who managed to slip past her guardians and weren't dissuaded by Christine's sharp tongue, she ignored, hoping her indifference would deflate their egos enough to leave her alone to dance and sing as she wished. Her entire experience in such ventures amounted to an awkward peck on the lips from an undeterred boy, whom she'd grown bored to tears with after one chaperoned outing. And Raoul, who she'd given a kiss on the cheek for saving her scarf from the sea, but they'd been children then. Yet her cousin certainly had no romantic interest in her, not that she would encourage it if he did. He was kin to her, a friend and nothing more. One with whom she was seriously peeved at the moment...

The damp air chilled her to the bone, and Christine pulled the edges of her cloak more tightly around her shoulders, deciding the pup was on its own. She hoped the little beast would return before Lucy readied for bed.

Eager for her own warm bed, Christine took first true notice of the area in the faint glow of the rising moon. So engrossed in recounting the past, she had failed to realize that nothing looked familiar.

Oh, bother! On top of everything else, she was now lost? She blew out an aggrieved breath, never having intended to wander so far.

Beyond the hills to her right, she spotted a grey shimmer, what must be the North Sea. A mist unfurled in the distance, closing in fast. The shadows of tall trees seemed more elongated and sentinel-like, surrounding her.

She realized she must be within a fringe of dark forest that rimmed Montmarte and acted as a border. Dangers, he had said, and she had no wish to encounter anything even remotely intimidating, shuddering at the thought of bodies her uncle said had been drained of blood and of fearsome wild beasts that prowled the night. Monsters, he called them, once mortal, though she scorned such incredible ideas. He sought to intimidate her at every turn, and she felt certain that was all tonight's little tale of horror had been. Another attempt to put her under his thumb and keep her meek and subservient to his wishes. She did not disbelieve that people had been killed in the forest, Raoul told her that, the tally five in three months. However, ferocious animals did exist and she cursed her vexation that had led her on this fool's chase. She had been a fool to do this.

Hurriedly she turned to retrace her steps and came to a sudden halt. Confused, she stared.

A blanket of dull white fog had materialized out of nowhere and crept toward her, as far as the eye could see, blocking any view she might have of the manor.

She had never witnessed such dramatic changes in climate occur so rapidly, as she had in these lowlands of Berwickshire. A dark unease, a foreboding of something sinister heightened her senses, but she pushed those fears away. Like as not her mind wrapped around fanciful imaginings provoked by these gloomy environs and the dreadful dinner topic.

Indecisive between remaining trapped at the edge of the forest or groping blindly through unfamiliar terrain, Christine anxiously considered her options. She dared not enter the dark forest with its many hidden dangers. Nor did she fancy the idea of waiting for the fog to disperse. The choice was seized from her as the chill cloud drifted close, tendrils of cold mist wrapping around her, until she could see nothing but white.

A distant howl that definitely did not sound as if it came from a puppy caused her heart to flutter a frantic beat. She shivered as she slowly pushed through the dense curtain, hardly aware of where she was going, into the sea for all she knew. To remain immobile jarred her nerves far worse, and she walked with caution as the unrelenting fog swirled around her, enveloped her, closing her off to the world in a shroud of thick mist...

She drifted forward with hands outstretched, unable to see more than an arm's length before her, fingers reaching to fumble for any point of contact. Her hands collided with the trunk of a tree and she realized she was going in the wrong direction. She altered course behind her to what surely must lead to the manor. After some time elapsed, the nuisance of being lost dissolved in the pit of her stomach and branched into cold, stark fear. She should have reached the manor by now, if she were going in the right direction. One misstep, and she could fall and become injured. Helpless. No one would know, having thought she'd retired to her room for the night.

Blindly she pursued her indistinct course, the cold, cloying fog unlike any she'd known in Paris. A living, breathing thing, it coiled around her. The hushed eeriness of her surroundings made her skin crawl, and she began softly to sing, a comfort since childhood for when she felt frightened. She nervously formed the words of an aria from the last opera while striking out blindly, her arms sweeping in front and to the sides, over and over, until the rough bark of a tree abraded her fingertips.

No! Not the forest again!

Suddenly she felt her wrist harshly grabbed, and her wavering song ended on a shocked little cry.

A dark, cloaked figure walked from behind, emerging from the mist that swirled away to let him pass. He turned to stand before her, the cloud of fog again closing behind him.

Christine looked up with fearful amazement to see the masked stranger from the festival.

"You," she whispered.

As they had done before, his mysterious eyes pulled her in, as if lights glowed inside the golden orbs, though this time there was no bonfire as a reflection, only the mist. His riveting gaze captured her in his hold, as effective as the grip he had on her arm trapped between them.

She stood motionless, spellbound. Scant inches separated them, the chill radiating from his body impossibly warming to her flesh.

How could that even be...

Shaken by the compulsive desire to draw closer, as though she had no freewill left, Christine blinked and retreated a step, all the distance allowed, his grip on her wrist secure. Though he again wore black leather gloves, the feel of his fingers through her sleeve was icy, and she released a little gasp. He continued to stare intensely into her eyes, his striking presence devoid of expression. She inhaled deeply, hoping to achieve some semblance of control.

"Monsieur, if you please…" She tried to pull her wrist free, but he held fast. She looked at him with a mix of confusion and uncertainty.

At her soft command, his eyes narrowed behind the mask he wore, as if perplexed. He had looked at her in such a manner that night too. It was another moment before he spoke.

"Did I not warn you to be careful?" he echoed his initial greeting from the festival. The timbre of his voice came as rich and deep as she remembered. "It is not safe for a woman to wander alone in darkness. The night is laden with dangers."

"Does your warning stem from caution or threat?" she challenged, struggling not to let him see her fear, though her heart pounded as if it might burst through her chest.

"Perhaps both."

His direct words stunned, but rather than attempt to break away a second time, Christine stood utterly still. Despite his alarming answer, the oddest awareness swept through her that he would not harm her.

She had no basis for such a belief, it made no sense, especially after the manner in which he lured her to walk with him, away from the festival. Yet despite sound logic, (and she wondered how intact hers must be to think it), she knew it was so.

Quietly she gave voice to her thoughts.

"You won't harm me."

He tilted his head back, his scornful gaze sweeping her in a glance.

"Can you be so sure?"

She shook her head a little, dazed with a certainty she couldn't explain.

"Yes."

Slowly, she took in his form. Beneath a black fedora, his raven hair hung in damp lanks just touching the base of his neck. His mode of clothing, from the little she could see of it, befitted a gentleman. Oddly, he again wore a full mask, a different one that also dipped beneath his cheekbones. Of opaque black leather, this mask held no shine or ornamentation to it, as the spangled one from the festival did. His lips beneath were pulled thin, unsmiling, his lean jaw clenched as if displeased with her curious interest.

An elaborate gold and ruby clasp with a coat of arms held his heavy cloak together and hid much of his form, but standing so close she felt his barely leashed strength, certain his body was as commanding as the rest of him. A strange breathlessness came over her at such a wayward thought and mingled with shy apprehension as her gaze took in the wall of his chest before again flicking upward to his remarkable eyes.

He inhaled a sudden sharp breath, his eyes flaring then narrowing again.

"Why are you here?" he demanded.

Affronted by his imposing tone, she lifted her chin. "It is I, monsieur, who should ask why you trespass? I am a visitor to Montmarte and am entitled to be on these grounds."

"You are no longer at Montmarte."

She blinked. "No longer at Montmarte?" she echoed faintly. Had she truly walked that great a distance?

He stared hard as if struggling with indecision, then moved his other hand to encircle her upper arm, dropping his hold on her wrist.

"Come!"

Turning with her in a different direction, he strode through the fog, forcing her obedience.

"Monsieur - wait!"

The suddenness of his act made her heart pound with uncertainty. His stride was graceful, long and sure, as if no mist impeded his vision, and she quickened her pace so as not to stumble, trying to shrug free of his fierce grasp.

"Wh-where are you taking me? Who are you?" When he gave no response, she insisted, "Will you not answer –?"

He whirled to face her with a swiftness that trapped the breath in her throat. "Are you now frightened?" he asked, his whisper soft and silken, sounding almost pleased with the prospect.

Christine's lips parted, but she felt bereft of speech. Good sense demanded that she be more frightened than she was. Yet sense did not belong to this world of glowing mist, from which this darkly glorious stranger emerged, nor had logic ordered her steps at the festival when she disappeared into the shadows with him. The emotions that rendered her mute had little to do with terror but were just as troubling. She continued to look into his bottomless eyes that once more drew her in …

As though he fought the impulse, his gloved hand slowly, so slowly, lifted and his knuckles made featherlight contact beneath her ear. She inhaled a shaky breath as he traced a path of flame to her chin. The chill of his touch on her flesh magnified as his fingertips burned a path down to her throat resting in the hollow and against the pulse that beat wildly at its base above the ruffle of her neckline.

"You are wise to fear," he said softly, as if in endearment. "You have good reason. I am not what you think."

Her eyes fell shut, dazed by her body's strong reaction to this man, at the same time infuriated by his cat and mouse ploy.

"You wish to intimidate? Is that your game, monsieur? To speak in threats and riddles? And is it also your intent to seduce me into submission?" She looked at him without flinching, forcing herself not to take another step back. "I am not afraid of you. You will not find me a docile lamb biddable to your will."

He shortly laughed at that, the tone of his amusement rich but with a dark, disturbing quality to it, as if at a private joke. She stood as tall and forbidding as her height allowed, diminutive when compared with his towering frame.

His lips lifted at the corners in a faint, bemused smile. "In time, perhaps, I shall satisfy you with what answers you seek..." His gaze lowered to the front of her dress then flicked up to her eyes. "And more."

His hypnotic eyes conveyed the bold promise of his words, and she swayed slightly toward him, her knees weak.

"You think too highly of yourself, monsieur."

Her words came husky, belying her response to his touch.

His smile was cynical as his touch, which never left her, spread over her throat. His fingertips brushed fire up her neck while his thumb did the same to the side opposite. His palm pressed in, searing her in a light, firm clasp, his thumb and forefinger resting at her jaw. "I assure you, my dear," he leaned in close to whisper, his breath fanning her ear, the only thing warm about him and sending shivers down her spine, "the time is nigh, when it will be you who seeks me out."

It wasn't arrogance that laced his tone, but a strange sense of unassuming certainty, as though he spoke of what they both knew to be true. She struggled against the tide of rich feeling his words and touch aroused.

"Your judgment is as flawed as your conduct. I would never seek out a rogue … what you most certainly are … as your actions clearly indicate."

Her words intended to discourage came as wisps of mere breath, again giving unwelcome credence to his claim. Incensed, she pulled swiftly free from his hand at her neck, but still he did not release her arm.

"We shall see."

His eyes burned into hers as he drew closer, his other arm twining about her waist and drawing her body back to him.

She trembled at the feel of his hard form against her softness, and felt almost grateful for his support. But instead of the kiss he seemed about to bestow, a kiss she turned her face aside to prevent, his head bent to her neck, his lips brushing the tender skin there.

Christine gasped in shock at the bold intimacy, the tip of his tongue surprisingly hot as it traced beneath her ear, his cool lips suckling flesh. She could not prevent a moan and held tightly to his shoulders as unfamiliar heat rushed through her veins and pooled to her center.

Lightly he bit the cord of her neck with his blunt teeth, inciting a strange desperate need within her. She pulled him closer still, moving her head to let him do as he wished. His lips caressed her neck, and what felt like the prick of a needle lightly scraped the surface of her flesh, causing her to stiffen in shock. Instantly, his wet tongue laved away the faint sting, while her fingers dug into his shoulders…

Suddenly, violently, he put both hands to her arms pushing her away as he pulled back, upsetting her shaky balance.

Christine clung to his arms so as not to fall. He kept his eyes shut, his hands holding her from him, his masked face dropping further downward until hidden by his hat, and she studied him in anxious concern.

"Monsieur?" she inquired softly.

Her query seemed to snap him out of whatever conflict held him bound. He straightened and again, with her one arm tightly grasped, relentlessly pulled her with him through the mist.

Too shaken that she had encouraged such wicked attentions, too confused that he so rapidly ended them, she said nothing more and succumbed to his swift lead.

A short time later, they stepped out of the mist, and Christine saw the great brown edifice and two turrets of Montmarte a stone's throw away, yellow rectangles of light acting as a beacon. Relief vied for bewilderment in her mind. How had they reached the manor so quickly? Had she been walking in circles?

Her silent escort released his hold on her arm and looked at her. She was stunned by the sadness in his golden eyes.

"Christine! Are you out here?"

At her cousin's clear panic, she twisted around to call out, "I'm here!" Lowering her tone, she addressed her dark companion. "Would you care to come inside for some tea?"

She shouldn't invite him in, as much as he made her forget herself in his presence, the things he did to her - but courtesy demanded some token recompense for rescuing her from an even more dangerous fate than at the festival. And she wanted to know more about him and what had put that sudden sorrow into his eyes.

When he gave no response, she turned to look at him as she spoke. "I should think Raoul would …" Her words trailed off, her eyes widening. "… not mind," she whispered to the emptiness behind her.

Her dark saviour had again vanished, without a sound, without a word.

With her eyes she searched the outskirts of fog but saw no trace of him. How could he have slipped away so quietly? As if the man himself was composed of mist and shadow and had blended back into his habitation.

"Christine!"

She felt hands at her shoulders pull her around and stared up into her cousin's relieved blue eyes.

"Raoul. Did you see …?" She turned to glance back into the white fog.

"See what?"

"I … nothing."

To speak of her encounter might earn her another scolding, and oddly she really had no wish to share what happened. Nor did she wish to give more fuel for Raoul to use against her with their uncle.

"Come, you're shaking. A foolish thing it was, Christine, to go out in fog this thick. You could have been lost or hurt."

She refrained from telling him he was correct about one of those two fates.

"When I left there was no fog."

"In this part of the country, the weather can change at a moment's notice." Slipping a reassuring arm around her shoulders, he escorted her up the stairs to the manor. "Why in God's name did you come out here, when I told you never to walk alone at night?"

"Lucy's pup is loose. I was trying to find it."

He shook his head in aggravation. "There's no sense in warning you, is there? You never listen – always were one to do as you damn well pleased and hang the consequences."

They reached the door. He opened it for her then followed her inside.

"And you are still as blunt and bullying as ever. Nor has your language improved."

He chuckled and closed the door.

"You'll find I still have that Van Helsing temper Mother passed on to me. So best not test it."

She scoffed. "As if I was ever afraid of you! You're not the only one to inherit the trait, you know."

"Maybe, but you should be more terrified than you are - of all those things that inhabit the night. Not me," he added with a wink when she raised an imperious brow at him. "You've always been a bit fearless, which, come to think of it might serve you well." A strange somberness came over him. "I have long wanted to discuss a matter with you, but I'm afraid it must wait. I have somewhere I need to be. You look exhausted. Get some rest. We'll talk more tomorrow."

"Perhaps we will, perhaps we won't." She scowled at him. "I'm still upset with you."

"I'm sorry, Christine. Really I am. We'll talk tomorrow. I must go."

She watched him depart to the back of the manor where a door led to the stables, curious what business would take him out into the night, of which he continually warned her. She disagreed with his character assessment. Never had she been what she would call fearless, but orphaned at such a young age, she had been forced to face and fight her fears or let them drown her.

Clasping her hand to the side of her neck, she recalled the feel of her dark saviour's mouth there, a wicked encounter on which she should not dwell. Her face grew hot and her pulse raced as she moved into the empty parlor to look out the window...

Nothing but fog.

Moving away from the glass, she dropped her hand from her neck, noting a flash of red as she lowered it.

A small smear of blood stained the pad of her finger.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

She was not like the others.

He had been stirred by her beauty and drawn to the young woman the moment he beheld her masked face wreathed by long masses of shining dark ringlets, and had followed her, unseen, at the festival of Samhain.

Unmasked, she was even more breathtaking than his mind had envisioned.

Erik had come to the startling awareness that she was different from the rest when she bravely confronted him, even quarreled with him. And, most disconcerting, she had been able to withstand his influence and break free of his control over her mind on both occasions he entered her presence.

Never had that happened before, and for that reason alone he had not slaked his wretched thirst, instead becoming her guide.

By the blood of his ancestors - her guide!

What absurd twist of fate had cast him into the role of her protector? If she had known the devil she'd clung to, she would have fled from him in abject terror. But instead, she calmly declared that he would never hurt her. And in speaking those quiet words, he felt as if a spell had been cast over him in that he no longer wanted to. She spoke to him as to any man, without being compelled, which intrigued him as much as it mystified.

Why had she come? What purpose did she have for being at Montmarte? And who the devil was she?

He stood invisible within the fringes of thick mist and watched her look back in his direction, searching for him through the window.

Of more importance, what relation was she to them? A guest she had said, but of which member of the household?

The childlike Lucy, with her guileless blue eyes… The foppish boy, who was proving to be more pest than foe… Or the avaricious earl, searching for ways to increase his holdings now that he was in debt…

Erik frowned. The French woman called Christine did not seem to fear him, did not appear frightened of anything or anyone, though he knew that to be untrue. He had seen her fear, had felt it in the racing of her pulse. Yet she also possessed bravado, walking among drunken revelers, a lone wandering angel at a pagan festival. Walking in the thick forest in the dead of night in an even denser fog.

And that voice… her song had been shaky with trepidation but beautiful. Angelic even.

He dryly laughed – as if a demon would recognize an angel! However, music had become his refuge and sole companion, and he understood true talent.

He could not deny nor comprehend the powerful bond he'd felt toward her, as he'd never felt with any woman through time. From the moment he looked into her velvet brown eyes and experienced the spark of her warm touch he had merged with her into some unforeseen existence where they alone dwelt. With her, he felt he possessed a soul. She had actually desired his touch …

And the company of the Vicomte, he recalled, grimly having noted her relief to see the de Chagny boy's approach on both occasions. Was this dark-haired beauty with the flawless skin soon to become that fool's bride?

Rage reared its monstrous head for an instant, bleak confusion following closely on its heels. He chuckled darkly. For what purpose should he even care…?

Before he yielded to his pathetic wishes to approach the manor, he blended back into his world of mist.

He could never have what most men attained: a wife, children, a true home. Centuries of the Cel Tradat curse along with a face twisted from birth had stolen any normal existence from him. Erik had long accepted his wretched fate and had no wish to entertain these novel feelings. Feelings that urged his return to accept her invitation to tea and learn all he could about the fiery angel who now inhabited Montmarte.

No, he would not fall prey to the cutting bonds of hope again.

He drew a mantle of stony indifference around his still heart to block out the pain of feeling and stalked away to resume the hunt. His ears and eyes sharply attuned to the darkness as a mournful howl broke the muffled silence. The distant sound of cursing and drunken laughter reached his ears. Fearsome creatures of the night, he remembered the Vicomte telling her. Beware.

His lips twisted in a cynical smile that slowly faded.

He should have taken her.

He could not fight what he was and would never be anything more than a monster.

He would find his way into Christine's presence again, at a time when the Vicomte could not interfere, and would take greater care to weave a spell of dark seduction. He had felt her complete surrender close at hand...

She would not be able to resist a third time.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

III

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

The pane of glass reflected Christine's somber image, and she looked into it with idle curiosity.

The oval mirror in the carved gilt frame was old, the glass decades in age for certain, perhaps even a century or more – the pane used dark and murky, unlike those at the Opera House, or the looking glass that had belonged to Mama Valerius. Still, the mirror proved adequate enough to reveal Christine's features from the bust up and was the sole source of reflection provided in the bedchamber she'd been given.

Standing alone in her shift and the corset a maid had earlier helped her lace, Christine ran her fingertips over the narrow red line alongside her neck, beneath her ear, where the dark stranger's mouth had boldly strayed. His mask must contain a sharp edge that had lightly split her skin, a minor wound, but on her lily-white neck the scratch stood out like a red flag.

Wishing to avoid bothersome questions that would necessitate another lie, she chose from her repertoire of four dresses, carefully selected from costume racks at the Opera House, a high-necked day dress of black silk and lace similar to Madame Giry's mourning style of fashion. A soft ruff of chiffon encircled the neck almost to her chin and a network of tiny scarlet flowers on a vine of emerald gave a smattering of colorful relief to the edging of the sleeves and hemline.

Earlier, a servant knocked on her door to relay the message that her presence was required in the earl's study.

A quarter of an hour after that, Christine stood in a fluster of dismay and disbelief before him, where he sat behind his desk and regarded her with his usual pompous disapproval.

"But, my lord – a ball? And so soon?"

"I spoke of it on previous occasions."

He plucked up a reed from a narrow jar of them, held it to the flame of a candle and lit his pipe - likely too stingy to strike a lucifer to spark each time he indulged in his habitual vice. Taking a few puffs, he leaned back in his chair and blew out a cloud of smoke that encircled her head and made her want to choke or quite possibly retch.

She waved her hand in front of her nose. He stared at her with amused arrogance.

"I informed you of my plans to find you a husband. What better time to begin than that of a harvest ball?"

He chuckled at his poor joke, the sound gruff, as if laughter found it foreign to emit from his throat. Christine barely held her tongue from expressing her disgust - for him and for his plan.

She had no desire for a husband, not yet, and certainly did not wish one hand-picked by this horrid excuse for a relation.

"I would rather you didn't put yourself to the trouble," she said as politely as she could manage. "I don't want a ball."

"Oh, come now," he countered. "You're a child of the theatre and well acquainted with dancing before an audience. Where is the difference?"

There was a world of difference! On stage, she was another character, lost among a host of other characters – all playing out a role. But a ball held in her honor would be focused on Christine Daaé alone, and she did not appreciate the unwanted attention. Despite that she had been raised a thespian she jealously guarded her privacy and often opted for solitude during cast parties, attending them briefly or not at all.

Her uncle cast his hypercritical gaze up and down her form. "I trust you have a more suitable gown to wear for the occasion than what I have seen since your arrival."

Christine saw her chance and took it. "I own no ball gown. They are far too expensive for a chorus girl's salary. All I brought with me is courtesy of the Opera." In that establishment, she would have borrowed the dress, and for the one ball she'd attended, in the New Year, she did. But this was not the Opera, and certainly no seamstress could fashion a gown in such a ridiculously short span of time. "If you must host a ball, then please extend the date. I should think a month would be sufficient."

She would speak with Raoul and convince him, plead if she must, to take her away from Montmarte and back to Paris long before that day arrived.

"The invitations were delivered two weeks ago."

Two weeks? She had only known about the wretched ball for four days!

He waved a careless hand. "Find a dress of Lucy's to wear – she certainly has a plentiful wardrobe of them."

"Lucy...?!" Christine replied in consternation. "She is at least a head shorter." Not to mention that she possessed more ample breasts, though Christine certainly made no mention of the fact. Where Christine was tall for a woman and slender, Lucy was well-rounded but still petite for her size.

Anything Lucy owned would be sadly deficient.

"Hire a seamstress to alter the dress."

"But – four days?! That hardly gives enough time for such an extensive makeover –"

"I have no interest in how women's affairs are accomplished. That is your concern. The ball begins at seven o'clock in the evening this Saturday. Do not be late. Oh…" He speared her with his frosty ice-blue eyes. "Through my late wife I learned the tricks women use to excuse themselves from tasks in which they have no wish to partake. If you should employ one of these tricks and plead a headache for example, be assured, I will give orders for the maids to drag you from your bed, dress you and escort you to the ball."

Such a hateful man! If only she had the means to hire a carriage to take her back to Paris, she would leave this very minute.

"Why is it so important – this ball?"

His brow arched high. "Are you really so daft? Have I not made myself clear?" he clicked his tongue in disapproval. "All the noblesse from the surrounding districts will attend to see what prize I have to offer. Word has spread of your arrival to Montmarte, I have seen to that, and it is by you I will replenish my fortune. An arrangement with a wealthy husband will ensure I gain what I want once I give to him what he expects in return...a suitable wife to bear him an heir." He looked her up and down. "You are comely of face and form, have all your teeth, and with the talent Raoul tells me you possess, are sure to fetch a promising catch - as long as you rein in that insolent tongue and curb that damnable high spirit before you get to the altar. After that, I don't care what you do." He took another few puffs of his pipe. "At the upcoming ball, you will sing for them."

The hell she would! She clenched her hands into fists at her sides.

"If you force me to wed a man I don't want, I'll make certain you never receive a penny!"

Her low heated words failed to produce the angry doubt she expected. He laughed – actually laughed – then sneered at her. "The monetary arrangement will be made with the gentleman who has the most to offer and will be handled prior to the ceremony, signed by contract."

Then she was to be sold to the highest bidder? Like a filly to be examined and bred, and indeed that was how he described her, his words hardly complimentary.

Having once heard a bit of how these things worked, when Meg indulged in a mild flirtation with a merchant's son, Christine breathed a trifle easier. What sane man would agree to such a codicil for a marriage agreement? Her uncle was a fool to think it – was not the bride's family expected to supply a dowry? Being poor, her uncle a miser, Christine felt she had nothing to fear.

She drew herself up and regarded him coolly. "Very well, as I clearly have no say in this, I will attend your ball."

"Of course you will," he said, as if there was no decision to be made. "Leave me now. I have work to be done." He speared her with another disapproving look. "And the next time I send for you, Miss, I expect you to arrive promptly, with none of your impudence."

Christine barely refrained from the insolent reply that burned hot on the tip of her tongue and allowed her displeasure to manifest in a sardonic curtsy to the despised lord of the manor. She then spun on her heel, not breaking stride until she was absent from the stifling room and the sickly sweet smell of his pipe.

x

Partway up the staircase, she heard her name, and looked down below to where her cousin stood in front of the parlor.

"Raoul." She felt a grain of relief to see a friendly face and managed a smile.

"I was just coming to find you. Are you ready to have that talk?"

Christine recalled the previous night and his mention of wanting to discuss a matter.

"Actually, I must speak with Lucy. Or at least try." She gave a doubtful grin. "Perhaps during luncheon?"

"This cannot be discussed over the crème brûlée. We will talk after the meal."

The gist of his words came light, though his tone was serious, and she tilted her head in confusion. "Is everything alright?"

"I would ask you the same. You seem troubled."

"I spoke to our uncle. A conversation that doesn't bear repeating. He is truly as obstinate as he is insufferable."

"Take heart, Lotte." His tone was sympathetic. "It will take some time to grow accustomed to the way of things here at Montmarte."

"I suppose." Though she doubted a month or even a year would alter her uncle's pitiless tactics to gain wealth. Catching sight of a servant walking along the upstairs corridor, Christine concluded their discussion. "I really must see to this – we'll talk after luncheon."

Christine caught up to the maid and relayed her uncle's orders to send for a seamstress. With that bothersome task behind her, she continued to Lucy's bedchamber, not surprised to find the girl inside.

Lucy's room was located at one end of the third floor landing, in the north turret, to be precise, and Christine felt as if she had entered a young girl's bedchamber. Dolls with china faces sat on a low table against a wall of white stone, and she noticed that the furnishings, of mauve, sky blue, forest green and silver, had been fashioned to fit flush against the round stone wall that made up the chamber.

Vivid tapestries of frolicking ponies and woodland animals playing with nymph-like creatures gave color to the walls, and the canopied bed was piled with cloth animals stuffed with cotton batting. Lucy sat on the cushioned window seat, her legs drawn up beside her like a little dove in a nest of jewel-toned pillows. With great interest, she looked out the pane of beveled glass, a flaxen-haired doll in her arms.

"Hello, Lucy." Christine smiled at her cousin who continued to stare out the window as if Christine wasn't there.

She sighed. "I'm sorry to bother you, but your father would like me to…" She could hardly say borrow, since the seamstress would need to make drastic alterations. "…take one of your gowns for my use. For the ball this Saturday. Is that alright with you?"

No answer came from the bench seat, not that Christine expected one.

"I'll just help myself then, shall I?"

She hesitated several seconds, vainly waiting for a response, then strode to the tall wardrobe.

Inside, an abundance of gowns and day dresses hung from a rack. Strange that the child had so many, when she never left the estate. If one kind thing could be said of the miserly earl, it was that he doted on his only daughter, and Christine missed having her Papa in her own life. Of course, giving Lucy whatever her heart desired could cause dire consequences, though so far as Christine could tell, spoiling her had not altered her personality, either to enhance or corrupt it.

Christine slid the dresses over the wooden dowel, to find one suitable. A silk cream and white lace dress looked sweet and childlike, but would never do for an evening event, the same could be said for the butter yellow chiffon. A black bombazine that never appeared worn hung next to that, a mourning dress. Had Lucy worn it once, to her mother's funeral?

Suppressing a little shiver, Christine thumbed through three more gowns before she found a pale mauve satin, more violet than rose, with ecru lace. The lower neckline and capped sleeves made it a lovely choice for formal evening wear, and she decided it would serve well.

Again looking toward Lucy, whose gaze remained riveted to the outdoors, Christine joined her at the window.

"I went to the ball once."

Christine nearly dropped the bundle of cool satin in her shock that Lucy actually addressed her.

"Really? When was this?" She looked at the gown in her hands. "Is this the dress you wore? It's very pretty. If you would rather I didn't wear it, I can find something else…"

Lucy's eyes glanced with indifference toward the dress then resumed their vigil toward a patch of trees that fringed the estate.

"I don't care," she whispered.

Christine's heart raced in a little burst of triumph to successfully make conversation with the girl - the first time since she had arrived to Montmarte when rational snatches of thought were exchanged between them.

Lucy began to hum an off-key ditty, and the fur pelt on the other side of her lifted its head. Not a pile of fur, a pet. Christine narrowed her eyes in annoyance at the rebellious pup that caused her to lose her way in a nocturnal fog.

The shaggy fur ball yawned in apathy and settled his chin back down on his paws.

"Will you be attending this ball, Lucy? I should like it if you were there."

Her cousin gave no response and Christine sighed, curiously looking out the window.

"What do you see out there?"

"Secrets…" Lucy said softly, and resumed to hum.

"Secrets?" Christine studied the fringe of thick forest. A fine white mist floated as wisps of veiling between the trunks of the trees and lower branches.

Unwanted, the face of the enigmatic masked stranger came to mind, with his burning golden eyes, and she shifted her feet uncomfortably.

"What kind of secrets?"

Lucy lifted her finger to her lips and slowly turned her head, flicking her ice-blue eyes up to Christine.

"Shhh… mustn't tell."

A frisson of unease traveled down her back like a slow droplet of icy water.

"Who told you these secrets?"

"The dark woodland fairies. They dance and play beautiful music."

Christine exhaled a long, soft breath, realizing that Lucy was again immersed in the world of one of her illogical fantasies. Did she ever leave them?

"Do you like to dance?"

Lucy barely nodded.

"Are you looking forward to dancing at the ball?"

Lucy's stare grew vacant, never leaving the pane of glass. Once more she began to hum in her eerie manner.

Realizing she would get no more communication from the girl, Christine moved to the doorway.

"Thank you for the dress," she said and turned one last time to glance toward the window seat, pitying the poor young woman there who'd so mercilessly had her life snatched from her. Christine wished she could find some tangible method to reach her. For a slim moment, she thought she had breached that impasse and wished, albeit briefly, to enter whatever illusions of truth played out in Lucy's mind, to better understand her cousin.

But such wishes were futile – all wishes really. Christine had learned long ago that childish wishing failed to make her dreams, those reachable and far distant, come true.

Her dear Papa had been a dreamer, her memories of both parents a flimsy veil of fading images slowly blown into tatters of vague recollection as the years passed, and she clung to the few strands left, desperate not to lose what little remained of them. Two were still vivid to her – that of her papa playing his violin in their cottage by the sea, his sweet music blending with her mama's gentle voice. And at bedtime he would sit on her bed where she lay and tell dark stories with frightful witches and ogres and other beasts - moralistic tales that almost always ended badly for the arrogant hero or erring heroine of the story, with a lesson to be learned on their road to repentance.

Even her most beloved tale she once believed so devoutly contained a dreadful clause: for her obsessive wish only to sing with supreme excellence, uncaring of all else, Little Lotte had needed to give her heart and soul over to the Angel of Music, sacrificing everything in life – her time, her home, even her family and friends, to be all that the Angel required of her. Her voice had been superior, but her life had been lonely as she lost touch with her loved ones. Though she did have her unseen Angel always to guide her...

Wishes were futile, even dangerous.

And so were farfetched tales destined never to come true.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Luncheon was a simple and quiet affair. Her uncle did not appear, having business elsewhere in town, and Christine was thankful for the reprieve. Raoul was also strangely absent, and Lucy, although present, again inhabited her untold imaginings, leaving Christine virtually alone.

Left to her thoughts, she found them continually traveling on wayward paths within two separate nights and the daring of one mysterious stranger, whose name she still did not know. What was it about him that affected her so intimately? Her body, her heart, even her mind - and she took a sip of water to cool the flush that warmed her face, though she could do nothing about the abrupt quickening of her pulse.

Despite her hope for companionship to divert her from such unwanted imaginings, once Raoul finally arrived as she exited the dining chamber, Christine suddenly wished she could prolong the advent of their mysterious discussion. His eyes failed to sparkle as they often did, and his mouth was grim, causing her to dread what was coming.

Regardless, when he asked her to join him, she followed him to a small parlor in the east wing, rarely used, and took a seat in one of the chairs there, watching as he closed and locked the double doors.

Locked ?

"Raoul... " She studied him in surprise. "What have you to say that requires such secrecy?"

Without responding he walked to a table by the wall where a bottle of Scotch sat next to a wooden container, a little larger than a jewelry box. He looked at both a moment then picked up the box.

"After Mother died, I found this."

He covered the distance between them and held out the carved box for her to take.

Christine looked between him and the box before accepting the container and setting it in her lap. "I don't understand. What is this?"

"Answers. To our family. To your destiny."

"My destiny?"

He expelled a heavy breath. "Did you know that before they married our fathers, your mother and my mother were once very close?"

"I've heard that first cousins are often like that," Christine tried, feeling oddly as though she was being tested and her answers were being scrutinized. By the impatient shake of his head, she had given an improper response.

"They were given a mandate, if you will, passed down from their fathers and grandfathers, and they worked together to see it accomplished. Few outside the family knew of it – your father was one of those few, as was mine. Your mother… " His voice grew softer, "she died trying to see those expectations fulfilled."

A chill trembled through Christine's bones. She wasn't sure she wanted to hear the rest of what he had to say.

"I was told my parents died in an accident," she answered just as quietly. "You heard differently?"

Her parent's story had become legend to her, their timeless love and loyalty the pattern she wished to trace for her own life, alongside the man with whom she chose to spend it.

"Your mother died trying to protect your father."

"She - what...? I... protect him?"

At such an odd revelation her words came out jumbled.

Raoul nodded. "Due to what she was and what she was called to fight."

"I don't understand. You're not making any sense."

"No, I suppose not." Briefly he lowered his head and sighed. "What I'm about to tell you will sound…incredible. We – the children of our mothers – you and I – indeed, many of the Van Helsings, since our ancestor, Gabriel, in the 18th century, have been called to fight a very dark evil."

Christine felt as if Raoul had just invited her to live out one of her childhood stories of the North. Either that or her cousin had gone barmy.

"A dark evil?" She managed not to laugh outright at the ludicrous words upon seeing the grave look in his eyes.

Her mind went to those lewd stagehands and managers who often took a sly peek at unsuspecting dancers in a state of undress, and a tumble with the more brazen of the chorus girls – but she did not presume Raoul's explanation of dark evil had to do with the standard Opera House monkeyshines.

"And what, pray tell, is the source of this evil?"

He narrowed his eyes at her patronizing tone.

"Creatures that inhabit the night. Those about which you were warned on your arrival."

"I see." She shifted and smoothed her skirts. "Wolves then? Bears, wildcats…?"

"The creatures I speak of are not of this world, not as we know it. They have ceased to dwell on the earth as living beings and are now immortal, secretly hunting in the dead of night in their thirst for blood. Mortal blood."

Speechless for a moment, she stared at him in annoyed disbelief. "Oh, Raoul. Really. This again? Uncle tried to frighten me at dinner with the morbid legend, but I don't scare easily. Nor do I care to hear such grim accounts a second time."

"It's no legend, Christine! I've seen them. I've fought them."

"You expect me to believe such outlandish dark tales?" she scoffed. "Was it not you who convinced me that eggs came first - when they rained down like hail from the sky and the impact caused chickens to hatch from them?" She gave a little huff of disgust. "I am no longer so gullible."

"I was ten, you were five. We are no longer children, and this is serious…"

She watched him move toward the bottle of Scotch and pour himself a dram, his manner quite agitated. From what little she'd seen of him on her return, he was usually levelheaded, if somewhat high-strung. His evident upset gave her pause, more so that he mentioned to her a week ago that he didn't like the earl's Scotch, didn't touch the stuff, and preferred the sweet vintage of wines and after dinner brandy… clearly he felt troubled enough that he needed it.

He finished the snifter and set it down.

"You have been chosen, as have I, to protect humanity and rid the world of this evil."

"Is that all?" she said with wry humor.

By his irritated frown, he was not amused, and she decided to humor him this once.

"Very well. What are these nocturnal creatures that hunt blood called?"

"Gabriel Van Helsing wrote of them as vampyres." At her sudden start, he lifted his brows in surprise. "You have heard of them?"

"Only from a novel that a friend in the chorus read." The spine-tingling horrors from within those pages that Meg shared with Christine last year had been enough to fabricate nightmares without the need to close her eyes. "A book of fiction. The tale wasn't real."

"I assure you, Christine, vampyres are very real."

She rolled her eyes a little, certain now that he had revealed the name of said dark evil creature he was only pulling her leg. As if he read her mind, he walked to her chair and knelt, looking up into her eyes in solemn entreaty.

"I vow to you this is no jest."

His earnestness troubled her. Had her dear Raoul lost touch with reality, as their younger cousin Lucy had? Or was this an extensive prank, like those of his boyhood?

"Tell me, then. Why do you believe we were chosen?"

"You and I were marked at birth."

"Marked?" she said a tad nervously.

He looked at her shoulder. "On your right arm, just beneath your shoulder, you bear a mark – a circle, with lines radiating from it, in what appears to be a sun."

She resisted putting her hand to her sleeve and the area mentioned. "A puckered bit of flesh. Probably burnt by accident when I was a child – likely from the glowing end of a cigar I brushed against or some such thing. I don't recall."

"But I do recall the mark, Christine, having seen it in our youth – because I possess the same mark and in the same place."

Christine fidgeted. "A birthmark, then. Passed down through our mothers. It's not so unusual."

"Actually, it is."

She sighed. "Fine then. And how did you come to believe all of this…" She refrained from adding the word "nonsense" though it could be nothing more.

"Through reading my mother's journal. Your mother also kept one. They are in the box you now hold, as well as an old journal I found from one of our ancestors. My mother had all three hidden away in her things."

Stunned, Christine stared at the lid of the closed box – both eager to know her sainted mother's writings were only the turn of a page away and fearful to discover Raoul's words were accurate – that her mother had actually written such impossible, frightful tales, believing them to be true.

She heard somewhere once that lunacy often ran within family bloodlines. The past few minutes in her cousin's company gave credence to that claim.

"Read their personal accounts. See what they have to say before making your decision."

"I have a decision?" she asked in surprise. "To do what?"

"To join in the fight, of course."

She let out a huff of disbelief at his emphatic reply.

"What if I don't want to?"

"To fight them is your destiny, Christine." He shook his head. "You cannot run from what you're meant to be, what you are…"

"Even if I did believe you, I'm only a simple chorus girl who wishes to sing and dance in the opera! I have no desire to hunt down and slay legendary creatures…" who did not exist, she reminded herself and sighed. "I have no wish to be one of the chosen, like our mothers."

"They were not chosen." He glanced down at the box. "They were not marked."

"But – you said…" She halted, confused by his quiet words and flustered by her own foolishness for encouraging this conversation, which was absurd. They argued over a fantasy, whether fabricated as a foolish prank or living within his mind she had yet to decide, but found she had no desire to know. All she wanted was to leave the room and escape his words that brought such unrest …

She should just get up and walk out the door.

"The mark skips generations – it's in the journals. Once a generation dies out, the next receives the mark, but not all who fight are marked. And not all who are marked accept their destiny. Our great grandmother and her sister – our great aunt, in whose home we now dwell – I believe both were marked, but they chose not to accept the mandate given them. Our mothers fought because they felt it their duty, that someone of the bloodline must take up the sword and combat the oppressive evil. The plague wiped out many of our relations in Europe – to my knowledge, our immediate families are all that are left. Being Van Helsings, our mothers were trained for battle, but they didn't have the special skills that only the marked bear. My mother wrote that is what she thinks might have led to your mother's death, that she wasn't well-equipped with the agility and foresight needed…"

"Special skills?"

So much of what he said slipped like grains of sand through an hourglass - she felt barely aware of their passage. But those two words stood out.

"Intuition. Agility. Speed. The innate ability to hunt prey. As well as being highly skilled with weaponry once taught..."

"Enough, Raoul, please." She held up her hands as if to push him away then set the box on the floor and pushed herself up from the chair instead. "This is all highly… imaginative." She chose to be kind. "Really, you should pen your thoughts to paper and sell them to a publisher – but I've heard enough."

"At least promise to read the journals."

He stooped down to pick them up and offered the box to her a second time. Grudgingly she accepted it, the lure of her mother's words impossible to refuse, and held the box against her with her left arm.

"One more thing," he said, "Because of the recent attacks in our district, I wish to train you to protect yourself. I hope you'll agree to that, if nothing else."

"Train me? You mean with a weapon?"

He nodded. "A sword, a dagger, whichever you prefer. It could prove beneficial should you find yourself out alone at night, in a fog, with no defense..."

Christine blushed at his pointed words, alluding to the two times he'd found her in such a state, and she almost smiled at the ludicrous idea of belting a sword to her skirts, wearing a scabbard hanging down her side as men did. Yet in thinking of the lewd Buquet brothers at the Opera House and men like them, a dagger hidden away for defense did hold some appeal…

"Our uncle might have something to say about your plans. You do realize he intends to marry me off to a wealthy husband at the first opportunity that presents itself - with this wretched ball to help it along. He's made no mystery of the reason for my coming here."

He frowned as if the idea gave him no pleasure either.

"Perhaps I can persuade you to take me back to Paris?" she asked more softly, but by the stubborn look in his eyes she presumed her plea was futile.

"I'll speak with him and try to convince him to cease in his pursuit to see you wed, at the very least to delay it. It was I who initially persuaded him to send for you."

The news didn't surprise her; nor did she fail to note that he ignored her question.

"I see. So your reason for bringing me here was to enlist me in your crusade to oust the world of bloodthirsty monsters?"

He winced at her sarcasm.

"I don't blame you for doubting me, Christine. I was an incorrigible trickster in our childhood, though I vow to you on my mother's grave that every word I said today is true. Honestly, I understand your ridicule. It took me weeks to come to terms with all of what is inside those journals. I wasn't an instant believer either."

"Hm." She gave a noncommittal reply. "Well, I should be going."

"Christine, tell no one of this. Even our great uncle. I don't know if our great aunt ever told him of the destiny she refused, but all of what I shared must remain secret. No one can know about you, about us – that we are the chosen for this important mission in our lifetime. To my knowledge, we are all that remains of the Van Helsings," he said a second time.

"Of course."

Who would believe such a bizarre tale anyhow? Well, except maybe Lucy…

"Christine," he said again, once she reached the door.

She turned in question – her hand swiftly flying up on instinct to catch the heavy column of metal he threw hard at her. She stared with stunned horror at the empty brass candlestick she now gripped tightly in her right fist.

"Special skills," Raoul remarked quietly.

It would not have struck her, only flown past her ear to smash against the door, but she was still outraged that he would enact such a reckless stunt. She threw the candlestick to the floor with a ringing clatter and shook her hand that badly stung.

"That hurt, Raoul. Why would you do such a thing?"

"I apologize, but some things must be experienced to be believed."

Christine glared at him, his poor excuse barely tolerable. She spun on her heel, turned the key in the lock and hurriedly left the chamber.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

The remainder of the week Christine was kept busy with fittings from the harried seamstress and banal letters penned to Meg and Madame Giry, both missives devoid of the dark mysteries involving the countryside and those closer to home, at Montmarte. When she wasn't busy preparing for the unwelcome ball, she ruminated over her two encounters with the man in the mask. Surely he must be a local and therefore would be known…

Would he be there? Had he been issued an invitation? Who was he?

Her silent questions went unanswered. She would not initiate a conversation with the earl to discover the man's identity and avoided Raoul whenever possible. On those occasions she found herself in the same room with him, his riveting blue eyes always filled with his own unasked questions – had she read the accounts of their mothers? Would she join his preposterous crusade? Did she yet believe him…?

All to which she could only give an unqualified no.

She had stowed the box with the journals at the back of her wardrobe, leery of opening their leather-tooled covers, afraid of what she may find there. More dreaded meanderings of (she couldn't even think the name without wincing at the insanity) vampyres? – proof that madness ran deep within her bloodline – within her own mother? She wasn't ready to learn that disheartening truth. One day, she would look through the pages that promised to shine harsh light in this preferred darkness. It was inevitable. The pull was too strong.

But not yet…

For tonight, it seemed, she must attend a ball.

She backed up, to better see her altered gown in the oval mirror, wishing for the magnificent one La Carlotta used in her dressing room at the Opera House. As big and grand as a castle door…

She frowned. Even retreating until her spine met the wall, she could see only a little past her hips, and would have to trust the added satin flounce that gave a height of six additional inches was acceptable to the dress. At least the gown fit her form like a glove, the seamstress a decided miracle worker. Not that she truly cared how she appeared, taking no delight in being forced into this situation.

Yet she did feel a strange sort of… expectation. There was no other word for this sudden breathlessness that caused her heart to skip a mildly eager beat.

She pondered, as she had with alarming frequency these last days, if she would once more encounter her cryptic masked savior… then scolded herself that she did not care either way.

As she descended the twisting staircase, she felt eyes watch her, though the foyer was empty. Once her foot took the last stair, a man suddenly appeared by her side, and she turned in surprise.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

IV

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

At the sudden presence of another being, when she assumed herself alone in the foyer, Christine clapped her hand to her chest in shock, then rolled her eyes a little in exasperation, upon seeing who it was.

"Heavens, Raoul, you startled me."

"It wasn't intentional. Though pardon me for saying so, but you have been rather skittish lately."

Christine scoffed. "Is it any wonder, what with the dark tales you and our uncle continually ply me with?"

"Those are not tales which prove true. We only wish to keep you informed. Speaking of which…"

Blast! Why had she introduced the detestable topic when she'd made a point of avoiding it all week?

"Have you given further thought to –?"

"No, Raoul, no." She broke into his sentence. "Let us not speak of anything that doesn't involve dancing or wine or music."

He sighed. "Very well, Christine. Tonight we shall concentrate on the ball alone. Uncle has asked that I come to collect you. Those guests he wishes you to meet have arrived. With that in mind…" He handed her a small booklet with a satin cord attached. "Your dance card, my dear."

"My what?"

"Have you never been to a ball?" he asked with a surprised lift of his brow. "I would have thought, with you coming from training in the dance…"

"Yes, of course. Each New Year or shortly after the Opera House holds one, usually a masquerade. This year, it was my first and only social gala to attend."

He took hold of her left wrist and began to tie the strange little booklet around the glove. "And did you not dance?"

"Of course."

"And how were the arrangements made?"

She stared at him in confusion and shook her head. "What exactly are you asking?"

"How did your gentleman partners make their introductions known?"

He finished the knot and she lifted her arm to look at the dangling booklet. It seemed rather awkward.

"It was a masked ball. They certainly didn't give names. Why is there also a stub of a pencil attached?"

"For your partners to enter their names in the booklet, so as to dance with you."

"You're making sport of me again, aren't you?" She regarded him with narrowed eyes. "I told you I'm not the gullible child I once was." He had even taken broken eggshells and arranged them on the ground, along with putting a few baby chicks near them, to convince her eggs rained down from the sky from which the fluffy birds came, horrid prankster that he'd been.

Her former playmate had the audacity to grin. "And I told you, I'm beyond the days of boyhood pranks. If you look inside the ballroom, you will see other ladies with the same booklets attached to their wrists."

Christine realized he was serious. "But why must it be accomplished in such a manner? It seems so silly."

"It is rather outmoded. The balls I attended this spring did not play out in this fashion. I would venture a guess that our great uncle has precise plans who shall dance with you. He instructed me to tell you to leave three lines blank. And I would ask that you include me for a dance as well."

"Of course," she said distantly, frowning at the thought of being spun around the dance floor by the earl's choice of potential bridegrooms. She had planned to hide away in a forgotten corner somewhere after the compulsory introductions through which she must suffer.

Glaring at the despised little book, Christine had an idea. She plucked at the string Raoul had gallantly tied until it came loose.

"What are you doing?" he asked in confusion. "Is it too tight?"

"No, but this scheme of our uncle's makes it feel as if the walls are closing in on me…" Temporarily laying down the hand fan borrowed from Lucy, she took the stub of pencil and filled in all but four lines with fictional names of characters from past operas. "There. At least I shall have some control over my evening."

He laughed. "Brava, Christine. I see you haven't lost that spark of spontaneity that always made you stand out among others."

Uncertain whether to be insulted or pleased, she watched as he filled his name onto the last blank space available, above a set of fictitious partners.

"Mine will be the last true dance, and hopefully the one that lingers in your memory."

There was something unsettling about the steady look in his blue eyes, the soft words themselves, and she quickly changed the direction of their conversation.

"I hope that isn't a warning that you will stomp on my feet, because as I seem to recall you have two left ones and were quite clumsy as a boy."

He regarded her in mild affront. "I'll have you know that I received high acclaim from my teacher, Madame Julliard, in my instruction on ballroom dancing."

"Hmm. We shall soon see…"

"Indeed we shall."

But first to follow through with her great uncle's plan of her introduction to the community – by showing off Christine's talent, in the hope of gaining interest from the wealthy eligible men of the surrounding districts.

Finding little to smile about, Christine entered the grand ballroom with Raoul, noting the earl motion for her to join him.

The huge chamber was sparse by way of décor. Her uncle had not opened his purse strings too wide for anything but necessities in the austere room. But at least he had not skimped on lighting - the entire chamber abundant with tiny flames – from above, in the chandelier, and below in the brass sconces along the walls, as well as the myriad candelabrum that had been set on narrow tables against one side of the room. Two types of wine, sour punch, and sweetmeats were available, though Christine doubted her roiling stomach could manage any trifle offered.

She loved to sing, there was something fulfilling about opening her mouth and hearing the crystalline tones that came forth in such sweet melody. She wasn't vain or prideful, not really. She only thought what everyone else made a point to tell her. But as she stood at one end of the room with the musicians behind, and waited the brief interval for the earl's pithy introduction, Christine dreaded this moment that had swept upon her.

She feared her antagonism with the proceedings came out in her performance of a segment from a light operetta, though she managed to keep a smile attached to her face – a stringent rule taught her from the beginning of her training as a ballet rat. As she sang, men continued to move about the room, approaching ladies, with the hope to add their names to the little booklets.

Judging from the faces alight with interest and the round of applause that followed her song, Christine's entrance into the small society of Berwickshire was a success. The crowd not as big or as grand as a Parisian audience, perhaps sixty in attendance, with nowhere near as many notable guests that filled the theatre each night of the performances. Why, the emperor of France even had an exclusive royal box, when he and his entourage chose to visit! But she had never been required to meet any of them face to face and preferred it that way. Those of high standing in this community, to whom Christine would doubtless be introduced to throughout the evening, one by one, were enough to make her head spin.

Once the completion of dance cards was accomplished – her great uncle commandeering Christine's booklet and filling lines she'd left blank with names - the musicians began the first of many waltzes to follow. The Harvest ball commenced, and Christine was presented to and claimed by the first of her uncle's choices, a young baron from a neighboring district. Tall, thin and stodgy, he barely looked at her as they woodenly danced, then stiffly he bowed once the song came to a close, and left.

His disinterest cheered her. Perhaps the evening wouldn't be so tiresome if it progressed this well. If no one showed any marked interest, the earl might give up his greedy scheme and send Christine back to Paris in his own carriage on the morrow.

The next two dances were to be claimed by M. Melot and M. Rodrigo, her fictional characters from two operas. She darted out of her great uncle's sight and took the time to refresh herself with a glass of wine and linger in the shadowed recess of an alcove beyond the concealing fronds of a tall potted plant. An unseen bystander, Christine watched the elegant couples glide across polished marble, the ladies clothed in resplendent gowns and shimmering gems that would make a peacock envious, their gentlemen partners in more sober attire that brought into prominence the pastel and jewel tones of the dresses. The air close but perfumed with many versions of eu de toilette - a garden of lavender, citrus, rose, and jasmine; the atmosphere gay and inviting. If Christine did not feel chained to this gala event by unseen manacles, she might actually have come to enjoy the festivities.

The fourth dance was claimed by the second of her uncle's choices – Lord Lomax, a viscount with a little more meat on his bones than the last unwanted partner, but old enough to be her grandfather. At least he was pleasant with his words, though Christine prickled all over from his bold stare, similar to the lewd ones of the stagehands at the Opera House. He couldn't seem to lift his eyes above the level of her bosom for long, and his hands had a tendency to stray. After the dance at last concluded, he lingered by her side like an irksome gnat. Twice she had to reprimand him – politely of course – with a gentle, cautionary word or a soft knock to his knuckles with her fan.

His attention was thankfully required elsewhere as a small group of gentlemen converged upon them, the subject veering to local news, and she took the first available moment to melt away from their circle.

She'd had enough of hearing about the attack of nocturnal beasts on victimized citizens, those who'd had the misfortune of being in the forest at night, and certainly had no desire to encounter either her great uncle or again fend off the attentions of Lord Lomax. A brief escape was in order. Her next several dances were filled with fabricated names, until the third unknown candidate for bridegroom appeared, after which Raoul would have the last dance of actual flesh and blood men, the remainder allotted to her fictitious cast.

Knowing her presence wouldn't be required for some time, Christine slipped out onto the terrace that lay wreathed in cooling shadow. She fanned her face briskly and inhaled a deep calming breath of the bracing air. Her muddled senses stirred then grew heightened by... what she wasn't sure, and she went completely still. A strange awareness tingled through her blood and made her heart beat a little faster, though a hasty glance around the wide enclosure assured her that she stood alone.

Ahead lay a garden of meticulously cut and patterned boxwood. A maze stood high, spread out before her – perhaps the width and breadth of the manor – and she thought how marvelous it would be to lose oneself within the verdant hedges until the ball's conclusion. Impossible, of course, if she did not wish to incur her great uncle's wrath. Still, a momentary respite wasn't out of the question, and she had a little free time to wander the grounds, thanks to her clever manipulation of the silly dance booklet. She would not stray far...

With a wary glance over her shoulder to the brightly lit ballroom, Christine hastened down the shadowed steps and toward the shielding labyrinth. She had viewed its elaborate paths from an upstairs window and planned to visit it by day, but never got the chance, always sidetracked somehow.

To her surprise, the walls within were composed of ivy-covered stone, the surrounding hedge by which she entered acting as a gateway. The walls of gray rock were old, soft and crumbling on the surface in places, much older than the earl. Clearly he wasn't the one who ordered the maze's design, which made sense with his miserly nature. The brackets that held the torches were thick with rust though the torches themselves looked new. She guessed the stone maze must be centuries old, and she wondered who built it and why.

The narrow path soon forked, a torch bracketed to a wall at each end giving light by which to see, an order of the earl's for the visiting guests, she presumed, since usually the maze stood dark each night. Feeling as if she had walked several hundred years into the past, she devised a story in her head of a maiden fleeing the castle under siege and hiding herself within the labyrinth, hoping her prince would come and find her.

Christine suppressed a giggle at her girlish foolishness and turned to the right, following a path that took her to the left, the fingers of one hand trailing the vine-covered walls as she walked the narrow pathways, entranced in her magical, mythical kingdom. Another short walk took her a second time to the left, and soon the path branched off three ways. Instead of walking the long distance forward or left again, she turned right. The air was brisk but not frigidly cold, the night clear and the twisting grassy paths lit in a golden haze by the intermittent torches.

Despite her careful accounting of direction, Christine soon found herself adrift in the maze, uncertain of the way back to familiar turf.

x

"Oh, botheration."

She looked up at the sky, wishing she could tell the way to go from what few stars were not covered by clouds. East, west, north, south – in this never-ending warren of walls it felt all jumbled. Save for the fact that the moon now flickered in clouds to her right – where it had been when she first entered the maze. So it stood to reason, if she walked the opposite direction, she would be walking toward the manor.

Like two children from a dark fairytale told to her as a child, she should have brought crumbs from the sweetmeats to find her way – though this was no forest, only a maze. And certainly not so big! At least there was no fog…

After coming to her third dead end, Christine whirled around to retrace her steps and try another path. She walked only a short distance, passing two turns, when the torch ahead flickered erratically, though there was no strong wind to disturb a flame so large – and surely the layout of stone walls should prevent such an occurrence.

Christine watched in confusion, her eyes going wide with shock when the fire blew out, casting her into a patch of darkness. Torchlight in the distance ahead made it possible to still see. Nonetheless she decided to change course, retracing her steps to take the first of those ignored turns, leery of continuing down the present path.

She turned to find her way blocked by the tall dark figure of a man.

Letting out a soft cry, she clasped her throat in alarm, then saw the glimpse of a mask where the distant light hit ebony against the bridge of his nose.

"You," she breathed, feeling lightheaded. She grabbed at the wall beside her for balance.

All week, in every errant thought, she had wondered if her man of mystery would attend the ball, since all gentlemen of affluence were invited and his quality of attire suggested that he fit that category. When he made no appearance – with the ball more than halfway concluded – she supposed he had declined. To confront him so unexpectedly was disconcerting, to say the least.

"You gave me a fright," she accused. How had he moved so silently? She had not even heard the whisper of a blade of grass or the crunch of a pebble.

"My apologies. I seem to have mastered that skill."

Not understanding the sarcasm of his words, she pulled her hand away from the wall. To her consternation the dance booklet snagged in the twigs of dense ivy, and she snapped her wrist back with impatience. The wretched little book broke from its slender tie, fluttering to the ground between them.

Before she could retrieve it, he crouched down and collected the booklet between his long fingers and thumb. Again he wore snug leather gloves that were black, like his mask.

She held her hand out, but he ignored her silent request.

"Monsieur, if you please…"

He straightened to stand, the motion fluid and strong, and once more towered over her.

"Yet again, I find you wandering lost in the darkness. You do not heed well to warning."

"This isn't the forest, and I am only taking a stroll along the grounds and enjoying the cool night air," Christine said, slightly perturbed by his choice of words. She wasn't lost – not in the true sense of the word – she would have found her way back, eventually. And he had no right to treat her like a disobedient child.

"Alone?"

"I prefer the solitude." She realized she was being rude, but couldn't seem to help herself. "I have no wish to keep you, monsieur. I can find my way."

"Based on previous experience, I highly doubt that."

She bristled at his low words. "And if I should allow you to escort me back to the ball – once you have seen to the task – will you again disappear like some phantom in the night?"

He chuckled at her accusing words, though there was little amusement to the sound.

"If I should say no, do I have your consent?"

The words were stiffly polite, but did not fit. They sought permission, but he was clearly the one in charge. He did not seem the type to seek approval from anyone. She then recalled how at their last meeting his mouth and hands had so boldly touched her, how she had allowed him to touch her, and her face warmed uncomfortably.

Despite their dim surroundings, his eyes strangely glowed, piercing golden orbs amidst the darkness of his mask… his mask.

"Why do you always wear a mask over your face?" she blurted without thinking.

The orbs narrowed to amber slits, but he gave no reply.

"Tonight's ball is no masquerade," she added nervously, now wishing she had held her tongue. "The guests are not in costume."

To her surprise, he opened the tiny booklet and scanned its pages, despite that they had next to nothing by way of light.

"M. Valentin… M. Faust…" His eyes flicked up to hers. "With dance partners such as these, it is no wonder that you fled to become lost in the maze."

She drew her brows together in chagrin. "I did not flee. You make me sound both foolish and helpless."

He stepped closer, taking hold of her wrist, and she looked up at him in shock.

"And is this where I, as Mephistopheles, guide you away from the prison into which you have found yourself?"

She winced at his clear knowledge of Gounod's opera and his discovery of her little deception.

"So you call yourself a devil, monsieur? Is that supposed to reassure me to follow you through this maze?" She cleared her throat, resolved to cling to what speck of dignity remained. "I think, after recalling the liberties you took when last we met, I would be wise to turn my back on your offer of help and implore God in His heaven to save me."

Her masked invader chuckled lightly and slipped the booklet in her hand, giving a crisp bow. "If that is your wish, pray continue. However, be advised: while you do have a lovely voice, you are not fit to play the role of Marguerite."

All nervousness vanished at the outrage of his words, like a dousing of cold water in her face. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth went slack in stunned offense. He whirled away, his cloak swishing with finality against her skirts and the walls of the narrow path.

Never, never had she had anyone say anything derogatory about her singing when before an audience.

"You judge yourself worthy to be a critic of the opera, monsieur?"

He did not respond, and she hurried after him, catching up to his swift stride.

"Tell me – by what right do you speak to me of such things?"

"I have studied music and its composers for many years." He delivered the answer over his shoulder without looking at her.

"That may well be. But I was trained in the theatre since the age of seven, and by acclaimed instructors of the chorus."

"To sing?" he scoffed. "Clearly your teachers were deficient at their tasks."

She frowned. "And just what exactly is wrong with my voice?"

"Where shall I begin?"

She blinked at his dry rejoinder. "What? I… How can you say such a thing!" She spluttered the words and glared at his broad back. "While it's true I may be no prima donna, I've been told by many admirers that I have a delightful voice, comparable to angels."

"Did I not say it was lovely in tone?" He spared her the briefest of disinterested glances.

"Then what is the problem?"

"In all honesty?"

"Of course."

"You do not round your vowels properly. Your carriage is preposterous for holding a note longer than a few paltry seconds. The lack of appropriate emotion you display is a deterrent to a satisfactory performance…"

And so it went. Christine blinked, her mouth working but no sound coming forth as he carelessly ticked off her flaws one by one. She was so addled by his criticisms that she did not realize they had left the ancient labyrinth until she was suddenly aware that the music from the ballroom had grown louder.

"Delivered, with all expedience …" His words came tight and mocking, his lips twisting in the facsimile of a smile as he turned to her and swept his hand toward the manor in a graceful flourish. "... and safety. It seems even a devil can keep his promise."

She averted her eyes to the manor.

"You're upset," he guessed.

"Should I not be?"

She did not fool herself that she was ready to step outside the chorus, perhaps never would excel beyond anything more than a living, dancing prop. And certainly, in feeling the earl's prisoner and forced to entertain like some performing monkey, she had not given her best portrayal of her voice for his guests. But to have it pointed out to her in such demeaning detail rattled everything she had previously believed of herself – more so, that she recognized some truth to his words, which conversely added salt to her wounded pride.

"I would have thought as an artiste you are accustomed to criticism. You did ask for my honest opinion. Yet it was not my intent to cause offense. That I did is to my deep regret." He inclined his head in farewell. "I will leave you to your ball."

"No – wait!" she said as he turned away.

He stopped but did not look at her.

Christine suddenly felt small and petty. She had asked for his honesty. Nor did she fail to note that his disparaging manipulations had led her trailing after him from the maze without her awareness. In truth, she supposed she had been lost and felt foolish for her behavior, wishing to extend some form of olive branch.

"Are you not coming inside?"

"I think it unwise."

She shook her head though he could not see her. "Surely you were invited? I thought all who live in the vicinity and outside its borders were invited…" When he gave no answer, she insisted, "Then I will invite you."

Still, he gave no response, and she looked at his unyielding back in hurt confusion.

"So instead you will once again disappear into the mist, like some phantom in the night – and without even telling me your name?"

The thought that he might leave unsettled her far more than their previous conversation did.

"I never have cared for social gatherings," he quietly admitted.

"Yet you are here. You did come to the ball."

"A rash decision."

"You don't strike me as a man who acts impulsively."

He turned then to look at her.

"An odd statement, when you consider how we met."

"No, not really." She looked into his eyes intently. "Even then, it seemed somehow… planned."

~~~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~~~

Erik curiously studied the young woman who spoke as if she knew him. Had that been true, she would not be standing there, regarding him so calmly. Exquisite in a flounced silk ball gown that shimmered like lavender moonlight caressed her slender form, with her ringlets of hair swept up in a becoming style to fall over one shoulder, Christine reminded him of an angelic caste of nighttime goddess. Her inquisitive eyes sparkled like the brightest of stars in a midnight sky, while her flawless face glowed with a sweet innocence almost painful to behold.

He should not be here, in her presence, a demon consorting with an angel.

What meager conscience he could yet claim urged him to leave, but the darker side of his nature persisted, making him wish to linger in her company a little while longer, to converse and know her better…

A predilection with which he was not at all familiar.

"Christine – are you out here?"

Confound that blasted boy's interruption, the third time the Vicomte had disturbed their meeting! Had he nothing better to do than to trot after Christine like an abandoned puppy?

"Faust and his associates are seeking to claim you," he said grimly. "I should go."

"Oh, but I … would rather you stay."

Erik spun on his heel and strode off before she could finish her reply, though his acute hearing picked up her last whispered words. Words she did not mean for him to hear...

He continued his steady pace.

Curiosity and the desire to see her had impelled him to take the little-used path through the forest and attend this lurid gathering, though he had not associated with a crowd of this volume for many years. Decades, in fact. The festival where they met could hardly be considered, as he had not been forced to speak to anyone there, slipping in and out of the shadows at will. Coming tonight had been an error in judgment, to approach her so unobtrusively, as a man to a woman. He was no normal man, a wretched fact that presented continual reminders.

Yet no matter his determination to leave, some unnatural force beyond his control, some intrinsic need to be with her, had him halt and look over his shoulder before he could slip into his protective well of darkness.

When first he glimpsed Christine from where he had stood on the shadowed terrace and heard her sing, Erik held back from the revelry, hidden. He had watched her being whirled about by two inferior mortals, his shrewd eyes following her over the dance floor and noting the distress she worked hard to conceal. Later he observed her escape and hesitation, within feet of where he stood. The subtle fragrance of rosewater lured him with her sweetness, and he had followed her into the maze, to make his presence known and carry through with his plan at last.

The moment ideal, the temptation to make her his, to take all of what he desired, had pressed him unmercifully. But one long look into her candid dark eyes and he had known – a third attempt to compel her into submission was not how he wanted Christine.

More than half a century had passed since he had fully taken a woman or felt the desire to do so. For blood and for pleasure, he had taken his fill, and afterward compelled her to forget. He had dispensed with the empty practice, wearying of the need to compel a woman to bed him – the satisfaction it brought merely fleeting and never whole. He wanted a woman to accept him for what he was without the need to put her under his spell – an impossibility, of course, since he himself wasn't whole. Within and without, he would always remain a scarred and twisted individual: in more ways than one, a true monster. The bitter knowledge that he would never find love or acceptance led him to bar himself within walls of solitude long ago –

Until the night of Samhain, when he met an Angel in distress, and found he could no longer remain distant.

This strange unrest in the center of his being he had never before felt. His startling encounters with Christine yielded unique results, far different from anything experienced in his dark span of years upon the earth. Meetings to be coveted. This woman, to be prized. She spoke to him as she would to any man, absent of mystical coercion, and had wanted him near by her own choice, even inviting him to the ball, thinking he lacked an invitation…

And now, she had freely given her own.

She had reached the terrace, once more at the side of the intrusive boy. As if she felt Erik's stare, she too stopped and looked over her shoulder.

It was impossible for Christine to see him from so great a distance in such darkness, but owing to his traits as a creature of the night, just as his hearing was keen, his eyes were sharper than any mortal's. He could see her uncertainty and the curiosity that remained in her expression, before the boy urged her forward and the pair disappeared into the ballroom.

And still he hesitated.

He had withheld his name from her for no particular reason, taking mild enjoyment from the game. After eternal years, the need to invent light, meaningless diversions helped to break the monotony that had long taken hold of his existence.

Of course, she had asked about his mask. Everyone did, or if they did not dare utter the words, they stared with blunt rudeness that their drawing room manners forbade. The hypocrisy disgusted him. He had endured lifetimes to achieve the ability to overcome mankind's adverse reactions to his appearance and control his vulnerability, his pain, and his rage. Though the ill-favored who saw beyond the molded casing never lived to tell the tale, few that their number were.

She had been curious, but not insistent on knowing. She had been vexed with him and did not fear his presence. Tonight he had glimpsed within her searching soul the same indefinable need that had brought him to seek her out. Despite the ramifications it would surely entail, Erik made a decision and retraced his steps, taking the path that led up to the garishly bright manor and the woman inside.

Christine was different…

And he must know why.

  ~~~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

V

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Shortly after Raoul left her side to obtain a glass of punch for her, Christine felt herself harshly grabbed above the elbow. She turned in shock, attempting to snatch her arm away.

The earl glared at her. "Where have you been?"

She struggled to mask her nervousness. "Outside for some air – it is quite stifling in here."

"Lord Bisby has been seeking you out to claim his dance." He applied pressure with his fingers, and Christine winced, certain bruises would form beneath the glove. "It will not bode well if you offend our guests by shirking your duties to them…Ah, Lord Bisby!" His tone and expression instantly dripped honey, and he dropped his hold on her. A man with a slight paunch and greying dark hair walked up beside them. "I have found my grandniece. She hopes that you can forgive her oversight and accept this next dance as yours."

Christine bristled but said nothing, apparently not trusted to speak for herself. She managed a false smile toward the noble who eyed her with pompous arrogance.

"Yes, well, perhaps this once." His hand moved to the middle of her spine, and she forced herself not to fidget away from his touch as he led her to the dance floor. His eyes were blue, like ice, and froze shards through her.

He made no attempt at conversation, clearly still provoked by her earlier absence. When the dance at last concluded, he escorted her back to the fringes and stiffly bowed. Before she could collect a breath, Raoul took her hand and spun her toward the floor she just vacated.

"I trust you won't mind if I claim the dance of one of your pretenders, since my own was seized by the temperamental lord."

Christine giggled, her cousin's light repartee coupled with the welcome knowledge that the ball would soon end putting her at ease for the first time that evening.

Raoul led her into a breezy waltz, spinning her in graceful circles...

While her mind faithlessly returned to and revolved around the mysterious man she had left behind, near the maze.

x

They had barely begun to dance, when the candles all around flickered as if by a sudden soft wind. A stir filtered through the crowd, gradually, then with more momentum, several of the dancing couples slowing their steps or ceasing with them altogether to look toward the terrace doors from which minutes ago Christine had entered. Ladies standing along the wall whispered from behind their fans to their companions, their expressions full of question and shock, while many of the gentlemen stood poised anxious and at a loss, as if uncertain what to do.

"What is happening?" Christine directed the low words to Raoul as she observed the gawking guests, then noticed her cousin's own frozen expression. She moved her hand from his shoulder to turn and see what had caused the quiet commotion.

The sight of the newcomer who stood just inside the terrace doors made Christine gape in stunned amazement. The night had been dark and far too stingy in revealing details, the candlelight again struggling to steady itself and redeem the oversight.

Dressed in elegant black, it was the predominant color of his evening attire, save for the crimson-threaded waistcoat and dark purple lining of his black cloak. Standing taller than most, his stance was that of a visiting king, regal, with an air of masculine grace that robbed Christine of steady breath. His dark hair was pulled back in a queue, as it had been the first time they met, bringing into prominence his strong shadowed jaw. But it was the mask he wore – ebony with dark red embroidery rimming the edge, to match his silk waistcoat – that proved the identity of the late arrival and encouraged Christine she would soon learn the name of her frequent savior.

For whatever reason, he had changed his mind, and Christine felt exceedingly glad. It was then she realized that his eyes of hypnotic gold looked directly at her, and once more she felt drawn in by their unique beauty.

The musicians brought the song to a close, though it failed to matter since most of the couples had long since stopped dancing.

"Christine?" Raoul's low voice held a hint of impatience, as did his tug on her wrist, but she could not look away from her familiar stranger. Afraid if she did, he might vanish into thin air.

"Who is that?" she whispered to Raoul.

Before he could reply, she watched her great uncle approach their newly arrived guest.

"Count cel Tradat, I presume," her uncle said, somewhat nervously. "I am Lord Beaumont, the Earl of Montmarte. I bid you welcome."

At the coveted revelation of the stranger's name, faint gasps of shock were heard all around the room.

"So, that is the reclusive Count!" a woman whispered directly behind Christine. "Mother said he never leaves his castle. Not in the two years since he took up residence there from some far-distant land."

"Why ever not?" a second voice whispered.

"Have you no eyes in your head? The mask, of course. It is rumored he hides a devil's face."

"Oh pish. The man is as beautiful as an angel," another woman murmured. "Why, look how his eyes seem to glow!"

"Hush, Eliza. I want to hear what he has to say."

So did Christine, and as if in a determined trance, she began to walk past the huddles of couples, forgetting her own dance partner. Raoul again grabbed her wrist.

"Christine - where are you going?"

She blinked, barely taking her eyes off the striking Count to address Raoul. "Our great uncle will wish for me to present myself," she quietly explained, for once thankful of the fact.

Raoul did not further detain her, though he did walk with her. The earl looked their way with a germ of approval.

"Ah, my grandnephew and grandniece. My Lord, Count cel Tradat, may I present to you the Viscount Raoul de Chagny and Miss Christine Daaé, recently arrived from France."

The Count barely acknowledged the introduction with an absent nod, his eyes never leaving Christine's.

"Miss Daaé …" He took the hand she was barely aware she held up to him, his gloved fingers curling beneath hers. A spark ignited with their touch, like a flint had been struck, and she gave an inaudible little gasp. He bowed low with masculine grace, though did not press his lips to her glove, as had other men, and she found herself missing the token greeting. "It is a pleasure."

Christine slightly curtsied. "I am delighted to meet you at last, Count cel Tradat," she replied lightly, with a triumphant emphasis on his name, and detected a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

She failed to notice Raoul's frown and narrow-eyed inspection of the enigmatic newcomer. Nor did she see her great uncle's shrewd expression as he watched the introduction.

The earl nodded in signal to a servant, who hurried forward, hands uplifted to take the Count's cloak. "If I may, sir..." Their masked guest delivered a stern look toward the footman and barely shook his head. The young man fell back in some confusion.

"I cannot stay," the Count explained with a succinct politeness that seemed forced. "I thought only to come and make my felicitations."

"Surely now that you are here, you will stay for some refreshment?" her great uncle persuaded. "Or, if you prefer, my grandniece has the next dance available and would be most happy to share it with you."

Raoul opened his mouth to object, but was quelled by a warning look from their uncle. The Count must be wealthy indeed for the earl to pander so avidly to his comforts. Christine should be horrified and angered by his embarrassing manipulations, and normally she would be, but at the moment all she could feel was a breathless anticipation for the Count to accept.

"I tend not to participate in these amusements..."

Christine's eyes flicked up to his, unable to hide her disappointment. He held her gaze for an anxious breath.

"... However, tonight I will make the exception."

As if on cue, the musicians struck up their instruments in a slow waltz, and the Count offered his hand to Christine. She took it, gliding with him to the floor, unaware of the many curious eyes that watched. She could think of nothing but the man who stepped so close, his eyes possessing hers.

For all his protestations of not indulging in the recreation, he danced with an expertise not found in many men, his grace and skill unparalleled. Christine had no need to make a point to follow his lead, a bond of the soul pulling them together so that they moved, breathed, and thought as one. She could think of no other way to describe their contact, though she could scarcely think at all.

His long, lean body emitted a strange chill as on previous encounters, despite the heavy cloak he wore. However, the cold did not repel Christine; it only made her wish to move closer, with the hope to warm him. Indeed, the strange growing heat that seeped into her veins from the moment her masked savior entered the ballroom surely would serve to provide enough warmth for them both.

They danced with all propriety, the required distance between their bodies observed, one of his hands clasping hers, the other resting at the bend of her waist…

Yet Christine felt utterly seduced. The soft fire in his eyes alone made her breathless, the look in them as though he wished to devour her.

With any other man, she would feel disgust or alarm, but with this man she did not consider his keen interest an affront. Not when she felt the same intense awareness, ever since the night of the festival, when first she locked eyes with him…

The song ended much sooner than she would have wished. They stood still a moment, neither breaking contact.

"It has been an honor," he told her, his deep rich voice stirring her senses.

"Indeed it has, my lord."

His lips flickered at the corners, but what he would have said next was lost as Raoul approached and the musicians went into a faster Viennese waltz. He looked pointedly at Christine.

"I believe this dance is mine… Sir." Raoul inclined his head stiffly toward the Count in clear dismissal.

Christine was given no opportunity to decline or counter his claim.

With a brisk nod to Raoul, the Count released her and took a step in retreat. He courteously bowed to Christine, one arm bent behind his back, the other crossed at his waist, then departed. She turned her head to see where he had gone, but her cousin did not allow her the indulgence of curiosity, taking firm hold of her hands for the next waltz.

"Raoul – was that really necessary?" she scolded as they glided along the dance floor.

"You promised me a dance, and we were interrupted."

"You were quite rude."

"Yet the Count's arrival through the back door at the midnight hour – with no previous acceptance to our sent invitation – you don't call that impolite?"

Christine shook her head, not understanding his thinly veiled antagonism, which felt out of place.

"He is our guest. Uncle hosted this ball to introduce me to the locals. Would you have me be rude to them and achieve the reputation of a snob?"

He sighed, looking duly chastened. "No, of course not. Forgive me."

She gave a slight nod, wishing it had all gone differently. Wishing to find the Count and apologize for her cousin's sour behavior…

"Now then, don't pout, Lotte. Let us think more agreeable thoughts – I believe you requested only dancing, wine, and music?"

"And punch?" she teased.

He looked abashed. "Forgive the oversight. When I saw the earl waylay you, I left the refreshment table and retraced my steps. If you prefer, I can get you a glass of it now."

"No," Christine decided, preferring to keep in motion so as to hold her thoughts at bay. "Let us just dance. Afterward, we can get some punch."

By waltz's end, he managed to entice a true smile as they both visited the refreshment table. But her improved mood began to fray at the edges once his presence was claimed by another gentleman, clearly someone he knew well, and she made her excuses then searched the ballroom for any sign of Count cel Tradat. Discreetly she asked several guests if they'd seen him, but none could give the answer she desired.

Again, he had slipped away without a word, like a ghost in the night.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

With the ball at last over, little enjoyment to be found after the Count's trademark disappearance, Christine retired to her room. The servant Daisy appeared to help remove the cumbersome gown and loosen Christine's corset at the back so she could more easily unhook it from the front. She took down her hair and Daisy began brushing it out.

Christine watched the young servant in the oval mirror. Short, with fair hair and cheeks as round and rosy as apples, she didn't look much older than Lucy.

"Daisy, how did you come to work at Montmarte?"

"My mum's the cook here. She asked the master, and he gave me this position."

"Have you lived here long?"

"Oh, yes, mistress. Long as I can remember."

"And what do you know about the Count cel Tradat?"

The brush stilled against Christine's hair before Daisy resumed the slow strokes to rid it of tangles.

"Isn't much to know really. He lives at Castle Dragan, in the middle of the forest. Me mum said the place was falling to ruin before he took up there. Don't know much else, 'cept that he don't step foot outside its doors, not that nobody's noticed – 'til tonight, that is. Like to soil me britches when he showed up so abrupt-like and looking like the devil hisself in that cloak and mask. Oh, sorry, miss. Mum says I should mind me tongue better."

Christine suppressed a smile. She certainly had heard far worse language from the crew and cast at the Opera House. With her hope of discovering something unknown about the Count a failure, she reassured Daisy and dismissed her for the evening.

Once the maid left, Christine moved to the door and turned the key, as she had done each night of her stay in this gloomy habitation. Yet while she locked her door to keep potential dangers at bay, still distrustful of some who resided at Montmarte, she preferred to sleep with the balcony doors open while the weather was still mild enough to allow it.

Slipping her wrapper over her chemise, she moved to the balcony's edge and leaned her arms against the stone rail, allowing the cool breeze to caress her heated cheeks in a whisper of comfort.

Her eyes searched the grounds two stories beneath, then the heavens far above, noting that ashen clouds had scudded over the stars and masked the moon, casting the lawn in deep shadow once more. The encroaching darkness veiled the earth from sight, until the moon again sailed free in nature's tug of war struggle with light versus dark. The dense clouds and waxing moon seized brief ownership of the sky in turn, before losing to the other in recurrent waves, causing the landscape to shimmer in pale silver and dark silhouette. It was clear the moon's battle would soon be entirely lost to the darkness.

"Why do you appear and disappear so often? At the festival. In the mist. Tonight, at the ball… I now know your name - but who are you really?"

Her low, plaintive words slipped into the chill evening air. She wondered why three times he had sought her out and just as often mysteriously left…but most of all she wondered if she would ever see him again.

Christine turned back to her bedchamber in mild frustration, her attention drawn to the dressing table. Every one of the five flames of candles there flickered in an erratic dance to survive – then just as suddenly met their death. Cast in sudden darkness, save for the fleeting glow of the inconstant moon behind her, Christine stood petrified, reminded of earlier, in the maze.

Her senses heightened. She was no longer alone...

And feeling faint, she knew who stood with her.

Leather-clad hands cupped her shoulders from behind. Her heart skipped an erratic beat as his cool lips barely touched the rim of her ear in a whispered breath of warmth -

"Do you truly wish to know?"

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

VI

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

In a chamber cloaked by the velvet darkness, with the moon a faint luminescence barely touching the fringe of pale shadows, Christine's soul struggled for light…while a base part of her nature she once thought nonexistent succumbed to the dark.

His cool touch on her shoulders, with the warmth of his breath whispering against her ear cast a hazy film through her mind, and she struggled to make sense of his words -

Do you really wish to know?

He must have heard her question on the balcony with regard to his identity, but now that her wish was at last being granted, she could articulate no words to give a reply.

"Because I will tell you…"

His quiet, steady voice was a trap, and she willingly allowed herself to be bound by its silken chords, nodding faintly at his words.

"Do you feel this, my dear, this fathomless pull that exists between us?"

His fingertips ghosted over the tops of her shoulders to their curves, barely tracing down her arms, and she shivered, her head falling softly back against his shoulder.

"I am the forbidden thoughts that fill your days… and that which your soul cries out for in the night…"

Christine's heart quickened at the echo of her feelings put into words.

"Give yourself over to me…"

His demand came as a seductive caress, sweetly invading her soul. She shivered with heat as the length of his chill form pressed against her back. She could feel every smooth plane and lean muscle through the scant material of her chemise and wrapper. Her breathing grew labored at the sinful feel of him, at the feel of his desire that made her blush. One of his hands slid to just below her breasts, stroking along her stomach and clasping her hip, drawing her even closer to his hard body.

Christine whimpered softly at the flurry of confusing sensations he aroused. She should not be here with him like this, should not even entertain such a scandalous thought of where this shocking interlude might lead, and at last found her voice.

"My Lord Count, please I…"

He quietly chuckled.

"Erik."

"Wh-what?" She could barely follow anything save for his rousing touch on her quivering form.

His other hand slid beneath her jaw, his fingers slipping into the loose ringlets of her hair, and he turned her face toward him.

"To you, sweet Christine, I am Erik."

Erik…

She lost all will as his mouth descended on hers. Feeling the cool press of his lips, the stirring heat of his breath, a surge of something wonderfully foreign and dangerously alluring swept through her blood. Barely cognizant of her actions, she craned her neck more fully to return the intimacy. Pressing her mouth to his in shy, reckless need, she lifted her hand to cradle his head.

At the brush of her fingers against his mask, he sharply pulled back. Christine made a soft sound of dismay at the back of her throat to lose his kiss that had barely begun. Her despairing groan ended on a delighted gasp as his mouth latched to the side of her neck, his tongue hot and tracing swirls of patterns along her flesh.

Her bones melted to liquid fire, a strange damp heat between her thighs that only he ever caused. His arm around her middle, his body against hers, was all that held her upright. With his other hand he pushed wrapper and chemise from her shoulder, his lips following the path he bared to whisper against her flesh. She felt powerless to stop him, was no longer sure if she wanted to or why she must.

He pushed her clothing further down her arm; with the bold action, his fingertips brushed ever so lightly against a sensitive nipple that strained against the thin material, his palm sliding against her elbow. The chemise slid further still, exposing the upper globe of her breast as his mouth brushed the curve of her bare shoulder.

Christine rasped an unsteady breath, sparks of fire surging through her blood. Her dark Count tightened his hold, almost painfully, his own breathing ragged. She wished to turn in his arms, to touch his face, to mindlessly lose body and soul in his daring seduction…

He went suddenly still, unnervingly so, causing her heart to beat with uncertainty and unease.

"Erik…?"

x

The innocent whisper of his name on her lips was almost his undoing, but the Count held fast. His senses reeled in delight with the feel of her soft, warm body against the shell of his own...

…while his mind felt undone with the alarming discovery just made.

Maintaining what scant control he yet possessed, he groped for what little hope he could manage, that his sharp eyes for once had been mistaken.

The sudden wash of moonlight reviled him, illuminating her silken skin in a mocking sheen of white, and bringing into vivid relief the hated mark of the accursed sun upon her flesh.

No … bloody damnation –

NO!

Erik stood on the brink of desolation, wavering on what course to take, suddenly indecisive of his path for the first time in his wretched existence. Had it been his father in his place, were the bastard still alive, she would not still be breathing. Yet for all the death he had borne in his unnatural reign upon the earth, Erik could not follow through with such a foul act, not against this woman… not Christine. He struggled with what was expected, what he must do to survive, and slowly began to withdraw his arm from around her.

She swayed, after his heavy seduction could barely stand. With his entire body against hers, he felt her knees begin to give way, and again tightened his hold to prevent her fall.

He closed his eyes in resignation. There was little choice what must come next.

"My lord?"

"Shh," he whispered, his lips tenderly touching her ear one last time, "do not speak…"

He could not bear to hear the tender plea in her lovely voice. She turned her silken cheek against his neck, tearing a rift inside his empty soul. She was so lovely, an angelic goddess, soft and pliant in his arms, definitely like no other woman… miraculously wanting him of her own volition, as much as he wanted her – how long had he yearned for that which he once considered an impossibility?

A coveted dream that could never be borne, never his to embrace…

Only one method existed to seize complete control before she could look beyond the façade and see the monster that held her – indeed, he was surprised she had not yet discovered the truth of his affliction, had not sensed it during the night of the festival. Was her kind not supposed to discern what ordinary mortals could not begin to grasp?

It was a vicious method, one that may briefly satisfy his relentless dark thirst but would utterly destroy the woman in his arms. Could any satisfaction be found in causing her death?

He did not believe it possible.

True, he barely knew her and was no stranger to causing mortal demise, but Erik had not spoken carelessly of the deep pull that drew them together. With no other woman through the centuries had he felt this inexplicable bond, more profound than anything he'd ever known…

A bond that should not exist and was never meant to be.

With grave resolve, the Count pressed three fingers against the pulse thrumming rapidly in her neck and watched with forced detachment while Christine faded from awareness. He lifted her limp body into his arms and stared down at her beautiful countenance, her lashes feathered dark crescents against highly flushed cheeks. His gaze lowered to the snowy column of her graceful, swan-like neck, and he cursed the lot thrust upon him.

Fate was a vindictive mistress, jealous by the mere thought of what few morsels of happiness he could salvage, always seeking to destroy them before he might discover the depths of their pleasure!

A life lived in solitude would forever be his curse.

He held her close to his withered heart a moment longer, before walking to the bed and laying her gently down on the coverlet, doing what must be done. The silver moonlight bathed her innocent beauty, beguiling him once more. Swiftly he reached for a blanket that lay folded on the trunk, covering her slender form, before he could submit to temptation's cruel snare and lie down beside her, again to hold her in his arms.

With one last fleeting look, the Count cel Tradat stepped away from Christine's bed and swept out into the night.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

The Vicomte Raoul de Chagny stood near the mantel of his uncle's study, a snifter of brandy in one hand, his attention fixed to the low burning flames in the hearth.

"Tonight's ball appeared to be a success," he said more out of passing the time with meaningless words and filling the vacant silence.

"It did, despite that fool girl's attempts to ruin my plans."

Raoul sighed and took a swig of his brandy. Christine's latest venture into the night had once more given him cause for grave concern. He supposed it was understandable, her frequent desire for the fresh air of the outdoors, given the years she cloistered her life away at the Opera House, but she still refused to acknowledge the danger. Her uncle, of course, was miffed with her for different reasons. Yet to come to Christine's defense now would only instigate an argument in which Raoul had no desire to partake.

He looked toward the earl, who sat in his chair by the hearth.

"Then you still mean to marry Christine off to one of those men who attended?"

"Of course." His uncle scoffed. "That's what women were created for, Raoul – to form strong alliances through matrimony and produce male heirs. And Lord Lomax has expressed a desire for a son before he dies. His first wife gave him four daughters…"

"Lord Lomax?" Raoul repeated in horror, wincing at the thought of Christine in that lecherous geezer's arms. "He's rather old, isn't he? And she's still so much a girl."

"She's the same age as your great aunt when we were wed. Then, too, there's the Count cel Tradat…"

Raoul set his glass goblet on the mantel in horror. "Tell me that you've not considered handing her over to that disfigured madman!"

"Bah. You've been listening to the servants' stories." The earl reached toward a small table nearby and lifted a cigar from a silver box.

"Stories? Until tonight, he hasn't left his castle for a social event in two years – since his arrival to Berwickshire. And why else would he wear that ridiculous mask if he wasn't grossly disfigured?"

After their brief meeting hours ago, Raoul was reasonably certain the eccentric Count had more than one secret hidden away behind the ivy-covered walls of Castle Dragan.

"I don't care if he sprouts two heads," the earl gruffly said. "He's also the wealthiest man in the district, perhaps in all of England and Scotland combined, save for the royals of course."

Raoul doubted such an exaggerated claim. He had hoped to appeal to his uncle's sympathetic nature, if he even had one, and had not intended to speak this soon but saw no choice.

"Marry her to me."

"What?" His uncle regarded him with amused disbelief and lit his cigar. "Don't be a fool, boy."

"I'm deadly serious. I care for her. I always have, since we were children."

"Sentimental hogwash," his uncle grumbled. "It would not prove a good match. Montmarte is in dire need of numerous repairs, and your brother squanders what is left of the de Chagny fortune with his gambling. It is a marvel that your family still holds the estate and he hasn't used it as a stake at cards."

Raoul winced at the blunt words. "Let me speak with Phillipe before you make a decision."

"Any amount the Comte could be persuaded to part with in a marriage agreement would never match what either the Count cel Tradat or Lord Lomax could offer."

"Uncle Matthias, at least give me a chance – Phillipe returns to France in a fortnight. I will leave here then and travel home to speak with him."

The earl grudgingly gave his consent. Raoul sincerely thanked him then excused himself to retire for the evening, not wishing to tempt fate and say something that might cause his uncle to change his mind.

Once in his bedchamber, Raoul locked the door, lit the desk lamp, and sat down at the small table provided. Pulling the contents from a leather dossier, he sorted through the memorandum collected – notes on sightings, witnesses, and the killings themselves over the past two years in this district and others nearby. Random and sporadic in the timeline they occurred, the victims were of both social classes – peasants and lords alike. Their bodies drained blue, with twin holes found at the side of their necks, some of the victims suffering a more macabre end, with their flesh literally torn away…

Raoul sighed, rubbing bleary eyes with forefinger and thumb, and lifted his gaze from the eyewitness account of a barmaid to the ever-changing night sky that flickered from light to dark in rapid succession. A blur of motion on the grounds caught his eye, and he stood to his feet, suddenly alert, then strode to the balcony doors. He scanned the lawn, uncertain of what he saw or that he saw anything, as weary as he was. The darkness grew thick as the moon was again swallowed by clouds – but something felt amiss. On impulse he went to Christine's room, three doors down from his own.

Raoul knocked on the door. "Christine…?"

He waited a reasonable amount of time then tried the handle. Locked. Damn it.

"Christine?" he said a little louder in impatience.

No response came, and he sighed in disappointment. What was he thinking? It was the middle of the night, and she must be as exhausted as he felt after the strain of the ball. Resolved to talk with her first thing in the morning, Raoul returned to his room.

He had been taught that ladies were the gentler sex, weaker in mind and physical aptitude, to be treated as delicate china. The journals had opened his eyes to the strengths of the women of the Van Helsing line – those chosen. Yet unless Christine embraced her fate and learned the skills required of her, and to hone those abilities she had no knowledge she possessed, she was as weak as any other female and in need of his protection.

It was his fondest hope that she would recognize and accept the truth of her destiny. Only then, together as man and wife, could they fight the evil that pervaded the countryside, just as her parents had done. Somehow, Raoul must convince her...

For marry her, he would.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

The morning sun cut a persistent swathe along her prone form, the disturbing brightness settling on her closed eyelids.

Christine groaned and turned on her side, putting her back to the annoying light. The soft patter of what sounded like droplets striking wood invaded any slumber she tried hard to recapture, and as she slowly came to consciousness, her mind told her what she heard.

She rolled over to see that the balcony door stood wide, a soft rain striking the floor while the sun shone from beneath rose-tinged gray clouds.

Never, since she had come to this part of the country, had she experienced such bizarre weather. Though she had little on which to base her judgments, having lived most of her life in Paris and all of those days within the Opera House, outings into the city being rare.

She sprang from bed to shut the glass door, her bare feet slipping a little on the wet flooring, and suddenly noticed she still wore her wrapper over her chemise. Odder still, she had not pulled down the bedclothes, but had slumbered on the coverlet, having wrapped herself up in a blanket.

She could not even recall lying down to sleep, though she remembered the ball…

The shocking dreams of what followed felt unnervingly real, more real than any dream of the masked Count previously experienced. And she had dreamt many such dreams since they met at the festival…

He had come to her from the balcony. She had not seen him, not truly, but she had felt him in ways that made her blush, felt him more intimately than in any previous encounter they shared. His chill body had been pressed so strongly to hers, an act she both encouraged and desired…His kiss…she had wanted that too. Awkward from the angle in which they stood, with him pressed behind her, and all too brief. Yet those few seconds of his lips touching hers had heated her blood and made her crane her head as much as possible to seek more of the same.

Christine pressed her fingers to her flushed cheeks to remember how brazenly she responded…

But he had hardly behaved as a gentleman, to enter her bedchamber, uninvited…

Unless, of course, it had only been a dream.

She had been weary but not exhausted, to have toppled to sleep over the made up bed. Warmed by the wine, but not tipsy from it.

Christine did not question why she had no memory of his departure. Was that not his habit, to disappear in silence and without her knowledge? But she did wonder why she could remember no more after his stirring kiss…

And yet, if it was a lurid encounter fashioned only in slumber - that was often the way of dreams, was it not? To break off abruptly and veer toward another course.

Half convinced that the sensual interlude never occurred, save for in her shameless mind, Christine went about her morning ablutions and dressed for the day.

In the breakfast room, she was surprised to see no sign of Lucy and relieved to note the earl's absence. The silence, however, allowed her mind to roam free, the uncomfortable questions from earlier relentless in their arrival, like a bad rehearsal repeated again and again.

Had he been there? Surely not – how would he have scaled her balcony? Climbed the vines of greenery? Perhaps, but she would have seen him, certainly heard the rustling of leaves. She had only just turned her back to the rail when he appeared behind her as silent as a ghost...

No, it had to have been a dream.

"Little Lotte, let her mind wander…"

Christine smiled and looked her cousin's way. "Raoul. Have you eaten? Please, sit down and join me."

She hoped his usual bright chatter might help dispel the dark clouds of confusion that saturated her mind.

He served himself from the small buffet of silver dishes and took a seat catty-cornered to hers, at the foot of the table.

"Have you seen Lucy?" Christine asked.

"Lucy?" he repeated vaguely and took a sip of his juice.

"Yes, you know – the cousin with fair hair who lives inside this manor?" Christine retorted a bit dryly and chuckled. "It would seem your mind has wandered. Is anything the matter?"

"It's nothing." He waved her mild concern aside with a faint motion of his hand. "Didn't get much sleep, is all."

"Yes, well, I haven't seen Lucy since before the ball - not during meals or even wandering about the place."

"I'm sure there's no cause for alarm. She's not much of a social butterfly as you may have noticed. She probably had a servant bring her a tray. Perhaps she was upset that our uncle denied her attendance to the ball last night."

Which made no sense, since as Raoul pointed out, she preferred solitude. Christine knew that Lucy entertained her own company, in her bizarre fashion, preferring her dolls to people. But she had spent time with the family at meals, and Christine hoped the girl wasn't ill. She decided to visit her room later, hoping her appearance would be welcome and not undesired.

As they ate, Raoul spoke of the ball and several guests, causing her to grin with his vague explanations of their histories, dithering more than once in the discourse.

"It sounds as if you don't really know them at all," she chided, pouring milk into her tea and adding one lump of sugar.

He smirked and dabbed his mouth with the napkin, then tossed it to his plate. "Perhaps I'm not the best storyteller to document the town's history," he admitted. "I arrived only three weeks before you did. But…" He reached out to squeeze her hand with his. "At least I got you to smile."

She did not wish to lose his company and be forced back into the empty silence of reliving questions that had no answers.

"Actually, I've been thinking…

He raised his brows for her to go on.

"Now, don't take this as my conceding to your wild, outlandish ideas, but I've decided that I would like you to teach me some of those skills you mentioned – as a defensive measure. It can never hurt to learn them."

"Excellent." His smile was blinding. "Shall we begin now?"

"So soon?" she laughed.

"I see no reason to delay, and I'll be busy the entire afternoon."

Christine hesitantly agreed.

A little less than an hour later, she wondered if she'd made a mistake…

She watched with disbelief as on the long table of the same parlor room they visited earlier that week, again locked, Raoul spread out a leather roll, half as long as she was tall. Padded with rich maroon suede, inside were pockets that contained weapons any king's armory would be proud to own. He had earlier moved aside the furniture, to create space, explaining that the area where he usually fenced had open doorways and no true privacy, so the parlor remained the best place for their lessons.

"Raoul, what is this?" Christine shook her head in incredulity. "When I asked you to teach me, I didn't mean this." She pulled out a wooden stake and mallet. "How exactly is this supposed to help me should I need to ward off advances from unwanted pursuers? Am I to nail their arms together?"

"That is your sole reason to learn?" He sounded disappointed. "To ward off admirers?"

"I told you at breakfast my reasons, and I have no use for any of these weapons. Besides, they are much too large and cumbersome to hide on my person."

"This," he said, picking up a strange leather glove with a cuff, halfway up to the elbow, "is not." She watched as he demonstrated, snapping it on. "Observe."

He held up the hand. As if by magic, a sharp pointed stake, slimmer and smaller than the one she held, shot up between his fingers.

"Ah yes," she said dryly, "I can see how well that would blend in with my costumes while dancing."

"Dancing?"

"In the chorus, at the opera. I still mean to find a way back there."

"Christine…"

Hearing the wheedling note in his voice, she shook her head.

"My mind is made up. If you won't take me, I'll find my own way back, somehow, before the earl can carry through with his reprehensible plans to marry me off to some horrible stranger."

The words were foolish, of course, no matter how earnest. She could hardly walk all the way to Paris, especially with some nocturnal wild beast on the prowl endangering the countryside.

"Christine, before you do anything drastic, give me a chance to intervene. I shall do my utmost to ensure that you need never have to suffer such a fate." He opened his mouth as if he would say more, and she waited, but he shook his head.

"Let me teach you what I know," he persuaded.

"I want to learn to defend – not attack. Especially not with these…" She motioned with the stake she still held toward a set of wicked looking silver knives with engraving on the blades themselves.

"Duly noted." He unbuckled the bizarre leather glove from his wrist. "Only allow me to show you how these devices work. Whatever you don't like, you don't have to use."

Christine blew out an exasperated breath at his persistence. She abhorred all of the foul weaponry – but he clearly wouldn't listen. Having shared with him her planned escape, an idea rose to mind. Perhaps there was a way to gain what they both wanted.

"Alright. I will become your student and learn whatever skills you think would prove useful for me to know - no matter that I could never and would never maim or kill a living being - but I ask for one thing in return." She took a deep breath, realizing she must be cautious so he wouldn't suspect. "I want to learn to ride a horse."

Whatever he anticipated her to use as a bargaining tool, it wasn't that, his expression one of complete astonishment.

He laughed, quite loudly, and she bristled.

"Is there something incredibly amusing about my request? Not everyone is taught to ride in their childhood, you know."

"Calm down, Lotte. Don't ruffle your pretty feathers." He grinned, but she only crossed her arms at his condescending attitude. "I would consider it an honor and a privilege to teach you to ride. Time spent in your company is always a delight."

She smiled faintly, pacified, though his words seemed to have deeper meaning and gave her a small amount of discomfort. Almost immediately he averted his fixed gaze to the roll of weaponry and withdrew the first abysmal instrument of death.

"Shall we begin?"

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

VII

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

The days trickled past, an unending monotony, until one full week had gone by since the night of the unconventional ball, marking Christine's sojourn at Montmarte as over one month.

The lessons, though not excessively grueling, were endlessly tiresome. Raoul did not seem to understand that Christine possessed no desire to handle his wretched arsenal of weapons. With each session, he unrolled the incredibly long leather casing, insisting she take the time to learn the use of each blade, stake, and spike - and, as he put it, cast aside later whatever was not to her liking. Had it truly been up to Christine, she would have dumped the whole leather roll into the drink without a backward glance.

For the most part, the training was an act of tedium, but she did appreciate what skills her cousin taught that did not require the brutal weaponry – skills she felt she could actually use should the need present itself. For that reason alone, she continued to meet with him in the locked parlor each afternoon after luncheon.

True to his word, early on the evening of the first day, Raoul gave Christine her first riding lesson. He never let her wander from the stable area, only allowing the horse to walk with her in a slow, wide circle. But he promised her by week's end that if she caught on well, he would extend her lesson to a walk along the grounds in the week following.

Not only did she establish herself as a decent horsewoman, she excelled, earning his cheerful praise. She felt an affinity with the gray gelding chosen for her, though not so much for the sidesaddle she was expected to use. It was rather awkward to sit sideways and hook her leg around a pommel, as befitting a lady. She wished for the split skirt she had once glimpsed in the Opera House costume department, so that she could ride with more freedom as Raoul did.

Awkward or not, she would do what she must, learn what she must, so as to escape what had begun to feel to her a prison. She would find her way home, to Paris…

On the day of the promised outing, Raoul presented her with a different horse – this one pure white. Christine looked at the lovely beast in confusion.

"This mare is also gentle, but with more spirit, not to mention it is more suitable to complement your lovely presence," he explained with his streak of boyish charm.

Christine laughed at that. "Whatever does a horse's appearance matter? I like the grey."

So saying, she offered the gelding a bit of sugar she had filched from the kitchen and affectionately patted its nose and splotched muzzle. Indeed, much of his face was covered by that uneven black splotch.

"But you would look so fine riding this one," Raoul argued, his voice almost a whine.

Christine shook her head. "Raoul, enough. Mist and I have an understanding…"

"Mist?"

Her face grew warm in slight embarrassment. "I didn't think anyone would mind if I named him, since the earl never bothered." Raoul only ever referred to the beasts as "the white", "the grey", and "the black" - what he rode. "The color of his coat reminds me of grey mist at twilight…" Christine added in reflection.

The black splotch over its face reminding her of a mask, though she did not voice those words.

She had not seen or heard from the Count since the ball ten days ago. While she supposed that wasn't all that remarkable, as there had been no arrangements made between them, she had hoped he might come to call, since introductions had at last been exchanged. A foolish wish, given that he never once deigned to leave his castle for a social gathering in the two years he lived in the region… not until he had come to Montmarte. What incentive had brought him to dispense with his solitude, she strongly wished to know, and if perhaps she might have been the cause.

Yet again she questioned the salacious dream that played on a repetitious cycle within the darkest corner of her mind, still not wholly convinced it had all been her imagining. She remembered too the mirror on her wall, the hazy glimpse of her inside the ancient glass... the absence of her seducer where his form should have been...

It had to have been a dream.

Unless her mind was playing tricks on her again.

"You are certain you don't want a better horse?" Raoul persuaded once more, "You have earned it."

"I am satisfied with Mist." Christine's smile was determined. "He has been with me from the beginning, and I feel more familiar with him."

Thankfully, Raoul gave no further argument. Once their horses were both saddled and mounted, he led the way out of the stable with Christine following, the steady clopping of hooves against the stretch of hard earth peaceful, coming at an easy pace.

The skies above were a murky ash, the clouds few, boding no rain, and the fresh scent of evergreen laced the chill air. They took the trail along the perimeter of forest that bordered the earl's estate. Christine found her gaze turning aside to scan and linger amid the lofty trees of fir. She told herself she looked for nothing in particular, though at every fleeting shadow and glimpse of black, her heart quickened.

"What lies within the forest?" she wondered aloud as they passed a narrow dirt path that led into the dense wood.

Raoul frowned. "Why do you wish to know?"

"Curiosity, I suppose?" Christine shook her head. "It was a rhetorical question. I don't really need to know."

"There is nothing but an old rundown castle. It wouldn't interest you."

"Oh, I don't know. It might be intriguing. Does anyone live there?"

"The forest is too dangerous," he insisted, a slight edge to his voice, "the castle too far. Would you like to visit the sea instead?"

The Count had also warned against perils to be found within the forest at night, though hours of protective daylight still remained. Yet glancing over at Raoul's rigid jaw set like stone, she inwardly sighed and surrendered the idea of suggesting an exploration of its woodland paths.

She had no doubt to whom the castle belonged, the likelihood of more than one such edifice existing in this small region remote. And she certainly had no intention of seeking out its master. Still, she had never actually seen a castle, save for the glimpse of one in a painting at the Opera House, and would not have minded viewing its turrets from a distance.

They soon approached a cliff that overlooked a vast body of water which glistened darkly in the muted light of the overcast day. Dismal and foreboding, the sight of the brackish green waves crashing against the jagged rocks beneath sent a chill down Christine's spine that had nothing to do with the frigid wind blowing against her face.

"Nothing like the sea at Perros-Guirec, is it? Should your scarf blow into those waters I would be hard-pressed to dive in and retrieve it."

"I would be hard-pressed to ask you to," Christine muttered her agreement.

Rather than retrace their path to the manor, he led her further down the cliff's side and toward a fringe of forest that edged what appeared at a distance to be a clearing. As they drew closer she could see that here the wild grasses had been trodden down flat in places by the wheels of some conveyance. But it wasn't the appearance of former habitation that caused her insides to begin to churn. It was the rust color that stained numerous fronds of the grass.

Raoul slid off his saddle but Christine did not budge.

"Raoul, what is this?" she said grimly, though her mind whispered the answer she had no wish to know.

"A small band of gypsies camped here three months ago," he said with his back to her, studying the area.

"On the earl's land? I'm surprised he would allow it."

"We are no longer on his land. The fork in the path took us away from it."

"No longer on…" her words trailed away, her somber gaze going to the hideous reddish-brown that cloaked much of the greenery. "Raoul, why did you bring me to this place?"

"They were all killed, not a one of their band left. Six men. It is purported that a wild beast attacked in the night."

He had no need to say the words; she had already pieced much of that truth together.

"I want to leave, Raoul."

"We won't stay long. I just want to scout the area to see if anything was missed…"

"I want to leave now, Raoul."

"Christine, we will. Soon. I just -"

She turned the horse around, lightly kicking her booted heel against its side while flicking the reins to encourage Mist into action.

"Christine!"

Paying him no heed, she departed the foul place of death as quickly as she felt able, still such a novice to the skill of riding. She wished she could push the gelding from its present trot into a wild gallop and flee the dismal site with all haste.

He continued to call after her, to return. She continued to ignore him.

How dare he bring her to the grisly scene of such a violent crime without first telling her of his appalling plan to do so! But of course, that was his motive. He knew she would never have agreed to come see this, so he had tricked her, likely hoping to encourage her belief in his dark and gruesome tale of preternatural beings that stalked the night.

At last she reached the path that ran alongside the forest and led to the manor. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed a shadow dart within the trees, but before she could turn her head fully to see, the gentle horse beneath her tossed its mane and let out a whinny of clear agitation.

"Mist, what's wrong?" Christine pulled slightly on the reins, as Raoul had taught, attempting to slow the horse to a mild walk.

Mist shook his head harder, letting out another harsh whinny while trying to fight the bit, then abruptly broke into a wild run.

"Mist- stop! NO! What are you doing?!"

The surroundings sped past in a blur of gray and black and green while Christine desperately struggled to hold her seat, the frantic pace the spooked horse set jarring to her bones. She actually feared she might break inside and lose all her teeth from the violent rattling they took.

To her panicked horror, the saddle suddenly disappeared from beneath her skirts. She felt the icy surge of air surround her in the moment before her body slammed hard against the unforgiving ground and the breath was knocked from her lungs…

Her mind swirled in a thick haze. She came to slowly, her eyelids weighted and refusing to open. She struggled to think, to question what happened, but could only let out a low whimper. Her body lay splayed upon the dirt and what must be sharp bits of bark or pebbles, perhaps even thorns. If not for her thick clothing, she would be pierced to the skin. Even so, she thrummed with bruising pain from head to foot. In such a battered state, she should feel no inkling of safety…

Yet the strong arm that lifted her beneath her neck, the large hand that clasped the round of her shoulder filled her with a strange melting relief. She wished to sink into the bearer's hold and never resurface. The icy touch of fingertips that so tenderly brushed her cheek alleviated the fiery sting of a scrape there.

Christine… Christine...

She heard the silken command not with her ears, the concerned whisper of her name twice spoken filtering like mist through her dazed mind that once more began to succumb to darkness. She wished to respond, to prolong the sensation of being held by arms not yet familiar but recognizable to her soul…

"Christine!"

Raoul's harsh cry brought her to full awareness. She heard the thud of boots hit the ground then race toward her. A second time she felt arms lift her shoulders, desperate and not as gentle as before.

"Are you badly hurt? What happened?"

"Raoul…?" she whispered in confusion, gradually opening her eyes. "But… were you not already here?" Even as she said the words, she knew them to be false. She could not recall all of what happened, not entirely, but the arms that earlier held her with such strength tempered with such gentleness had not been her cousin's. Of that she was certain.

"You must have hit your head when you fell and imagined I was with you. I'm sorry to say I only just arrived. Can you sit up? Most peculiar – the grey taking off in frenzy like that. He's never behaved in such a manner - has always been so placid, could have been a pony for a child. Are you certain you're alright? Have you any idea what spooked him so?"

With his aid, Christine sat up, pressing a hand to her forehead. Raoul's words were plentiful and terse, and she sensed his odd rambling came out of his concern for her.

"A snake in the grass perhaps?" she suggested groggily.

"In this cold? Not likely. They burrow for warmth."

Christine shook her head, not truly caring what the dreadful reptiles did, wishing only to return to the manor and find her own comfort and warmth.

"Can you stand?" Raoul clasped her arm.

"Yes, I think so."

She ached all over, was certainly bruised but didn't feel broken. Ten years of training in her strict instructor's classes had conditioned her to endure many a fall.

With his help, she rose unsteadily to her feet, holding to his arm a moment to regain her balance. Wrinkling her nose at her frightful appearance, she did her best to whisk away the soil and crushed leaves that clung to her hair, bodice and skirts. Raoul, being the gentleman he was, averted his attention to his horse, bringing it around to where Christine stood.

"I will return you to the manor then fetch the stable boy to go in search of the grey," he said. "You will need to ride with me, Lotte."

Christine nodded, having already arrived to that conclusion. She wished to leave this place without delay. But once Raoul lifted her into the saddle she could not resist a furtive glance back into the forest, in an attempt to see past its dense branches. All the while she wondered if she really had imagined his presence earlier...

Just as she imagined it now.

She could not shake the feeling of being watched – but that seemed foolish. Surely if the masked Count was truly there, he would not have disappeared from her side so secretively and without explanation… for what cause would he leave? They did not part on ill terms. He had no reason to be lurking in the shadows, spying…

Troubled but determined not to dwell on what held no explanation, Christine set her sights on the darkening road before them. A sharp burst of wind came out of nowhere and whipped her long, tousled hair into her face. She shivered.

A storm was coming.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

The next afternoon Christine was summoned to the earl's study.

Her hip and shoulder were badly bruised and her head still ached, though the injuries weren't severe, certainly nothing she couldn't manage. Cold compresses, rest, and tea steeped with mint leaves and served with honey had achieved wonders. Though, even if she was lying in a sickbed and mortally wounded, she presumed the earl would demand her presence if he so willed it.

He sat at his desk, busy at work, writing what appeared to be a letter. Christine hesitated then entered the room, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence.

Gritting her teeth, she waited… and waited.

He demanded promptness; she condescended to his demand, only to have him completely ignore her? No doubt in an absurd display of power, to remind her what control he held over her as her guardian.

Annoyed by such peevishness, she opened her mouth to question his reason for summoning her at the same time he laid down his quill and looked up.

"A messenger from Lord Lomax arrived this morning. Lord Lomax has requested your company on Friday afternoon. I have written a reply agreeing to his request."

At Montmarte five and a half weeks, and Christine still could not believe his gall.

"As long as you have accepted on my behalf, perhaps you should also meet with him in my place."

His eyes narrowed in warning at her calm and clipped reply.

"I will have none of your impertinence, Miss. You will present yourself downstairs upon his arrival at three o'clock Friday afternoon."

She did not bother to voice an argument, knowing it was futile. If she refused, likely he would only lock her in her bedchamber and send a servant to escort her at the appointed time. He had threatened to do so before. That thought spurred another. She recalled how one of the chorus shared with the other dancers the trick of ridding themselves of an unwanted admirer and causing a total loss of interest – to behave the opposite of all he preferred in a woman.

With little time to prepare for battle, scarcely a day, she must find and question Daisy. The young maid had proved to know information about the Count cel Tradat, never mind that Christine had already learned most of it. Perhaps she would know something about Lord Lomax as well.

Christine straightened her shoulders and gave her answer.

"As you wish."

The earl's brows lifted in mild surprise. "I am pleased to see that you've accepted your fate."

"You told me I have little choice." She attempted to sound as meek as possible.

"Yes, that's true…" He continued to regard her with some suspicion then abruptly nodded. "That is all. You may go."

As relieved as she was to remove herself from the dim confines of his stuffy library, a tenacious desire to know more niggled at her and she could not prevent a question. She turned at the door.

"May I ask, have any of your other guests made inquiries?"

The moment she released the betraying words into the air, she wished she could call them back.

He shifted in his chair and regarded her with fingers steepled beneath his double chins. "Is there anyone in particular to whom you refer?"

"No, I only wondered."

"The Count cel Tradat, perhaps?"

She felt the burn of embarrassment scorch her face and wished a second time that she'd kept her silence.

"I see that I'm correct." He snorted in laughter. "You appeared to enjoy each other's company at the dance. His holdings are beyond reproach, I would not be averse to such a union. You see, I can be amenable. Would you like me to issue an invitation so that I might speak with him and discern his level of interest?"

Heavens, no! What had she done?

"Please - forget I said anything." She backed a step away, her hand on the knob. "I wasn't really that curious, and certainly not about him. I just… I only wondered."

By his pensive expression at her sudden agitation, Christine doubted he would respect her wishes. She quickly left the room and closed the door before she made matters worse.

Perhaps he would forget…

She hoped he would forget.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Why could she not remember…

Christine sat in the parlor and stared out the window at the deepening shadows that swept across the lawn.

The time she had returned to her room on the night of the ball up until the following morning when she woke in her bed still remained a haze of troubled confusion. Had the masked Count –

Erik

It came to her as sudden as a piercing wind, blowing a fraction of the cobwebs from her mind – that was the name he had given. The name he had told her to call him by! Surely lurid dreams did not conjure something so rational as a name? Her heart pounded at her next thought: Had he actually done something so scandalous as to visit her bedchamber and work his seduction over her with his dark velvet voice, his chill touch... and lips that burned?

She closed her eyes against the stirring memory.

Surely not...

But had he?

If that was true, why then did he now keep his distance? And if it was only a dream, his lack of contact still made no sense. She had thought, after their dance, that he might appear the following day, at least give some explanation for his sudden departure at the ball…

Almost two weeks, and she'd heard nothing.

Christine struggled to evade all the internal pesky questions for which she had no answers, initiating bright conversation with Raoul at dinner and later throwing herself into a book she'd found in the library, one not very intriguing but it helped to pass the time…

Pass the time into what? She certainly had no wish for tomorrow afternoon to arrive!

Reminded of her undesirable task, she grimaced. Slamming the book shut, she set it on the table. Upstairs, she found Daisy turning down Lucy's bed for the night and questioned her about the disgusting Lord Lomax, grateful the little maid was such a wealth of information about the locals. At last, armed with what she needed to deflect the old man's interest, Christine moved to return downstairs, when a blur of motion outside a window on the second landing caught her attention. She moved closer to the pane to see.

Through the glass, she saw a woman with fair hair and wearing a long white nightdress dart across the lawn.

Lucy…?

Startled at the sight, especially now that dusk had fallen, she pressed her brow to the glass to see better, noting the hazy apparition was headed for the maze.

Hesitant with what she should do, Christine continued downstairs.

Clearly Lucy wasn't in her right mind, in all likelihood again immersed in her fantastical world of invisible beings, and could easily get lost within the labyrinth – how well Christine knew the danger of that!

Making a decision, she grabbed her cloak from the coat tree near the door and slipped the heavy garment around her shoulders. Prodded by the recollection of what her initial visit to the labyrinth entailed, she made a quick detour to the parlor and picked up the knitting bag of her late great aunt, there finding what she had hoped to use. She selected one bright ball of yarn and slipped it into her cloak, picking up another she kept in her hand.

Raoul had gone into the village, and the earl had retired to his rooms for the night, not that she would seek his questionable help unless absolutely necessary. It was up to Christine alone to protect Lucy –

And find out what the devil was going on.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

VIII

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Christine lit a lantern and slipped outside with it into the chill evening air.

What would entice the foolish girl to visit the dark maze as twilight lengthened its shadows and night shrouded the land? Or in the warped reality of her perception did she even need a reason…?

A filmy mist crept over the grounds, the wisps of ghostly white not so obscure that Christine lost sense of direction. She hurried to the entrance of the ancient maze of crumbling rock and ivy. With no guests of a ball to roam the grounds, no torches were lit within. She hesitated at the memory of her last time here and her meeting with the masked Count, then shook aside any unwelcome rumination in the urgency of this present moment and stepped inside the labyrinth of stone and dense greenery.

"Lucy…?" She spoke barely above her usual tone of voice. "Are you in here?"

Unrolling the skein of yarn, Christine slowly walked, using the string as her trail of bread crumbs. If Fate were kind, she would find Lucy around the next bend. But Fate could be cruel, as well she knew, and it was best to be prepared.

Having lost her way on three occasions in the month since she arrived to this remote and turbulent countryside, she had learned that truth all too well.

Unraveling the yarn while holding the lantern proved awkward, her progress slow, but she would never again enter the darkness without a source of light to guide her.

Nonetheless, the light from the flame trapped safely within the glass traveled only so far, highlighting the immediate area before her and the wild foliage covering the high walls on either side. The remainder of the path lay buried in thick darkness. Relying on her memory from her initial visit to this maze, it twisted numerous times, sometimes upon itself, stretching far into the distance.

"Lucy…?" she softly called again.

Only the silence answered.

All too soon she came to the end of the yarn she held. Worried that perhaps she had not brought enough, she tied the end string to the second large ball and anxiously continued her search. Softly she called Lucy's name as she walked.

A sudden wind, chill and crisp, blew against her while a strange cloying heaviness settled around her. Something felt out of place, disturbing, and it took every ounce of resolve not to spin on her heel and flee back to the manor.

"Oh, Lucy, where are you," she pleaded beneath her breath.

The bushes rustled a short distance ahead. Christine went absolutely still, her heart hammering in her throat.

"Lucy…?" she inquired meekly.

A low growl rumbled through the air, scattering chills up her spine, while terror churned in rivulets through her blood. Frozen, she felt powerless to move though every instinct commanded that she run –

But she would not leave her helpless cousin to the danger of some feral beast! All former warnings of mysterious bloodthirsty predators that scoured the countryside to stalk their victims rose in her mind to intensify the horror.

Briefly she shut her eyes. Never had she wished for one of Raoul's infernal weapons more than she did now. All she had to defend herself was a decimated ball of yarn and a sputtering lamp – hardly worthy objects to deter a predator.

The growling intensified, louder now, more threatening – and Christine found herself slowly taking a step backward, then another, her hand shaking so hard she was surprised she didn't drop the lantern.

Another rustle stirred the bushes – this one closer. Some shadowy thing jumped into the path and raced toward her.

She let out a strangled cry, dropping the ball of yarn and gripping the handle of the lantern with all her strength, ready to fling it at the advancing creature once it came in sight.

"Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip! Yip!"

Christine gasped out a shaky laugh of relief, tears rushing to her eyes and her legs nearly folding beneath her as Lucy's dog scampered into the pool of golden light. He jumped up against her skirts.

"Topsy – you horrible, wonderful mutt – what are you doing here?"

The answer hit her at once. The pup must have come with Lucy.

"Topsy, where is Lucy? Take me to Lucy."

He whined and barked then ran a short distance ahead, turning back to run a few steps. He barked once more, and Christine took his actions as a sign to follow.

Inhaling a tremulous breath, she nervously picked her way after the dog, wending through the closed-in walls, twisting right then left, again and again. Christine had never traveled this deep into the maze and too late, she realized she no longer had her yarn trail to guide her. She had dropped it when she thought she might need to defend herself against some ferocious wild creature. Now she hoped the little mutt could lead her safely out of the dark labyrinth, and questioned her intelligence to put her faith in a pup that couldn't be more than a year old.

Just when she came to the conclusion that she'd made a foolish error in judgment and Topsy wanted only to play – perhaps as lost as she – Christine heard the low, distant murmur of voices, followed by a soft feminine giggle.

Who would her cousin visit in such secrecy? Had Lucy not been in her nightdress?

Shivers of disquiet traveled along every inch of Christine's flesh. The faraway laughter and conversation were indistinguishable and eerie – but not as frightening as the sudden sharp cry that came from somewhere beyond the wall to her left.

"Lucy?" she called, louder than before. "Are you alright? Oh, why won't you answer me...?"

There came the sound of running footsteps, followed by the heart-stopping lull of dead silence.

With her heart hammering against her ribs, a mutineer wishing to escape and abandon her to her fool quest, Christine forced herself to walk forward, not unlike walking the plank and coming nearer and nearer to a dangerous abyss - this one not of deep water but of unknown darkness. She took the next bend to the right, the only direction to go. A quiet rustle came from the other side of the wall. Topsy? Or something more ominous than a growling mutt? As she continued along the path, the flame suddenly extinguished in her lantern.

"What the devil," she whispered.

The abrupt wind of earlier was absent, there wasn't even a faint breeze. Even if there had been, the flame was enclosed in glass. The oil must have run out. Oh, botheration… of all times for this to happen! The torch had blown out her first time through this warren of stone walls, and now this. Surely, one incident had nothing to do with the other; surely, it must be due only to a dried wick…

Perhaps that could explain the lantern. But nothing could explain the torch.

Christine's breaths came more ragged as she gripped the handle of the useless lantern more tightly. She could not allow her mind to travel down bizarre trails of no return, fed by frightful stories of lore she'd been plagued with since her arrival at Montmarte. Not now, when she was lost in the midst of this endlessly dark maze. There had to be a rational explanation for everything that had happened here tonight… and before.

The moon slipped free of the clouds – no longer full, but giving off enough light to dimly map out the path before her. She let out a relieved breath and took the next bend to the left, moving into a small clearing of what appeared to be the center of the maze - then stopped frozen in her tracks.

In the wash of pale moonlight, a stone bench stood and upon that bench, Lucy lay in repose, still as death. In her bone-white bed gown, with her long fair hair shining almost silver against porcelain skin, the girl might have been a ghost.

"Lucy…?" Christine whispered. She broke from her shock and hurried toward her cousin, falling to her knees and putting an insistent hand to her shoulder. "Lucy!"

Beneath the thin muslin Lucy's skin felt cold, which came as no surprise since she was barely dressed for the chill autumn night.

Desperate to wake her, Christine shook her cousin's shoulder harder and called her name a third time.

Suddenly the girl's eyes sprang wide open.

Startled, Christine jumped back a little – then experienced a wash of relief, so intense it made her tremble, to realize the girl wasn't dead as she'd begun to fear.

"Lucy – why the devil did you come out here? What happened to you?"

Her cousin's eyes never left the night sky above, and Christine wondered that she actually believed Lucy might respond to her, when she rarely had done so before.

"Can you sit up?" Christine urged softly. "Here, let me help you. We must return to the manor before anyone discovers you missing. It's frightfully cold out here – too cold to be wandering the grounds dressed as you are."

The girl offered no resistance, malleable as a puppet that Christine aided to rise. With the motion, Lucy's curtain of hair fell away from her shoulder, revealing a dark smear on her neck, what appeared to be blood.

"Lucy, you've hurt yourself! What happened?" She recalled the distant murmurs of earlier. "Was someone here with you?"

Lucy blinked slowly and lifted her hand to the side of her neck, holding it there.

"I scratched myself on the leaves – it's nothing."

Surprised and encouraged to receive that much of a response, Christine helped Lucy to stand, then decided to press the girl further for answers.

"I heard voices."

"I was talking to myself."

Christine supposed that made sense; the girl did it often. And yet…

Lucy swayed as though she might collapse. Christine tightened her hold around her cousin's waist, thinking perhaps she had risen too quickly, and gave her time to regain her balance. Even so, Lucy seemed no better. She was weak, barely able to stand, much less to walk, and Christine didn't see how she would get them both through the maze and back to the manor, but what other recourse was there? She certainly had no wish to wait within the green darkness for someone to find them! It could be hours before their absence was discovered.

With the extinguished lantern no more than a hindrance, she left it on the bench. Thankfully she could hear Topsy snuffle and paw at something beneath the bushes and called to the mutt, hoping the little beast could somehow lead them from the maze.

The dog ran their way, jumping against Lucy's legs in apparent glee, its slight weight almost knocking the girl over, then Topsy let out a yipping bark and ran to the area from which Christine earlier emerged.

She followed, bringing Lucy with her, hoping the pup wasn't simply on another playful romp.

"Why ever did you come out here this late?" Christine asked again.

"The dark faerie wanted to play," Lucy said in her childlike manner and quietly giggled, as if at a secret.

Christine sighed. Clearly the girl's visit into lucidness had been brief, and she would offer no further coherent information.

To Christine's frustration, the inconstant moon once more slipped behind a thin cover of grey cloud, making the way dim. She used her free hand to skim the ivy at her right, to achieve some sense of direction in the darkness, apprehensive of walking into a wall. At least the girl could walk, though not swiftly and not without Christine to support her. The pup rustled somewhere ahead. Christine followed the sounds, hoping she wasn't being twisted and turned to another area of the maze. She nearly collapsed with relief to suddenly come upon the yarn trail.

In the darkness, she had to strain to see the faint line of pale color in the grass, but at long last they emerged from the complex warren of ivy-covered stone.

"Please," Lucy said, "Don't tell Papa I was here. He doesn't like me to play with the dark faerie or speak of him."

Small wonder, if this was Lucy's idea of playtime. The girl shivered in a thin nightdress in the dark of night and bare of foot, though Christine shared her cloak with her as best she could to give her some warmth.

"Please," Lucy begged again, grasping her arm almost painfully, her nails digging into her sleeve, when Christine gave no response. "Promise you won't tell. Papa will lock me away in the tower forever if he knows – he said so…"

With her knowledge of the tyrant-earl, Christine did not believe the warning to be an idle threat.

"Very well," she said against her better judgment. "But, Lucy, you must promise never to leave the manor again without telling anyone. You might have frozen to death had you stayed out here all night, with no one even aware of you being gone! If I hadn't looked out the window when I did, I wouldn't have known."

Lucy said nothing, drawing within her private world again, and Christine sighed, hoping her cousin's silence was her agreement.

At last they reached the manor and slipped inside, Topsy scampering ahead of them. Christine helped Lucy up the staircase, but the girl could barely manage the steps, by this time shaking so hard her teeth were nearly chattering.

"Where have you two been?"

At Raoul's impatient query coming from behind, Lucy shot Christine a pleading look filled with alarm, the message clear - to keep the secret between them.

Uncertain if she was doing the right thing, Christine addressed Raoul over her shoulder.

"Lucy went outside for the pup – she… fell and twisted her ankle. I was helping her to her room."

She despised any form of deceit, but had given the girl her word, and from experience knew Raoul wouldn't relent until he had an explanation that satisfied. Lucy smiled softly at Christine in appreciation.

"Allow me." Raoul came up from behind, and Christine gladly shifted Lucy to his arms, weary from the entire excursion.

Replaying the last half hour, she stood and watched as he carried their younger cousin to the second floor landing, before following in his stead. Something still made no sense. She had heard more than one voice in the center of the maze, was sure of it. The conversation had been at a distance, but there had been differences in pitch. A tone much lower than her cousin's…

Someone other than Lucy had been there.

Raoul laid the girl on the four-poster bed as Christine stepped inside Lucy's room and waited near the doorway.

"Thank you, Raoul," she said, circumventing the questions she could see in his eyes. "I will tend to Lucy."

Her order for him to leave clear, Christine glanced at him only briefly as he came alongside her, before averting her focus to Lucy. She was still angry with him for the morbid little sightseeing tour he had sprung upon her, but it wasn't for that cause she wished him absent.

"Goodnight then," he said in parting, a thread of hurt confusion in his tone.

Christine nodded once. "Also, if you could find Daisy and ask her to bring up a hot water bottle..."

At his nod, she closed the bedchamber door and moved to sit beside Lucy, who had snuggled under the thick gold duvet. The girl hugged one of her china dolls close but didn't look away.

"Now," Christine said softly, "I would like you to tell me all about the dark faerie."

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

The morning inevitably dawned, and Christine met it with grim resolve, Lucy's words darting relentless along the periphery of her mind.

He's tall and quite handsome…

Slowly she prepared for the unwelcome day, choosing her least flattering dress of ash-grey wool embellished with a modicum of decor, the material covering every inch of her skin from throat to wrist and doing little to enhance her figure. It was what she called her cleaning dress and what she wore when chores must be done. At the Opera House, Madame expected the girls to keep their dormitories clean as well as to do their personal laundry. The dress was a perfect choice for today's tedious chore.

Christine brushed her long hair out, but instead of leaving it down, as she preferred, she braided the thick mass of curls and tenaciously pinned them at her nape, spinster-like, hoping it would make her look uninviting and coldly severe. A dusting of ivory face powder did its job to blanch the healthy rose color from her cheeks and lips.

Sometimes he dances with me …

She ate very little, certain her churning stomach would manage no more than a hard biscuit with the black tea, foregoing her usual two lumps of sugar. When the dreaded hour came and Daisy approached with the message of her guest, she dutifully arrived to the front parlor, not missing her great uncle's stern, narrowed eyes at her altered appearance.

Lord Lomax, however, did not seem either insulted or deterred. For their entire carriage ride, he proved the opposite, and in disgust she wondered why no requisite chaperone was present, unless his driver, who sat outside the closed vehicle, was considered an escort.

During her unceasing spiel of chatter and frequent vacuous laughter – all of which Daisy told her would annoy the man and remind him of his deceased wife whom he detested – Christine continually needed to slap his roving hands away from her form. And if she scooted any closer to the wall of the carriage to create futile distance, she very well might have broken through the thin-walled contraption.

Frustrated near tears by the time they arrived back to Montmarte, Christine begged away any further interaction with the leering lord, who lingered with expectancy as if waiting to be invited to tea. She pleaded the beginnings of a headache, which wasn't far from the truth, and hurried into the manor and up the staircase.

Thankfully, the earl wasn't present, and she found blessed solitude in her room. The first thing she did was to remove all the little stabbing hairpins and let the thick braid swing free down her back, though she did not bother with the task of unfurling it.

The box of journals stowed beneath her bed seemed to call to her, but she could not yet rouse either the desire or the courage to look between their vellum sheets. Recalling the abandoned lantern, she decided a dose of fresh air was much needed, especially after having sat so long against the stale lord, and it would be wise to revisit the maze while daylight yet remained.

He dresses all in black…

Retracing her steps created little problem, the yarn trail still winding over the grassy corridors within the intricate pattern of walls. Beyond where the pale string ended, the blades were crushed, showing where Christine had practically dragged Lucy along with her. In the center of the maze, the lantern sat waiting, and Christine plucked it up, also scouting the area for anything amiss, though she had no idea what she was looking for. Evidence of another being, perhaps, who shared those minutes alone with Lucy…?

And how many more minutes within how many more nights besides?

He speaks to me in poems and stories…

Christine approached the area where the pup had been digging. There she found an odd piece of carved ivory, perhaps a button, approximately one inch in length and oddly shaped like a bone, though certainly it belonged to no skeletal frame.

Noting the skies were growing darker and not wishing ever again to be caught within this verdant trap when night fell, she left the maze and stopped just outside of it, staring over the expanse of lawn toward the manor… evading the steps that would take her to its imprisoning doors, back to the confinement of hollow chambers, back to the family she wished to avoid…

Raoul, with his persistence to train her.

Her great uncle, with his proclivity to dominate her.

And Lucy, who teetered on the precipice to madness.

The sun made no appearance today, hidden beyond a thick veil of cloud, the skies glowing like a luminescent pearl cast in shadow, its sheen dim as violet dusk began to settle over the shadowed land.

A strange awareness tingled her senses, and she looked around the area, her gaze wandering to the far right.

The sight of a cloaked figure in the distance wearing a wide-brimmed fedora and heading toward the forest had her blink in astonishment. At first disbelieving of his actual presence there, sure her eyes only tricked her, she stared. For a moment her heart ceased to beat within her breast.

His eyes are beautiful, and when he's angry, they glow…

Balling her hand into a fist so tight she felt the nails mark her flesh, Christine took several quick steps in his direction. He was too far away to hear, and she had no desire to shout.

Setting down the lantern, she picked up the hem of her skirts and ran to catch up until she came within acceptable speaking distance, then slowed to a walk.

She worked to control her panting breaths as she followed a short several feet behind their elusive masked neighbor.

"Count cel Tradat…"

He continued to walk as if unaware, though she knew even a man going deaf would have had to hear her rapid footsteps rustling through the dry grasses.

"My lord Count…"

She had no idea if she even used the proper form of address, having never been educated in social refinements beyond anything a thespian would know. But a spark lit her blood at how blatantly he ignored her – and Christine watched him continue to shun her in angry disbelief.

His cloak billowing behind him was suggestive of the flutter of a bat's wing as he increased his already rapid gait. His steps, now at a walking run, even still possessed such power and animal grace that for a fascinated moment she lost herself in the dark magnetism of his tall, lean form.

She recalled the night of the ball, recalled the events that followed and the dream that felt like no dream…

"Erik."

At her clipped use of the name coming softer than previous attempts to gain his attention, he halted abruptly in his tracks as though suddenly turned to dark marble.

Yet he made no move to turn and greet her.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

IX

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Any uncertainty Christine might have hoped for dissolved to dust as she glared at his broad back.

"That is your name, isn't it? Erik."

She said it again, ignoring the gooseflesh that popped out beneath her covered arms and the manner in which his shoulders stiffened.

The oppressive chains of silence stretched between them and bound her there. Even so, the words of accusation struggled up, relentless to be freed.

"You came to my bedchamber that night. You seduced me. You took liberties and touched me in ways no man ever has…"

She cursed the tears that wet her eyes. Cursed the waver in her voice. Cursed the man who stood so still and silent before her.

You left me, she whispered in the silence of her mind.

"You had no right," she said heatedly to the empty space between them.

"I know…"

It was an eternity before his reply came, and when it did, Christine was struck anew by the sensuous chords of his velvet, dark voice.

Dear God, that voice…

"It was a mistake."

She flinched as if slapped. Those were not the words she expected to hear. They wounded and mocked, branding her a fool, and she allowed harsher words their freedom in just reprisal.

"Are you such a coward that you cannot even face me?"

The sudden ferocity with which he turned on his heel and closed the distance to mere inches between them trapped the breath in her lungs. Shaken by the proximity of his towering strength, she forced her gaze to lift from the broad expanse of his heaving chest to the feral glow of his eyes behind the sockets of his black mask.

Such vehemence blazed within those shadowed eyes, and she knew in an instant that he could destroy her if he so wished. He could wrap his large, slender hands around her slim bones and break her like a twig. He could smooth those same chill hands upon her flesh and send her inhibitions up in a blaze that would forever scorch her soul…

And for one fleeting moment, she knew she would be wise to fear what he could do to her, even wiser to run away. But now that he was finally here, standing so tall and still before her, after so many empty days and nights without him, she found she could not retreat.

God save her soul…

Or perhaps it was already lost.

"Lucy," she said with resolve to vacate such troubling thoughts, surprised by how steady her words came. "Have you been meeting with her at night, in the maze? Are you…" She took a bracing breath and forced herself to say all of it, "Are you her lover?"

The confusion that so suddenly filled his enraged golden orbs revealed the truth and made the embarrassment suffered worth the sacrifice to utter such contemptible words. A wave of relief soothed her, followed once more by a peculiar wave of regret just as strong.

"Why would I want Lucy when you –"

He did not finish the thought, his words that seemed torn from him abruptly cut off as if sliced away. In that instant the atmosphere shifted between them, rendering Christine breathless and silent.

Their eyes remained locked, his now burning with a raw need that quickened the beating of her heart. Sensation, thick and heady, rose up to drown Christine's soul. It made her want to run. It kept her fixed in place. For a transfixed moment that hung suspended, neither of them moved, standing so close, so unbearably close…

She felt her body sway a fraction toward him. His gloved hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.

"You never said goodbye," she whispered, the hurt he inflicted with his frequent desertion guiding her words. "Why did you leave without saying goodbye?"

His eyes flared, the look in them causing a rush of warmth to stir her blood. His gaze flicked down to her parted lips. He stood statuesque - a taciturn, dark god of the forest, never once moving, as the wind picked up and whipped about them, the edges of his cloak rising with a rippling snap. His eyes lifted, burning her in gold.

"I did not think it necessary."

"It would have been kinder."

"I am not a kind man."

She shook her head in frustrated denial. "If that were so, you would have left me to be trampled underfoot at that pagan festival. You would have left me to wander alone lost in the mist. You would have left me to lie insensible when I was thrown from my horse…" for now she was certain that had been no dream possessed by a dazed mind either.

"Perhaps I should have, perhaps that was a mistake as well," he said through gritted teeth, his gloved hands clenching and unclenching near his thighs. "And so, goodbye."

Stung by his mercurial shift of mood and the sudden cold, clipped farewell, a sardonic mockery to her earlier request, Christine took a step back in angry confusion.

"Fine then – goodbye! And never seek me out again!"

She whirled about but took no more than a few steps, cursing the tears that rose to film her eyes, when suddenly the pressure of leather-encased fingers clamped around her arm.

Before she could gasp out a curt question, before she could question her reasoning, he hauled her spinning back around to face him and seized her mouth with his. He held her as his captive, his long, slender fingers crushing her scalp. Hard and demanding, his cold lips plundered the soft curves of her lips, his hot tongue commanding entrance into the hidden recess of her mouth…

And she gave it. At first too stunned in surprise to resist, then too lost to him to covet her freedom. Barely aware she was kissing him back with such shameless and fervent surrender.

Suddenly, he broke free of her, his hands dropping to grasp her arms and push her away while holding her with him as if he had no desire to truly let her loose.

"Go home, Christine," he rasped, giving her a little shake, "Go home – and if you have any sense, never seek me out again!"

He pivoted, his cloak snapping about his legs, and left her standing there, his stride swift and sure as he hastened toward the forest. Pressing shaky fingers to her swollen lips, Christine could only stand numbly and tremble, watching him go.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

The redoubtable Count cel Tradat, feared as a prince of darkness by many in his homeland, by the multitudes in all of Europe, swept with desperate resolve through the dense forest and laughed with scorn at the pathetic irony of the hunter fleeing the prey. No, not prey. He could not think that about Christine, not any longer… could not think of her in any capacity at all.

Their paths must never again cross, lest he be driven to the jagged edge of reason and do that which would destroy them both. Not that he could call himself sane, but he thought he had mastered the art of absolute control more than a century ago. Yet in her presence, he could scarcely recall such blind precepts, such foolish logic…

He had no choice but to forget her.

But how had she not forgotten him?

She had called him by name.

Even for a slayer, she should not have the ability to break free of his penetrating compulsion to forget. Never had he heard of that occurrence to one with his supreme power, not once in the four hundred years he walked the earth. When he left her insensible on her bed, with grim purpose he had wiped the heated incident from her mind as well as all previous clandestine meetings with him, or so he'd thought. Her most recent words proved she'd been invulnerable to his defensive machinations, as she had also thrice proved resistant to his hypnotic lure – perhaps making her the most dangerous of her kind, since she did not follow the established precedent for a slayer…

Since he had such minimal control over her mind, and even that slim contact could be broken.

He certainly proved unresistant to her lure, again kissing her, this time with the bottled up passion he carried for her these past two damnable weeks.

Her mouth had been so soft, so sweet, her response to him so uninhibited - so wanting. Proof that she possessed true desire that was wholly without manipulation. Desire to be with him.

Briefly his eyes fell shut, his hand clenching into a tight fist at his side. Beneath the leather glove that covered his perpetually chill skin, the ring of his father's pressed hard into his flesh. He despised the small circlet of the gold manacle for all it represented but never could he remove it from his cold dead finger. Not if he wanted to live.

He laughed dryly at the irony – or at least live as other mortals do…

His thoughts returned to the slighted woman he left behind.

His thirst for her exceeded what was customary – he ached for Christine in every respect. Hungered for her to see what little of the man remained behind the monster, if indeed there existed one scrap – God, for once yearned to touch and be touched with tenderness and in passion. Freely and without reserve or the force of compulsion. To seize her willing body and take her into his bed. And in her innocence, she would have succumbed. It was made clear from her bold approach and keen response to his vehement kiss that she did not yet understand his vile nature or her true calling – both of them reprehensible.

Would that she might never know.

He could still taste her…could still see her face aglow from her mad dash to catch up to him, later flushed with passion from their kiss - wreathed by wispy tendrils of curls that had escaped her long thick braid. Could still observe the angry sparkle in her eyes as they accused him, and later the wondering desire that filled their mink-brown depths.

By the profane gods, how he wanted her…

It failed to matter. He could not have her.

Had history not taught him that truth through the tragic end of his father's treacherous friend, the beast who'd begun this vicious cycle of gruesome violence, and all due to the one woman he had loved and lost?

A woman would not be his downfall too! And certainly he did not love her – he could not love her! Monsters did not have the capacity for such weakness as to love…

Tell that to the withered corpse of his father's contemptible friend.

The Count lowered his head and picked up his pace within the mollifying shadows of the burgeoning night, recalling his visit with the detestable uncle undeserving of the title of earl. It had been a mistake to accept this most recent invitation to visit Montmarte, a mistake daily to watch Christine from the shadows this fortnight past and covet what he could never have. Despite his obscene wealth, Erik had nothing to offer but a face to conjure demons that was maliciously paired with a curse to frighten angels.

He sighed in weary despair. The days would follow their courses; the seasons would bloom and wither; the years and the decades would whisper past until her presence was no more than ash buried beneath the soil.

And still he would walk alone…

Let this at last be the end of it.

The whispers of the forest mocked him. Or were the taunts inside his mind?

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

"I am so grateful you agreed to come, Lotte. I think you'll find the village much changed from when you last saw it."

Christine sighed at his persistent choice of a childish nickname, at her eventual surrender to Raoul's invitation, at the whole wretched world in general.

She still did not understand what she'd done to warrant the Count's bizarre change in attitude toward her. One moment he rebuffed her, the next he rebuked her, and then without warning, he set her soul ablaze…

He was but a man, a man who made her senses smolder with no more than a look or the whisper of his touch. But he seemed to prefer the role of Ghost, clearly considering his mask not enough of a barrier behind which to hide. Disappearing and reappearing at will, leaving her shaken and nonplussed and altogether at a loss.

Never had she received a kiss of such desire…

And never had she desired a kiss more passionately.

Her heart had soared then fell when just as violently as his kiss had come, he fiercely rejected and left her adrift once more, without understanding his reason. Again standing alone.

Nor had her great uncle wasted a moment's time to inform her of his meeting with the Count cel Tradat, enlightening Christine as to his reason for being there. In as few curt words as possible, the Count had told the earl he entertained no interest in Christine and possessed no wish to form a union of marriage, after which he abruptly made his excuses and left.

To hear such words had wounded, more deeply than she'd thought possible, but better she know his feelings now.

His frequent disregard of her own feelings unsettled her, but she would not play the fool and seek him out again. She would confront each day with what it would give, and in time, she would forget about the irascible Count. At least, that's what she told herself and what she desperately hoped would happen.

Three days had elapsed since their brief, explosive encounter, and Christine was eager to leave the foreboding halls of Montmarte, if only for one evening. Lucy had been quiet and unreceptive to conversation, often sitting in a chair and staring out the window while holding one of her dolls close. At least the girl appeared to heed Christine's warning to stay indoors at night, for which Christine knew relief, often peeking into the bedchamber to see her younger cousin fast asleep before finding refuge in her own bed. Nor had the earl bothered Christine with the demand to meet any more potential and unwanted suitors, thank God for that. In fact, her uncle had not bothered her at all, save to tell her of his brief meeting with the Count.

Determined to focus only on the present, Christine set her sights out the small window of the carriage.

The village had drastically altered from the night of Samhain. That decadent celebration had taken place on its outskirts and not within the main region, so if Raoul had not told her so, Christine could not be sure it was the same habitation. Now it resembled a normal shire with narrow dirt roads and wooden buildings painted various shades of dusky greys and greens, most of them three stories in height and topped with tile roofs, though she noticed a few of the smaller buildings were thatched. Townsfolk wandered the streets, as did the occasional livestock, usually under supervision of their handlers. The distant forest surrounded three sides, a glimmer of pale silver on the horizon suggesting the North Sea.

Raoul took her into a building with a sign proclaiming it to be The Hogshead Pub.

"The ambience leaves much to be desired, but the food is surprisingly palatable," he said as he opened the door for her to precede him.

Loud and boisterous could well describe the patrons of the establishment, mostly male villagers who sat at a long bar and at small tables clustered throughout. The few women Christine spotted wore dirty aprons beneath their full bosoms displayed to the point of immodesty – clearly the barmaids. The lighting was dim, with candles anchored high along the walls and lamps hanging from the infrequent hook.

Raoul shouldered his way toward a table at the back, one arm around Christine in a protective measure. Most of the patrons were immersed each in their own private conversation, but there were a few men who sent leering stares Christine's way.

It was nothing to which Christine was unaccustomed, the areas to dine at the Opera House full of bawdy cast and crew members, some of them now and then far into their cups. So when Raoul apologized and suggested perhaps he shouldn't have brought her to such an establishment, Christine smiled and reassured him.

A barmaid approached to take their order, nearly sitting in Raoul's lap as close as she stood to him. Her cousin had some trouble lifting his eyes from her cleavage, but Christine could hardly blame him since the brassy young woman practically pushed her bosom in his face when she brought their order to the table and bent low to set down two mugs of ale.

The brash barmaid winked at him in parting, and Christine rolled her eyes a little, tucking into her platter of braised potatoes and peppery sausage with gusto. Being absent from Montmarte had improved her appetite, though certainly nothing was wrong with the food at the manor. But it was difficult to enjoy the cuisine when it so often felt as if a stone had settled inside her stomach, with regard to all she must endure there.

"I apologize for that."

"Oh, Raoul, stop." Christine shook her head, not bothered in the slightest. "It's not like anything I haven't seen before. I grew up in the theatre, if you recall, and every corner I turned…" Despite her bold words, she blushed. "Well, there was very little privacy, and many did not care to use what modest amount was made available." It wasn't uncommon to glimpse a couple in various stages of ardent embrace in the shadows of a corridor, and some of the more shameless thespians and crew did not even trouble themselves with seeking out the shadows.

She frowned as she thought again of that breathless night with the Count in her bedchamber, what she once supposed all a dream...and the ardent kiss they had shared outdoors birthed a plethora of rousing feelings that would be best to ignore, to forget...

Blast! Why could she not stop thinking about him?

"Christine, I did not encourage her advances."

"No matter," she assured, grateful for conversation to divert her rebellious thoughts. "There is no reason you can't have a little fun."

"Christine!"

At his scandalized shock, she felt a bit ill at ease. She was still an innocent in all the ways that mattered, but her ears had nightly burned with the frequent accounts of the brazen chorus girls who enjoyed sharing their exploits with the other dancers who dwelt within the dormitories, Christine in their number.

"It really doesn't bother you at all, does it?" Raoul sounded and looked quite dejected.

"I don't wish for my presence to be a disadvantage to your social amusements."

"Good God – you make me sound like some ne'er-do-well out to fraternize with all the ladies!"

She laughed and took a sip of ale. "Hardly that, Raoul. You're still the sweet, charming young Vicomte who fetched my scarf from the sea. I simply don't want to get in the way of any plans you might wish to make."

He covered her hand lying on the table with his. "You are never in the way, Christine. Don't you know that?"

The intent look in his eyes and the firm pressure of his hand on hers gave Christine a modicum of discomfort. She slipped her fingers free of his.

Thankfully a second barmaid took that moment to approach, Madame Floozy nowhere in sight. Dressed as suggestively as the other woman, she nevertheless did not flaunt her ample wares in Raoul's face. This woman was younger with reddish-brown hair and a worried expression on her lightly freckled face. Her green eyes were anxious.

"You are the Vicomte de Chagny?" she half whispered, half spoke in a mild brogue.

He looked at her in some confusion. "I am."

"Lily told me you're the one what looks for information about the murders. I'm Minette…Rowan is – was – my man." Her eyes grew moist with tears which she blinked away, swiping her fingertips beneath her lashes. "He was killed nigh unto a month ago – drained of blood 'til his skin was a sickly grey, his throat nearly torn out – just like them others, and not a drop on the ground 'neath where he lay." She sniffled and searched for a kerchief which she withdrew from inside her corset to dab at her eyes. "There's a woman what lives on the other side of the forest near where Rowan was found. I think she kens what happened."

"Why do you suspect she was involved?"

"Not involved, mind you – just knows things, of spirits and such. She sees them things that are peculiar and reads the cards..."

Her eyes lifted beyond them, and Christine noticed the sour look the stout man behind the bar gave Minette. Quickly the girl collected Raoul's empty tankard.

"I canna speak of this now. I must get back to work. Charlie, that's the owner, don't like us talkin' to customers 'less it brings him coin." She hesitated, and Raoul took the bait, fishing a few shillings from his drawstring pouch and handing the coins to the girl. She snatched them up, tucking them deep in her cleavage. "Take the beaten path by the old pond a-ways into the forest. She lives in a small cottage. Name's Dora. And please, mister, find the vile monster who done that to my poor Rowan…" The girl hurried away.

The thought of food no longer appealing, Christine stared daggers at Raoul. He caught her glare.

"I swear to you, I didn't plan this. I had no idea she would seek me out."

His expression was in earnest, and she found it difficult to doubt him. Still, the evening was ruined with such grisly talk of the killings.

"Promise that you'll take me back to Montmarte before going on your quest to see Dora."

She had no desire to become part of his little witch hunt, as well he knew.

"Of course, but as long as we're on the subject…"

She tensed, curling her fingers in her skirts, and set down her fork.

"I think we should change the subject."

He sighed. "There is just one matter…"

Of course. There always was. Wishing she could ignore him, Christine took a long swallow of ale.

"What do you know of the Count cel Tradat?"

She set her mug down with a slight bang and stared, hoping she had heard wrong.

"Pardon?"

Wishing to elude all thoughts of the irascible man who haunted her mind day and night, those were the last words she expected to hear from her cousin.

"Why do you ask such a question?"

"There was a witness at one of the slayings. A boy. He said the beast had the form of a man, was rather tall, and wore a cloak and a hat…"

Christine stared at him in incredulous disbelief. "And so naturally you suspect the Count? You believe he's the only man to own such items? Oh, Raoul please." She gave a scornful laugh. "If it was a boy as the witness, any man would seem tall and surely there are many tall men wandering about the district."

The implication made was preposterous – what it seemed he was saying – and she leaned closer so as not to be overheard and lumped in with his fantastical idiocy.

"Tell me you do not actually believe that the Count is your legendary beast of the night?"

"You've spent time in his company, which I'm told is a rarity for him. He is secretive, prefers not to mingle with others. Surely he might have told you something that could help?"

She didn't know whether to laugh in mildly amused contempt at his outlandish ideas or cry in frustration that no matter how hard she tried not to think of the man, he found a way to appear in her mind or in what should be pleasant conversation. She settled for a different comfort, one with which she wasn't familiar and took up her tankard, downing the rest of her ale in several rapid swallows, noting Raoul's shock as she did. She had never been raised a genteel lady, far from it, and was infinitely tired of both he and their great uncle trying to pound her into a slot that didn't fit her repertoire of life. She was a budding singer and a passable dancer and she wanted nothing to do with the nobility or their foolish pasttimes!

With no napkin provided for their meal, she settled for wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and glared at him. The quick refreshment helped to relax her bones, and she inhaled a steadying breath.

"As I have told you countless times, I have no desire to involve myself in your little horror games."

"They're hardly games, Christine –"

"BUT - I will give you one sound reason why your insane hypothesis doesn't hold true for the Count," she continued as if he'd never spoken. "You said that your foul creatures cannot exist by the light of day – is that correct?"

"Vampyres burn to ash if the sunlight hits them," he agreed. "It's written in the journals."

Christine rolled her eyes at that, but went on with her defense of their masked neighbor. "Well, then, there's your proof. He came to visit Montmarte a few days ago, or did Uncle not tell you? I, myself, ran across his path. He was coming from the manor and it was just going on sunset, what sun there was – but it was definitely daylight."

Raoul's expression deflated, as if he was actually disappointed.

"Are you quite certain?"

The early evening sky had been overcast, but she recalled how the luminescent gray light brought out pale glimmers in the Count's eyes that seemed composed of all shades of gold.

"Yes, of course, I am. I was there."

As it always did when she thought of their last meeting, his heated kiss rose up to dominate her thoughts.

Disgusted by this supper that was supposed to help her temporarily forget all those troubles left behind, she scooted back in her chair and stood. "I'd like to go home, please. I feel a headache coming on…"

"Christine, I didn't mean to upset you. I wish to help the unfortunate victims, yes, and to prevent further killings. But this night was supposed to be a conciliation dinner for last week, when we went riding. I hate it when you're angry with me."

She sighed at his boyish admission, his noble intentions hardly appeasing her scant endurance with the sole topic of which he was so fervent, but she had no wish to argue further. She'd not been lying when she said her temples had begun to pound.

"Stay," he cajoled, his blue eyes pleading. "Finish your supper. We will return to Montmarte immediately afterward, I promise. Please, Christine…" He reached out to touch her hand.

She hesitated, then sank back to her chair. "Maybe another mug of ale."

The brew was bitter, she preferred a sweet vintage of wine, but the ale did help ease the tension and another tankard might help relieve the ache in her head.

He looked uncertain by her request, but motioned a barmaid over and ordered another round.

A quarter hour later according to Raoul's pocket watch, they were again on the forest road leading out of the village. The skies had darkened considerably with the approach of nightfall. Christine did not miss Raoul's nervous glances to the window in the past few minutes.

"Is anything wrong?" she asked after his fourth glance toward the dark trees.

"I'm not certain…"

No sooner were his words uttered than the carriage came to a sudden halt and one of the horses gave a loud whinny.

"What the devil…" Raoul moved his hand to open the door, hesitated, and glanced at Christine. "Stay here."

Still he waited, seeming to come to a decision, and pulled back the edge of his cloak and frock coat. Besides the sword he often wore at his side, sewn into the lining of the coat were thick bands of leather that held three weapons in place. A dagger, a stake, and a mallet. He grabbed one, handing the silver dagger over to her by the handle.

She inhaled in exasperation. "Raoul, really –"

"Just take the damn thing!"

At his uncharacteristically curt order, she blinked in astonishment and took the ivory hilt.

"You know how to use it if need be," he said, his voice a shade softer. "But no matter what you hear, stay inside the carriage."

Before she could respond, he slipped outside and closed the door firmly behind him.

Christine clutched the dagger in both hands on her lap, almost as a prayer, with the blade directed outward. Her anxious gaze went to the window and the misty darkness beyond…

And a distant pair of eyes that glowed red in the night.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

X

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Christine sat rigid on the narrow bench seat, clutching the ivory hilt of the familiar dagger. She inhaled sharply at the fearful vision outside the small window, of eyes that gleamed as red as rubies, then exhaled a tremulous breath when seconds later they were gone.

Had it been a trick of her imagination? A product of emotional exhaustion? Too much ale?

There was no light cast in that direction to reflect such an eerie glow, as a cat's eyes shone when lamplight was directed a feline's way - but what beast had eyes of blood?

From outside the thin walls came a vicious, feral growl, followed by a weak cry for help.

She tried to breathe, tried to think. She did not believe it to be Raoul – the voice was too gruff – and Christine desperately wondered what to do. Raoul told her to stay put, but it felt cowardly to remain shut away inside when she might offer aid to a wounded soul in distress, and she did have a weapon that she had learned to wield in defense. Swallowing over a dry throat, she put her hand to the latch, though she quaked in her laced boots with what she would find beyond the fragile safety of the carriage.

When all became eerily silent, she opened the door a tentative crack.

"Raoul," she whispered. "Are you there…?"

Not a sound, save for the wind stirring the branches and the nervous snuffles and whinnies of the horses. It was a wonder they hadn't bolted.

Fighting down every instinct that bade her shut the door and remain within, Christine opened it wide enough to carefully climb down. With the dagger gripped in one hand, she stood fixed in place, uncertain of what to do next.

"Raoul?" she half-whispered, glancing toward the driver's seat where a lantern hung suspended. Her heart froze to a lump of ice in her breast to see the bulky shape of the driver slumped across the seat.

Wounded.

Or dead…?

Perhaps they'd become victims of lawless highwaymen - thieves that preyed on the wealthy who traveled on secluded stretches of lonely roads.

"I am armed," she called into the darkness then wondered at the intelligence of attracting attention her way. Apprehensively she stepped closer to the lantern and poor Mr. Findley, though to illuminate herself to unseen villains surely was also a step in the wrong direction.

On the heels of that thought, a growl rumbled nearby, low and deep, seeming to vibrate maliciously all around her. Terrified, she glanced in every direction, unable to discern where the beastly noise was coming from.

That was certainly no highwayman!

A vicious hiss came from another direction, and what sounded like a blade clanked against another. Twice. Three times. Another wounded cry, this one more distant…

Unable to see anything beyond the thick, swirling mist and invasive darkness, Christine backed toward the door. From where had such a dense fog come? Its presence hardly seemed natural, but that was the least of her concerns.

A horrendous shriek split the air, followed by the heavy thuds of footfalls that grew in volume, coming directly toward her…

"Raoul?!" she screamed then turned – to see a pair of glowing red eyes advance swiftly through the cloud of mist.

In terror, she whirled about and jumped inside the carriage. The dagger clattered to the boards as she slammed the door shut and held it closed tightly with both hands. Whatever fiend tried to attack from the other side vigorously struggled to wrench the handle from her frantic grasp, and Christine held fast with a strength she never knew she possessed. Her eyes fell shut as silently she begged for help from above, struggling to form the whispered petition dear Mama Valerius had taught her as a child.

"Our Father who art in heaven, who a-art in heaven…" She took in shuddering breaths, forcing her mind to connect with her voice and form the proper words. "Hallowed be thy name, th-thy kingdom c-come, thy will be d-done…"

Suddenly all resistance stopped, the handle gone still. Christine tearfully stared at the door, not trusting the abrupt stillness.

In the next instant she was thrown back as the carriage violently rocked to one side, then to the other – as if the attackers intended to shake her loose from the closed conveyance.

She crouched on the floor, clinging to the seat for balance, her protective hold on the latch gone. Her terrified gaze lifted to the window, and she gasped in horror again to see the gleaming red eyes, directly outside the carriage.

A ferocious snarl rent the air, freezing her already chilled blood. More than one growl answered – when suddenly the carriage ceased with its violent rocking. The unmistakable sounds of hostile combat immediately commenced – clashing, ripping, snarling – seeming to come from both sides of the carriage.

"Dear God, what is happening?! Help us - please help us!"

Christine squeezed her eyes shut, her hold again tight on the hilt of the dagger, as prayers for safety poured from her lips and chaos reigned heavily all around.

The sudden stillness that came with her next trembling breath was just as frightening…

Twice the silence had proved a deceptive foe.

She stared hard at the door, waiting, watching, ready to grab the handle again if need be.

It began slowly to turn and she lunged for it, dropping the dagger to clutch the metal lever with both hands.

"Christine?" The latch jiggled beneath her hold. "It's me, Christine. It's safe. They're gone."

At the sound of Raoul's weary voice, she released the handle with a sob and, as the door swung open, burst out of the carriage into his calming embrace. She could not stem the tears from her ordeal, nor did she bother in the attempt. They rained down her cheeks, dripping over her jaw and against his neck.

"There, there, Lotte. You're alright now."

She would argue with that assessment if she had the presence of mind to do so.

"Was it…" She worked to gulp down a shaky breath and speak over her tears. "Was it thieves?" A vision of red eyes came to mind. "Wolves…?"

"I think you know."

His quiet response made her shut her eyes against such a horrific notion. She could not, would not believe his mad insinuation.

It suddenly came to her knowledge that his cloak was wet in an area not drenched with her tears. Pulling back, she stared at him in concern. A gash had sliced through one side of his cloak, blood seeping from his coat sleeve.

"You're hurt?"

"It's only a graze."

She nodded in faint relief then remembered the driver.

"Findley – I think it must have been him that I heard cry out."

Raoul released her and drew close to inspect the driver.

"Dead, I'm afraid, poor sod. Neck's torn wide open."

Dear God...

Christine gripped the open carriage door, certain her knees might soon give way.

"They came out of nowhere," Raoul said from above, "Sometimes they band together, especially the newly turned, and travel in small groups. I staked one. Come and see…" He jumped down from the driver's seat and walked a short distance. "What the hell…he was right there! They must have taken his corpse with them."

Christine's horrified mind couldn't take it all in; she had no idea what to believe. She had seen no one, no shapes of animals or men – nothing but those terrible red eyes in the mist, eyes that surely belonged to some wild, feral beast of the forest. She had heard the growls, heard the fighting…

"What happened to stop it?" she asked, her voice a slim thread.

"It's the oddest thing. Never seen it happen before. One of their kind turned on them. It must have been a beast of supreme power. They fled at his approach. It was too dark to see well, but I'm certain it was a man, if you can call such vile creatures men…"

Christine exhaled a weary sigh. "I think we should not delay to return to Montmarte and tell the earl about Findley. The poor man. Did he have a family?"

"If he did, I don't know about it."

The horses were naturally jittery, and Raoul moved toward the pair, speaking softly while trying to quiet them. Christine was amazed they had not taken off at a mad run, spooked as Mist had been and with far better reason.

With no manner in which to prevent the body from falling onto the road, Raoul wrapped Findley's head with his cloak, Christine assumed as a consideration to her shattered emotions, and placed the deceased inside the carriage. Raoul then climbed up and untied the reins the driver had had the foresight to secure and drove with Christine sitting tensely beside him on the narrow seat.

"They won't be back," Raoul assured grimly. "They never strike twice in the same night."

Christine had heard and endured enough. She could no longer bear to listen to any more of his dark tales. Nor did she release her tight hold on the dagger.

Thankfully her cousin must have realized her frenzied state of mind, for he said nothing more. The misty glow of moonlight washed the road ahead in a silver stream, but Christine found her attention nervously diverted to the dark trees, seeking any hint of what she had no wish to see again.

All remained calm, no more devilish eyes of ghastly red glowing in the night, no more unseen beasts growling beneath a cover of grey cloud and darkness. The fog had mostly dissipated the further the carriage took them, leaving only wispy tendrils to trace the night.

In the distance, above the trees, loomed what appeared to be two square towers, and with shock she realized whose home they passed.

Christine stared until what she could see of the castle slipped from view, once more setting her sights on the road before them.

Never had she wished so badly to see the glow of golden candlelight in the windows that told her they were nearing Montmarte.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

The Count cel Tradat stormed into the foyer of his chill domicile that centuries ago he had ordered built. Swirling his heavy cloak from around his body he flung it to a high-backed chair of carved black oak. Blood spattered his clothing and in careless disgust, he quickly loosened the cravat from around his neck and tossed it as well as his frock coat to join the cloak.

"Gregor!"

His stride swift and true Erik took the stairs two at a time to his bedchamber. His manservant of forty some odd years hurried down the corridor to greet him as fast as his aging bones would allow.

"Bring me a brandy – then draw me a bath."

"Very good, sir." His servant did not so much as flinch at the grisly sight that Erik made, long accustomed to coming upon such a scene. Gregor hurried off, while Erik stripped himself of the remainder of his clothing, letting it land where it may.

Standing naked in his bedchamber, he took account of his condition. A deep gash along his left upper arm to his elbow would soon heal as if it never existed. Four slashes ran a few inches beneath his collarbone, nowhere near his heart, the fools too new to fight with any true skill.

Normally, having come upon the assault of an unfortunate villager, he would have walked on and left the motley band to their sick amusements, the Count once having sought the same in his age-old abhorrence for mankind. But when he heard her voice cry out in the night and saw her alight from the carriage, trembling as she held a dagger ready in defense, the shine of her frightened tears and pallid face caused a white-hot fury to surge within his veins such as he'd never before known. Many times through the centuries he had executed terrible rage and been violent in his wrath – but never on account of the fate of a mortal.

Four hundred years of wisdom taught him to master skills both humankind and those of his species only dreamed to have. As a royal and one of the eldest, he had greater power than most and certainly over those pathetic new foundlings. He had soon cleared the area of the creatures that sought her death – had counted six – none of them his creation. Gypsies by the look of them. Indeed, he had turned few mortals in his unnatural life, and all three were mistakes. One of them now dead, by his own hand.

Of those foundling creatures that attacked her tonight, none had escaped his harsh judgment of eternal death. The idiot boy had slaughtered one of them, but the Count had absconded with the body when the fool's back was turned. He needed no slayer to obtain the proof of what must remain secret, and thereby stir the entire village to arms.

The wounds incurred to his flesh had been products of his negligence – distracted when he saw one of the fiends draw near the carriage door. She had withstood its strength, preventing the fool's entrance, which was no surprise, given her own aberrant powers.

"Master…" Gregor came into the room. "You are wounded." He set down the tray with the bottle of brandy and a snifter. "I will fetch sustenance."

"Yes, Gregor, do that. But draw water for the bath first. Hot – very hot…"

Even without the necessary evil of ingesting blood, Erik would heal. Better to dispose of the injuries rapidly, the cut to his arm sliced near the bone and making the appendage difficult to move. No stranger to pain, he mechanically wrapped the offended arm with a gold damask cloth that covered a small table, to prevent more blood from dripping onto his Persian carpet, which to his disgust was likely ruined. He then donned his robe while he waited for Gregor's announcement that his bath was prepared, and poured himself a brandy.

As Erik drank, his thoughts went to the recent slayings over the past months, and he scowled.

He had hoped to dwell in this remote region, in this castle he had deserted over a hundred years ago, for at least another two decades, before necessity forced him to move. But the interloper was making his plans difficult, with such slipshod methods, forcing the need to venture into the night with extreme caution. By the ancient laws made to protect their kind from extinction, they were to kill only if necessary and feed in secret, using the power of compulsion for their victims to forget. Some mortals were made into pets by those who formed attachments, keeping them near to dwell in their homes and in their beds. Those who entertained more than a fondness for their pets often turned them at some point, to share a life together in union...

Before his discovery of her true nature, Erik had hoped for such a destiny with the fiery young singer, since he could never live life as a normal man. Yet the very idea of Christine Daaé as his pet, meek and obedient, made him dryly laugh.

She was flame and warmth and spirit, and he still remembered her eyes spitting fire at him as she softly and viciously scolded him at their last meeting – her winsome vibrancy leading him to kiss her as if to possess her. He did not want her cold as death and corpse-like such as he – no, he wanted a living wife, to desire him of her own freewill, and breathe warmth into his dark frozen soul, if it were indeed possible…

Such were his ruminations as he later bathed in water hot enough to scald mortal flesh, and though for scant moments he felt its warmth, his ice cold body would never retain it.

His mind lingered pensively over their conversation and her accusation concerning Lucy as his lover. He snorted in derision at such an appalling thought.

While it was true that upon his return to the castle two years ago he secretly made Lucy's acquaintance inside the maze, singing to her and telling her stories, he'd kept himself well hidden. Just as once, over a decade ago, he had done the same for another small lonely girl in another part of the world. That small, quiet girl in the chapel had called herself Lotte. After several months, upon near discovery, he had ceased with the tri-weekly ritual of song that gave mutual comfort – his need to leave the city he'd made into his home vital.

Lucy had been older, but still little more than a youth when he first approached, a simpleton who thought him one of the dark Fae. Despite growing into a lovely young woman, she yet possessed the mind of a child, and he did not once consider her more than that. Lucy was a gullible innocent he never made into his victim, perhaps because of her naive vulnerability, perhaps because he himself had once been a child preyed upon by those stronger who sought his destruction...

With any child, he drew the line, and that led him to think of the mistake made centuries ago, with the one small girl he turned in an act of pity.

The Count sighed, taking note of the clear water that had altered to a murky red. How fitting for the monster to bathe in both his blood and the spilled blood of his enemies. He lifted the goblet rimmed in gold to his lips, containing sustenance of the same dark red liquid, and drank deeply. Not once did he glance at his deep wounds, but he felt the curative effects immediately.

Once he emptied his glass, Erik stood to his feet in the tub of black marble, upending a basin of clear hot water over his head to wash all traces of the crimson matter from his now unmarked skin. Unmarked, save for the lashes from a whip he'd taken on his back as a boy. Those scars received before he had been plagued with the preternatural curse never left his flesh; nor did the wretchedness of his twisted face disappear, his punishment since birth.

Christine he could not have, Lucy he did not want, and he must forever keep his distance from Montmarte. After tonight, it was clear that Christine was in peril from his kind. If they discovered her to be a slayer, that danger was amplified. Recalling her accusatory words to him, perhaps little Lucy was in danger as well. To protect all of them, himself included, he must locate the rogue vampyre who of late had created a wretched army of newly turned villagers – and put an end to the rebellion.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

XI

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Over the course of the next three days, water poured from the sky and soaked the ground making any potential outdoor excursions a misery to be avoided. For the first time since she arrived at Montmarte, Christine did not mind being held prisoner to the weather. The dark halls and empty chambers might be gloomy, the present company often nonexistent, usually regrettable, but at least the cheerless manor provided safety that the ongoing peril of the outdoors could not offer.

Immediately after the attack, on their return to the manor, she sought out information about the man Findley while Raoul went in search of her uncle to break the news of his lost driver. Only she and Raoul stood at the gravesite in the drizzling rain on the morning of his burial, the poor man having no family, and Christine thought it despicable that the earl made no appearance out of the respect due him, as his driver of over fifteen years.

Raoul had been mistaken. She was not fearless. But neither was she willing to run from what she did not understand.

And certainly he was mistaken in what he believed to be genuine.

Since that dreadful night of terror, Christine carefully played over in her mind, again and again, the memory of all that transpired. She forced herself to recall details and attempt to come up with a satisfactory solution where none was to be found.

She eliminated the possibility of wolves. Those glowing orbs of death had been at a level with the top of the carriage window – so unless such beasts were enormous, standing at least five feet tall, wolves did not fit the pattern. Nor did she know anything of their mannerisms but doubted for all the strength they possessed that they had the ability to violently rock a carriage nearly off its wheels.

Bears perhaps had been their assailants. That made more sense for the rocking and the growling, but did their eyes glow blood red? Then, too, were bears capable of making serpentine hissing sounds? She had never seen such a beast up close, not a living one. La Carlotta Gudicelli had a white bearskin rug in her dressing room at the Opera House, but its eyes were polar blue.

Perhaps their nocturnal foe had been a beast common to these parts of which she had no knowledge? An animal escaped from a circus perhaps?

Christine turned in frustrated distress from the miserable view of the bleak day outside her window. She did not relish spending an unbearably slow revolution of the clock holed up inside her room. Nor did she have any desire to encounter members of her eccentric family. The earl, with his chilling smirk, no doubt with regard to the dreadful future he was secretly planning for her, made her shudder in wary distaste whenever their eyes should meet…Raoul, with his tenacity to corner her and speak of that night in an attempt to force her to admit what she would never say, grated on her every nerve. And then there was Lucy.

Dear Lucy…

Since the night in the maze, she had become more withdrawn, if that were possible. Often her young cousin sat in the window seat, her pale face forlorn, the color of her cheeks having drained away, and whispered to the doll she cradled while staring out the diamond panes at the endless rain. Her exuberant appetite had waned, and a physician had been sent for the previous morning, when Lucy had been unusually difficult to wake, her uncle obviously worried as well. But after a brief examination, the man found nothing inherently wrong, stating a mild case of dyspepsia and, out of the earl's hearing in an aside to her maid, that Lucy was simply being Lucy, which had earned him a conspiratorial nod.

Christine began to pace, restless and upset. She cast yet another glance toward the wardrobe then away again. She could go downstairs to the library and find a novel to try to lose herself in. Or perhaps she should ring for a maid to bring her something to eat, though it was two hours until supper…

Oh bother.

She approached the tall armoire and opened one of its twin doors. Momentarily diverted from her reason for doing so, she caught sight of and took the spangled mask from the high shelf, her thoughts becoming entwined in the night of the festival.

She had not worn a full costume, unable to afford one, but agreed to let Raoul purchase the mask for her from a craftsman's stall in the village. Though her dress had been navy with silver-gray piping, she had chosen the crystal white, and not the deep blue that matched more closely. She'd worn no wings, but upon tying the sparkling mask around her head felt a little more like an angel.

And Erik had called her his Angel…

Just as once, long ago, another man had done, a man she had then erroneously thought her true angel.

She sighed at the bittersweet memory that still brought tears to prick her eyes, and quickly set the mask back in a corner of the dark shelf.

As a lost, lonely child, newly orphaned, she had clung to the radiant hope her unseen Angel had given, and just as suddenly had ripped away, thrusting her back into the echoing void of darkness.

Disgusted that he still had such an intrinsic hold over her emotions, she callously swiped a beginning tear away with her fingertips.

Why, why now was she thinking of him! Of either of them?

The Count cel Tradat did not wish to be near her, and neither, apparently, had her Angel of Music.

When she finally divulged her closely guarded secret to Meg one empty night in a moment of quiet despair, at first her friend had been incredulous, then suspicious – certain that one of the cast or crew had been toying with Christine. Or perhaps, more frightening, someone with an unbalanced mind had stalked her steps, with the intent of luring her into danger.

Christine had nodded in silent agreement, as expected, not wishing to be put in a position of defending what she failed to understand. But at no time over the ten years following did she believe such harsh assessments to be true.

She simply lacked the pure voice the Angel required and the skilled companionship the Count sought after. The Angel demanded perfection; the Count reviled innocence. She had been unable to please either man with her awkward naiveté.

Christine let out a disgusted hiss of breath. This would never do. She simply must cease with festering in self-pity. Her life had been enriched before she'd arrived and met the taciturn castle dweller of Berwickshire, and certainly would attain satisfaction again. Once she escaped this dark corner of the continent and found her way back to the glamorous lights of Paris, once she resumed her place on stage in the career for which she had been trained, all would again be well.

She knelt to collect the wooden box from its dark niche beneath her dresses. Taking it back to the bed, she stared at the scratched and dusty lid a long time before pulling away the top. She could not bring herself to collect the one item sure to give her equal amounts of joy and pain, so picked up the oldest journal instead.

The cover of the dark brown leather was unmarked, cracked and peeling, the pages held together by thin pieces of frayed cording knotted at the left edge. Just handling it she worried that it might crumble into powder.

She slipped up onto the bed, rearranging her skirts about her legs and making herself comfortable for a lengthy read. Setting the book down on the coverlet before her, she carefully opened to the first page.

The calligraphy was faded, the looped words somewhat difficult to decipher. She gasped a little to see the date, and note that the journal was over a hundred years old.

The fifth day of October, in the year of our Lord, seventeen hundred and thirty one -

The accounts within these pages I, Heinrik Van Helsing, swear to be the unabridged truth thusly experienced within the scope of my amateur accomplishments. The horror of the reality of what shall be revealed should not be shared or undermined, and as such cannot be expressed to those beyond the select few, namely, those chosen of the Van Helsing bloodline, as determined throughout each generation.

I am informed that the terrors that inflict our family began two score and ten years ago, on the evening that my grandfather, Gabriel Van Helsing, entertained for dinner an associate from the land of Transylvania, the latter being a well-respected man with an abysmal story to tell…

Christine read on, intrigued to learn the mystery despite her misgivings. Her eyebrows lifted higher the further she read, and she couldn't help the groan of a chuckle that escaped her throat.

Despite his noteworthy introduction, Heinrik had little talent with entertainment of the written word. Instead of delving right into the mystery of the Transylvanian guest, he wandered back to his current life, every few paragraphs straying to emphasize his inadequacies, roaming hither and thither between one day and the next then back again. After three entire pages of detailing every establishment he had visited and why, none of those activities detrimental to the stated subject of the journal, along with his pedantic shortfalls as one of the so-called chosen, Christine closed the book.

If Raoul thought to gain her sympathies through this drivel, he was sadly mistaken. Still, something within these journals had convinced him to abstain from sound reason and embrace the incredible.

She leaned the back of her skull against the headboard. She needed liquid refreshment. A glass of spirits to dull her senses might be more beneficial for the seemingly endless dark cloud she felt caught under, but she settled for ringing the maid for a soothing cup of hot tea instead.

A short time later Daisy entered with a tray bearing a teapot, cup, and a platter of iced biscuits. Christine thanked her, but as the maid set Christine's small repast upon the end table, the china clattered, the maid's movements fraught with tension.

"Daisy…?" Christine looked curiously at the normally bubbling young woman who had been morosely silent the entire time. "Is anything the matter?" She clutched the bedpost in alarm. "It isn't Lucy?"

"No, Miss. Lucy's the same as always." Daisy glanced at Christine, then away again.

"The Vicomte then?"

"No, Miss, though he asked your whereabouts this morn and last night, when you didn't show to supper."

The feigned headache had been her excuse, and thankfully her great uncle had not demanded her appearance at the table.

"I don't think I feel able to attend tonight either. Please, make my excuses."

"As you wish, Miss. The Vicomte did ask that I pass a message along to you - he said it is quite urgent that he speak with you soon."

Christine nodded in resignation. She supposed that she could not evade Raoul's tiresome persuasions forever. Perhaps he would be satisfied when she told him that she'd begun reading the journals.

The girl continued to look troubled as she gathered the breakfast dishes, now and then darting an anxious glance Christine's way.

"Daisy." Christine stopped the girl's exit with a hand to her arm. "What is troubling you? Tell me, has something happened?"

Indecision was written plainly on her round face. "I shouldn't say…" she fidgeted, "though hang it all – 'tisn't right such things be kept from you. You should know, Miss. You've been kind, and it's just not right what's been done to you…" A flicker of apprehension clouded her eyes. "Though if he finds I misspoke, it'll be the end of my time here, and like as not my mum's too…"

"Please, if it concerns me, tell me what you know. I won't betray you, Daisy."

"Well, Miss," she said glancing behind her as if she expected someone to barge through the door, "James, he's the footman, was telling us servants that he was with his lordship early this morning while his lordship was writing a letter. He seemed quite pleased as he went about it, congratulating himself on a task well done. He mentioned your name and that soon his worries would be over and you wouldn't be his problem any longer. Sorry, Miss." The girl seemed genuinely remorseful. "He gave James the letter to be delivered – it was addressed to Lord Lomax."

The very name sent a shudder up Christine's spine.

"The Vicomte, is here now?"

"Yes, Miss. Last I saw he was speaking with his lordship."

"Thank you, Daisy." Christine walked to the door.

"But, Miss - your tea."

"It'll keep." But the need to speak with Raoul would not, and if his lordship was there, well, Christine had a few choice things to say to him as well, not that it would do her any good. Not that anything she could say or accomplish here would do her any good…

On her descent down the stairs, she ran across the parlor maid, Florence.

"Oh, Mademoiselle Daaé, the Vicomte is quite urgent with his wish to see you. He's in the front parlor."

That would be his third attempt today. She thanked the maid and went to join him.

Raoul turned from the window as she entered the room. Lines of worry creased his brow, his usually bright eyes clouded with the same emotion. He slipped a hand into the pocket of his green velvet frock coat, tucking away the paper he'd held.

"Thank God, there you are. I trust you're feeling better?"

The question, though polite, was distant, spoken by rote and lacking earnest concern. His mind clearly lay elsewhere.

She curbed her desperation to share with him what she'd just heard and laid a gentle hand on his sleeve.

"Raoul, what's wrong? Something is obviously troubling you."

"Christine, I'm sorry, but I must go."

"Go?"

"Yes. Today. I must leave for Bordeaux. I received word; My grandmother lies on her deathbed and is asking for me." He shook his head. "The old biddy outlived two husbands, three sons and one daughter." He spoke the words softly, not out of disrespect but as an endearment. "She was as tough as the day is long. It's difficult to believe this day has actually arrived."

Christine swallowed hard, the urge to beg him to take her with him strong, however inappropriate. The family certainly didn't need a stranger underfoot during their time of mourning. After his refusal to accompany her to Paris, she did not truly believe Raoul would allow it should she have the effrontery to ask.

"I'm sorry, Raoul."

The soft words were sympathetic in their sincerity, but held a deeper meaning he did not yet fully understand.

He lifted his palms to cup her face. "Christine, my dear, I detest the idea of leaving you here to deal with matters alone, but I have no choice. I cannot say much, not at this time…" He pressed his lips together and blew forcefully through his nose as if something just occurred to him, "and with the present situation, I'm afraid those plans might have to wait. But you mustn't worry, Lotte. I have spoken with Uncle, and he has agreed not to pressure you into an unwanted marriage at this time."

His words held a trace of doubt that did nothing to assure her.

"You spoke with him today?"

"No, it was on the night of the ball. Why, have you heard something?"

She looked into his troubled eyes, the golden-brown lashes damp, and noted the weary set of his shoulders. She could not in all good conscience increase his burden. It no longer mattered anyhow.

She had decided.

"No, Raoul. Do not concern yourself over me. I will be fine." She kept her tone well-modulated, surprised her voice didn't tremble. "Go – take care of your family. Take care of yourself as well."

He looked at her intently a moment, clearly hesitant to leave her, then pressed his lips to her forehead.

"I will return as soon as I am able, Christine. I swear it."

She nodded with a faint smile. "Goodbye, Raoul."

He strode swiftly for the back entrance that was situated near the stable, and sadly she wondered if she would ever see him again.

With heavy steps, she ascended the stairs to her room and turned the key in the door.

She folded the napkin with the iced biscuits into a manageable bundle. Tying a large, pocket-like pouch above her petticoats and beneath her gown, she slipped the napkin inside it. She included her hairbrush and her lace-edged, monogrammed handkerchief that Meg had given her for her birthday.

The jewel-inlaid dagger she had never returned would be sorely needed, and she fashioned a belt for it from her woolen scarf, lacing it through the loop at the top of the sheath and tying it around her waist.

There was little left to do but wait until the household retired to their rooms for the night. With more than three hours of her vigil left to go, she would drive herself mad with all the reasons that she should not undertake this reckless venture. There were predators in the forest that could attack in a blind instant. The journey was long and treacherous and beset with the unknown. Yet it was the predator that lay in wait, set on destroying her future through a mockery of a marriage, that she feared the most.

Hoping to force her protesting mind into a lull, she reclaimed her ancestor's journal and settled down in a chair to read, bringing her cup of tea with her.

After several more pages of meandering back and forth also calling himself inadequate, at last his entries changed as he spoke of sightings and encounters. He never called those he wrestled with by the name Raoul used, instead referring to them as "abysmal demons of the darkness." Not to be taken in its literal context, surely. Enemies of Heinrik Van Helsing, yes, but only evil, predatory men with the skill of warriors. The mysterious dinner tale one of murder and betrayal, certainly, but nothing to do with the preternatural.

She read on, her opinion unchanging, until she heard the grandfather clock on the lower landing chime the tenth hour.

Her heart drummed against her ribs and she closed the cover. She went to replace the ancient book in the box, moving to close the lid, then hesitated.

The pull was too strong.

She slipped her hand inside to retrieve her mother's journal, glancing at the leather cover only briefly before slipping it into the pouch beneath her gown. It was all she had of her mother, and she could not leave it behind. Deciding to finish what little remained of the first journal, she reclaimed it as well but left the journal of Raoul's mother untouched.

Once she stowed the box away, she took her cloak from the wardrobe. The one item remaining, it was all she could manage, and she pulled it around her shoulders.

Without a backward glance, she slipped through the darkened manor and out into the night.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

By the light of the lantern, she saddled Mist, first offering him a lump of sugar she had snatched from the tea tray on her way out of the bedroom. She had carefully watched Raoul each time he saddled his horse, and relied on that now, choosing a man's saddle and not the sidesaddle to throw up over the horse's back. Knowing that no helpful platform would always be there to aid her in mounting, once she resisted him always tossing her up into the higher saddle by insisting she wanted to learn on her own, Christine felt riding astride was her only option.

She had planned for this night and memorized every detail, though managing on her own took longer than expected. With each squeak of leather, each buckle of a strap and jangle of harness, she glanced toward the entrance, fearful of being caught.

She supposed this made her a horse thief, but she had every intention of finding a way to return the horse once she arrived to Paris.

With her hand grasping the cinch near the horse's mouth, she led Mist from the stable. He followed her lead like a docile lamb, with only a soft whicker and snort of breath. Christine hesitated, recalling her fall from this animal. She had not ridden since that day.

"Now Mist, you will be good, yes? It's just us now, but there's nothing to fear out there."

A lie most assuredly, and she hoped the belying tremor of her nervousness would not carry through to the horse. She patted his neck and took in a calming breath.

She had watched Raoul mount each time they'd gone riding, and with her strong, dancer's legs felt she could manage this too. Tucking her skirts up, she set her foot in the stirrup and grabbed the saddle, propelling herself upward and swinging her leg around to the other side. Her mount was awkward and inelegant, but she landed with a rustled thud firmly on the saddle, and she breathed a relieved sigh at her success.

Taking the reins firmly in both hands, she stowed old childhood fears of the darkness into the nethermost region of her mind, and gently tapped her heels against Mist's flanks. To her relief, the gelding obeyed and walked toward the forest road, the only road that led to the village. From there, she would take the road that her stagecoach had taken on the day of her arrival, and leave this godforsaken corner of the world forever behind.

After the attack on this same road the previous week, her escape into the night was most assuredly reckless, but she would be more foolish to remain at Montmarte as a trapped pawn in the earl's contemptible schemes. With Raoul gone, she no longer had an ally to help her and didn't dare linger there another hour.

The perpetual shadows of day had deepened into the blackest shadows of night blending in with lighter shadows - all of them dark - the pale moon weakly providing what beacon it could as a guide. The torrential rains had at last ceased, the road slick with mud. Christine refrained from setting off at a gallop, her pulse madly thrumming the order to flee while she still could, but her inexperience in the saddle and the wretched condition of the road kept her at a sedate pace.

If the need presented itself, she could try to outrun any beast that might attack, and if that didn't work, she had the silver-bladed weapon that hung from her waist.

The forest of trees loomed thick and deep, dark and ghoulish on either side. She told herself that their imagined breaths and eerie groans was only the faint wind that stirred the branches. Nonetheless, she shifted the reins to one hand, placing the other on the hilt of her dagger.

This far into the thicket, she was almost blind with the darkness, barely able to see the road ahead, but Mist plodded on what to him must be a familiar path, and she felt grateful for the horse's insight.

After long minutes of traveling, she heard what sounded like a faint cry for help.

Christine pulled sharply on the reins, her fist tightly clutching the leather straps as a wave of stark fear caused her heart to thunder. Again the cry came, from somewhere ahead she thought, and nervously clenching the hilt she prodded Mist to proceed.

Her eyes had somewhat adjusted to the prevalent darkness, and soon she spotted a dark mass on the side of the road. As she drew close, fist tight around the dagger, she made out the mass to be a horse lying on its side. And with his legs trapped underneath, was a man.

Christine dismounted and hurried to the poor wretch's side, crouching down beside him. He clutched a large silver cross against his black shirt front. From the white collar at his throat she presumed him to be a man of the cloth. She could not see his face clearly, but the whites of his eyes shone in fear.

"Please, please," he whispered. "Find help! Before they come back…"

Struggling to push away the terror his words produced, she assured him she would. It took her a few attempts to mount properly, but soon she was again firmly in the saddle. She could not go back to Montmarte, no. Never back there...

But the castle could not be far.

She kept her attention focused in the direction from which she had seen it while traveling by coach. A light mist began to fall and she pulled her hood over her head. At last, the ghostly turrets rose between the lofty trees, and she exhaled a thankful breath.

Soon she found the narrow length of road and approached the great monolith of Castle Dragan. Her eyes widened at the impressive sight. The pale stone stretched high and wide, the watery light of the moon casting the tall walls in a dim glow. Amid two square turrets, whose scalloped parapets she had seen at a distance, were three round towers of varying heights. Through several of the many tall, rectangular windows she saw a welcome orange glow, relieved the servants must still be about not to have doused the flames.

There was no moat, no drawbridge as she had read such castles contained, and no portcullis shielded her way to the set of towering doors either. Swallowing her apprehension, she dismounted, her feet landing with a splash. No stairs led upward to the main entrance, and she kept firm hold of the horse's cinch, unwilling to risk losing her only transport home.

After a slight hesitation, she raised her hand to the wolf's head knocker, giving the iron ring several heavy raps that reverberated through her arm.

And she waited...

The door abruptly swung inward, the force of which made Christine take a shocked step back, but no servant stood there to greet her.

The sight of the man who loomed before her, eyes golden and glaring from behind his black mask, left her at a loss for words. His wide shoulders blocked the light from within.

"What the devil do you want?"

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

XII

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With barely concealed anger and frustration, the Count stared down at his uninvited guest.

Christine stared up at him with eyes, wide and uncertain, clearly startled to see him standing there.

Had she not been the one to knock on his door?

For endless days, as recently as mere minutes ago, the image of her face, of her voice had tormented his thoughts and set him at an irate pace from wall to confined wall. He had remained within his castle, working on endless diversions to purge all memory of her from his mind, just as he'd told her to do with him. And now, here she stood on his doorstep in the dark of night, looking so damnably innocent and beguiling and terrified.

Why the devil was she here?

She opened her mouth to speak, when the horse behind her gave a sudden loud, anxious whinny and wild toss of its head, trying to wrest itself from her hold.

Erik glanced toward the beast, unsurprised by the horse's reaction.

"Mist – calm down." Christine struggled to retain her hold on the bridle. "What's wrong with you? Oh, please, calm down."

If anything, the horse grew more agitated, wrenching its head harder in its desperation to free itself. And though the young woman valiantly struggled to calm the beast, using every bit of strength her small gloved hands and slender arms would give, her efforts were futile, as was her hold. The horse broke away with another crazed whinny and shot for the trees as if a predator were nipping at its heels.

"My horse!" Christine exclaimed, turning her eyes from the fleeing beast and back to Erik. "Oh, what am I to do now?"

"Tell me – why are you here? Again, in the dark of night. Again, wandering alone." He drew a step closer, knowing full well his intimidating effect as her eyes widened even larger. "Have you a death wish, mademoiselle?"

She blinked up at him but held her ground. He noticed the quiver of her lip and the tears that glossed her eyes. The manner in which she tightly clenched her hands together in her skirts bespoke her agitation.

"I need your help," she said quietly, her words forceful.

She spoke so bravely, though her fear was palpable, and he felt an odd twinge high beneath his ribcage. He could not leave her standing there on his doorstep, looking so lost and alone - that much was apparent. Despite knowing he should not receive her presence, he opened the door wide enough for her to enter his domain.

"Come."

With no other sane choice, Christine entered through the doorway, watching as he closed the huge iron-studded door and dropped a heavy wooden bar into place. A little thrill of – fear? excitement? nervousness?- surged through her at the sight and sound. He swept past without a glance in her direction, and she followed, noting with surprise that they walked through an enclosed courtyard. Shorter buildings stood on either side of the pale stone edifice to which he led her, a monolith that towered before them. Two large stands with shallow bowls of fire shed dim golden light over the area and edged the foot of the three wide stairs.

He led her up them and through an equally wide set of doors – into a dimly-lit entry hall. Here, hooks were mounted to the rock walls, and suspended from two of them hung his cloak and his hat. A suit of armor such as a knight would wear stood in a far corner and ahead was another corridor leading into another chamber. There, she caught a glimpse of a stairway. Instead of walking toward it, they turned into a nearby corridor and walked on a short distance into a massive chamber that she thought must be the castle's equivalent to a manor parlor.

The furniture here was sparse and heavy, elaborately carved, the predominant colors of the room dark, chiefly black with splashes of startling crimson. A hearth stood in the middle of one wall, so high, she could step over the iron grille and walk inside it without the need to bend over. Exquisitely carved, the mantelpiece was rimmed with grey plaster and rock, the hue of the floor repeated in the irregular flagstones. Two rugs of plush fur lay spread in relief before the hearth and further into the room. Besides twin candelabras, black and twisted, with tall candles that flickered on two narrow tables at opposite ends of the high walls, the roaring flames from the open fireplace were the sole light in the room.

The spacious chamber was both captivating and intimidating, like its master.

He motioned to the solitary chair that stood close to the fire, as if its owner sought warmth. Christine slipped onto the high wide seat that resembled a throne. Nervously, she clasped the carved arms of ebony wood, her fingers wrapping around their graceful scrolls, hoping to disguise the tremble in her limbs. She shook as much from the damp and the cold as from her distress.

He stepped away, to one of the tables, and she heard the sound of liquid sloshing into a glass.

Her eyes lifted above the hearth, to the overmantel and a tapestry of red and gold that hung on the wall. Flanking each side were embroidered swords, crossed at the blades, much like the actual ones that hung on the wall on each side of the cloth. Her attention was captured by the coat of arms in the center – what she could see of it appearing to be a three-headed dragon amid twining roses that curled along scrolled edges…

Suddenly a proffered glass came into her line of vision. She accepted the drink, taking a small sip of the golden liquid that held a sharper bite than the brandy she had taken on the rare occasion. The burn aggravated her throat, even biting through to her nose, her eyes watering. She pressed her fingers to her neck, futilely to trap the unavoidable short coughing spell. But the acrid tonic flowed through her blood and warmed her to her toes.

"Thank you," she whispered.

The Count moved around the side of her chair to stand in front of her. He held no glass and crossed his arms over his broad chest in demand. It was then she became strongly aware that he wore no frock coat or waistcoat, his shirtsleeves voluminous and tucked into dark narrow trousers. His raven hair was mussed, as if he'd run a tense hand through the fine strands more than once, and from beyond the sockets of his leather mask the fire that raged beside them was repeated in his eyes. Eyes that burned in demand.

He quite literally took her breath in a mix of awed fear and utter captivation.

"Now tell me, Miss Daaé, why are you here."

Reminded of her mission, she regarded him with urgent eyes.

"There is a man out there – in the forest - hurt and lying on the side of the road. His horse appears to have fallen on top of him."

When he made no move in alarm, not even the flicker of an eyelash in empathy or a wince of remorse, she stared at him in confusion.

"Did you not hear me? There's a man-"

"I heard." His voice was velvet wrapped around a blade. "And what is that to me?"

What is that to me?

"He needs your help!" she said incredulously and felt the need to elaborate the urgency. "He is badly injured, lying helpless. He may well die -"

"With such injuries he is likely dead as we speak. And if he has managed somehow to escape the ferryman, doubtless Charon will find him soon."

She blinked in stunned disbelief at his callous disregard.

"You cannot possibly know that he is dead or that he will soon die! We must help him, to see that does not happen. At least we must try!"

"Must we?" His soft words held a note of derision. "By allowing fate to take its inevitable course, you may well be doing the feckless traveler a favor to let him expire in peace, rather than to live out his days in a pall of misery, as he surely would if his injuries are as grave as you consider."

Christine could not believe what she was hearing.

"What kind of monster are you?" The quiet words escaped her lips before she was fully aware of their existence, but by the narrowing of his eyes he had heard quite well.

"I am a realist."

"No, monsieur. What you are is cruel."

She set the glass on the stones and pushed herself from the chair, with the intent to walk past him and back to the entrance. He grabbed her by the crook of her arm, swinging her around to stop her, his hold firm above her elbow.

"Where the devil do you think you're going now?" he hissed.

"To find someone who's willing to lend aid since you obviously cannot be bothered." She lifted her chin in a weak attempt to stare him down, since he stood nearly head and shoulders above her. "Let go of me."

"And will you so foolishly walk along that stretch of dark road, as you no longer have a horse?" he clipped out, his jaw clenched. "I surmise it will take you at least three hours to reach the village, if you are not eaten by wolves first."

His dark caution brought back the night of the attack and pricked holes in her inflated bravado. She regarded him almost meekly, though the fire to persist never wavered.

"I don't suppose you have a horse you can loan me?"

"I do not."

She frowned. "You own a castle but don't own a horse?"

"My stallion is a wild and temperamental beast. Under your inexpert handling you would again be thrown from the saddle before you could exit the courtyard."

She gave a little wrench of her arm. He tightened his hold to prevent her escape.

"I cannot just stand here and do nothing!" she insisted. "There's a poor soul out there – in misery and in need! I promised to help, and I'll not break my word."

"You have yet to tell me the true reason that you are here, Christine Daaé!"

To hear her name again released from his lips, almost a desperate moan, struck her immobile at first, but not long enough to faze her intractability on what she considered a crucial matter.

"I told you. What is imperative is to find that poor man help. How will I live with myself if something happens and I was able to prevent it?"

Her mother and father had been snatched away from her by a freak accident – taken from her too young. Had there been someone nearby to hear their cries or lend them aid? Surely not, for if there had been, she would have been told upon hearing their tale, and her parents might be alive today. She could not turn her back and ignore the horrid plight of another desperate soul. She could not…

"Let me go," she insisted more forcefully and took a step in retreat, again trying to pull away.

He grated his teeth and dragged her back to the chair, swinging her around and almost throwing her to sit on its thin cushion. She made again as if to rise, but he blocked her. He was lean of form but tall, with a strength she dare not cross. She pressed her shoulder blades to the chair's high back in nervous frustration and glared up at him.

"You will remain seated."

"Am I to be your prisoner then?" she asked half in bitterness, half in earnest. By the look blazing from his golden eyes, he would chain her in his dungeon or lock her away in one of his high towers.

"You might have had the temerity to venture into the void of darkness and then find your way to my castle, but while under my watch, you will not so recklessly make the endeavor to leave its gates."

Under his watch?

"After the attack made on you three short nights ago, I am frankly surprised by your rash behavior," he went on. "You may return to Montmarte, when it is again safe to travel."

Montmarte! In the shock of the evening, she'd almost forgotten her true reason to be absent, but had no wish to speak of such things now, and concentrated on the subject at hand. Something niggled at her mind.

"How did you know of the attack on me?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, seeming to take care with choosing his response. "Word spreads quickly in a village of such small stature, and the nights have not been kind to Berwickshire."

She gave a little shiver of what that implied. "Which makes it more imperative that we help him," she insisted. "He was quite frightened and mentioned a dread of more than one coming back. That's what he said – that they might return. Perhaps he was also attacked by wild beasts?"

She studied the Count's formidable stance as he pivoted to stare into the fire. The tautness of his shoulders, and the manner in which he clenched one hand that hung near his thigh showcased his irritation.

"Please, my lord," she said softly, her voice barely heard above the crackle of flames. "Do not refuse my request. Do this…for me."

Christine wasn't sure why she added the last words. She evidently didn't matter to him in the slightest, for him to cease all contact with her, but she had to try to spark at least a glimmer of the compassion of which she knew him capable.

He continued to stare into the fire a short eternity before turning his head to look at her.

"You will remain here while I am absent. Is that understood?

Her heart gave a little lurch of relief that he finally agreed. She didn't even mind his obdurate authority so much, or the dark manner in which he delivered the words.

"Yes," she said without hesitation, having no true desire to slip into the night a second time. Without a horse at her disposal any current escape proved impossible. She certainly was not so foolish as to walk to the village.

The Count left without another word, and Christine turned her attention to the fire, soaking up its warmth. She began to feel drowsy, now that she'd grown still.

His offer to remain had been one step shy of gracious…

But in this castle, with him, despite his confusing distance and unpredictable shifts of mood, she felt a measure of safety that reassured, even as it made no sense.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

The moon lay hidden behind dense clouds, but the darkness of night presented no difficulty, his sharpened senses catching the odor of blood carried on the chill wind. He felt his fangs swell and prevented their emergence, an easy task since he had recently fed. Soon he arrived to the site of the fallen. His keen vision noted the faint glimmer of what the wretch held in his hand and the mode of his clothing.

A priest? She had sent him to rescue a bloody priest?

The Count growled his disgust as he dismounted, murmuring a few calming words when Cesar sidestepped and whinnied upon approaching the dead animal in the road. It had taken Erik some time to win the magnificent beast over to accept him as owner; and even still, on occasion the horse shied from the unnatural and the dead, requiring hypnotic persuasion.

He should depart from here with all haste and leave his foe to wallow in the mud and gasp his last fetid breath. He could tell Christine that by the time he reached the priest the fool was gone from this world. She would never know the difference. Yet the image of those haunting eyes, limpid pools of shimmering dark velvet moist with unexplained tears, imploring him to commit an act he once never would have considered, were all that kept him rooted in place.

From her near hysterical behavior, he knew she would take on the full burden of guilt for the loss of this mortal's life, no matter what tale the Count devised. Knew that such unjustified blame could cripple a sensitive soul like hers for a lifetime. Knew this, because he had suffered from his own vile experience of insurmountable guilt.

Why it should matter so strongly how this potential death would affect the woman, Christine, he did not care to speculate deeply. Had no wish to know, fearful he already did...

Erik exhaled another low growl, wishing to bury feeling as much as he wished to bury the wretch at his feet.

The fool lay insensible, and Erik hastened to act while he could still do so unnoticed. Effortlessly he lifted one edge of the dead horse and shifted it off the mortal's legs and to the side, as only a creature with his unholy power could manage.

He then kicked aside the relic that lay loosely within the priest's grasp. It was not the shape of the cross that could cause him injury, unlike those fool mortals thought, only weakness - but the silver of which it was composed would singe the thin layer of his sallow skin and burn through tendon and muscle. In his haste to leave the castle and be done with the wretched task, he had left his gloves behind.

With a smirk of disgust, he picked up the limp burden, slight in stature but weighty in complication, and slung him over the saddle. Mounting Cesar, he took the twisting path back.

Those dimwitted men aware of his kind foolishly thought his preternatural breed could alter in shape and fly like lightning across the sky. Would that he could and return to the castle more swiftly than at this unsatisfactory gallop. Using his vampiric speed would have meant leaving Cesar behind in the stable, and he could not have done that either. Not with the curious Miss Daaé so near to wonder how he had managed the task with such haste.

Indeed, he had no wish to leave her in his castle any longer than required, nervous of what she might find there if she should decide to wander.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

The fire soothed Christine in a blanket of warmth, to the point that she could barely stay awake, much less remain alert. Not wishing to be found asleep in his parlor when the master returned, she forced herself to stand on legs that still trembled from the challenging night. Stretching her hands high above her head then bringing them behind to clutch her hips and pop the kinks in her back, bending to one side and then the other, a trick she'd learned in ballet, she idly studied the wall across from her.

An arched entryway led out of the room into what she assumed must be another chamber. Tentatively she approached, peeking around the rock.

The area was too dark, but she got the impression of a shape familiar, and curious, she took one of the candelabras from the table across the room, bringing it with her to investigate.

Astonished to see she was right but not overly surprised by the revelation, not after their interlude in the maze and his harsh criticisms of her voice, she looked with interest around the room with its showcase of instruments. Near a small hearth, this one cold and dark, stood the most magnificent grand piano of lacquered black wood upon which stood an unlit multi-branched candlestick, this one gold.

She approached to plink down a key and then another and another, curling her fingers in a simple chord. Even with her amateur piddling she could hear the deep rich tones produced – an instrument of high quality, surely better than anything the opera house possessed.

She moved further into the room, toward a wall where an enormous golden harp rested and gently brushed her fingers along the strings, producing an angelic waterfall of lilting sound. A violin case sat propped on a low shelf, as did a row of other hard leather cases that she presumed contained diverse stringed instruments by their curved shape and long necks. Still other cases, slim and short, large and thick, and rectangular in shape, perhaps contained woodwinds and brass. Along the walls, equipment she assumed also musical from their stretched strings hung mounted, those seeming older, as if from another era or country or both. The castle room was a veritable storage chamber for all things musical, an expectant quality electrifying the air, as if at any moment a full orchestra would file inside and take their places. Never had she seen so many instruments, with such diversity, contained in one room. Even the opera house could not boast this excess of grandeur. Every instrument her eyes beheld by the light of the three candles was expensively crafted, exquisitely unique, and in all likelihood the top of the line.

Montmarte had no piano, no harp, no instrument for after-dinner entertainment. Save for the night of the ball, when the earl hired musicians, the manor had been bereft of music.

Up until this moment, she had not realized how much she missed it, how her soul craved to hear the sweet melodies, how much she missed the vibrancy and the strains of symphonies that had filled each of her days at the opera house. To her, music was as significant as air to breathe. And though these instruments lay quiet with no skilled hands to urge their song, even standing in their presence helped in some small way to fill the void.

Not wishing for the Count to return and catch her there, she reluctantly made her way back to the entrance while holding the candelabra aloft to light the way.

In the next moment a face appeared in the doorway, pale and drawn, and she gave a little yelp of alarm, almost dropping the candles.

"Why are you here?" the man asked, a ring of disapproval in his tone, his greeting not unlike the Count's.

Nervously she eyed the gaunt figure who stood slightly bent, his thinning hair gray and brushing stooped shoulders. He was taller, but even if he stood erect, she did not think he would attain the height of the Count. By the mode of his dark clothing, simple and formal, she assumed he must be a servant.

"I – the Count told me to remain until he returns," she said quickly. "He- he's out. Running an errand."

The dour servant said nothing, only stared, his dark eyes empty and hard as glass as they took in the candelabrum she held, then moved in narrowed regard back to her face.

It had not been her intent to intrude, but never had she been able to quell her curiosity. As a child, it led her into an abandoned chapel, against the rules, to seek out an Angel. As a woman, it compelled her to peek into corners of this empty fortress, without permission, in search of what she could learn of the mysterious Count.

"Pardon," she all but whispered, thankful the entryway was wide enough that she could slip by the man.

She retraced her steps to the table, to replace the candelabrum, hesitating a moment before turning around. The stooped servant continued to stare at her with grave suspicion.

"Gregor!"

The Count's voice came in abrupt command from an outer chamber.

"I need you - at once!"

The servant broke his withering stare to hurry as he was able out the door through which the Count first took Christine. She let out a breath but gave no thought to remain, scurrying to follow while keeping a short distance behind.

In the chamber that acted as the foyer, Christine spotted the Count walk past and toward the chamber with the stairs, holding the priest slung over his shoulder.

"Take care of my horse," he told his servant, who, with a slight bow, left for the courtyard.

Christine ducked near the shadowed wall, to avoid the servant's gaze as he passed where she stood, then quickened her steps once she heard the door close. She caught up to the Count as he began to mount a wide staircase. The inert form dangling from his shoulder let out an anguished cry.

"They're coming," he rasped in terror. "God have mercy, they're here!"

"Silence," the Count darkly muttered.

Christine stepped forward, making her presence known. "He's alive then?"

He afforded her no more than an impatient glance.

"Return to the parlor. Wait for me there."

"But…" She ignored his directive, taking a step forward. "Should you not fetch a physician?"

"It is highly unlikely that he will live through the night."

"Should you not at least make the attempt?"

"Miss Daaé – the one physician that the village boasts of is old and decrepit and likely would not last the journey here in a fast-moving carriage."

"But -"

He resumed his steady walk up the stairs. "I will tend to him."

"I can help."

"It is not necessary."

"Oh - but really, I insist."

She paused at the foot of the stairs, again looking up at the limp figure of the man that hung over one shoulder of the Count's broad back. "I don't have extensive experience, but I can mop a brow and offer a drink of water."

"Saints preserve us," the priest mumbled. "They will kill us all."

Christine frowned with worry. "In my line of work I've seen bad injuries, even experienced a few of my own," she added when the Count only growled something indistinguishable - to the priest or to her, she wasn't sure. She felt beholden to this poor man of the cloth, even responsible, having sworn to him she would do all she could to help.

"Wait here for Gregor," the Count snapped before she could expound with her negligible abilities. "Tell him to bring hot water, a bottle of whisky, a clean white sheet, and my case of remedies. Have you got that?"

With little choice but to fulfill his wishes, reminding herself this was not her home, but his, Christine nodded and waited while the Count took the injured priest up and to the right where another set of stairs led to a second landing. A third set of stairs paralleled the steps the count took, rising to the left.

The layout was oddly similar to the ballroom stairs at the opera house, replete with golden statuary on each side of the first staircase - these not of bare-breasted women but barely clad all the same and also Greco-Roman in design. She watched his ascent carefully, craning her neck as the staircase made a turn and he disappeared into one of the many chambers.

What seemed an interminable amount of time later, the servant Gregor returned. Christine hastily passed along the Count's orders. The servant neither nodded nor spoke, but gave her another look of grim disapproval before shuffling off to see to his master's wishes.

Christine wasted no time in taking the staircase to the second landing where she had seen the Count go, a silent petition for the poor wounded man whispering through her mind with each hurried step. She didn't know why it should be so important for her to see that he was well cared for, but she felt it her duty. Perhaps because she was the one to find him. She arrived at the chamber and pushed open the door that stood slightly ajar. The Count bent low toward the man lying on his back on the bed. Hearing Christine's step, the Count quickly straightened and looked at her in question.

"Is he alright?" she asked.

The Count regarded her gravely. "His legs are not crushed as I first supposed, but his ankle is broken and he has a bad gash on his side."

"Oh, the poor man." She hurried to the other side of the bed.

At the stir this caused, the priest opened his eyes.

"Hello, do you remember me?" she asked, gently taking his hand.

A glimmer of recognition sparkled in his dark eyes. "You were on the road tonight…an angel sent to help me."

She smiled and her eyes briefly turned up to the Count, who studied them with a frown.

"You are in the castle of the Count cel Tradat. He has graciously lent his aid."

The priest turned his focus to the other side of the bed and the surly man in the mask towering over him. His brow grew slightly troubled but he nodded his thanks. After hearing whispers at the ball of why the Count presumably wore a mask, Christine felt she understood his obsession with it, if the rumors were indeed true that he was badly scarred. Though its presence did prove to be quite formidable.

"Can you tell us how you came to be like this?" Christine asked the priest.

"I …" He squinted as if trying to remember. "I was coming back from visiting a parishioner, delivering last rites, when a heavy fog came upon me unaware…"

Christine frowned at her recent memory of a similar situation, the night of the attack.

"I…" the man shook his head, "must have been riding too fast? The horse slipped, found a sinkhole in the road, I suppose, and fell, poor beast."

Christine shook her head in confusion. "You seemed apprehensive of someone out to do you harm – you said they were after you – that they were coming. Upon arriving to the castle, I heard you say much the same thing. That they would kill us all. Who is it that you were you speaking of? Are we in danger?"

He looked at her with the same amount of puzzlement. "My dear girl, I have no idea what you speak of. The only danger to myself was caused by my own negligence."

Christine blinked in confusion. "But you said - "

"Christine."

The sudden sound of her name coming as soft as velvet stunned her into silence. The edge of warning the voice held had her lift her eyes to its impressive owner.

"In all likelihood he hit his head, and what you heard was only vaporous illusions that stemmed from his mind in its unconscious state."

"But he was aware when I first came upon him. He pleaded for my help."

"Clearly he suffered from delusions brought on by the pain."

The patient abruptly shifted his weight and inhaled a swift hissing cry, jostling his swollen ankle and putting pressure on his wound. Further discussion on the subject was ignored as Christine smoothed her hand over the bony one she held, wishing somehow to make him more comfortable.

The Count watched in silence, not moving a muscle.

At last his servant appeared at the door and the Count approached, whispering further orders that Christine did not hear. Gregor nodded once, as the Count then took the requested items and the servant shuffled away.

The master of the castle immediately set to work, tearing the blood-soaked shirt open enough to get at the wound. He stared at the blood still seeping from the man's ribs with grim fascination; Christine felt queasy and needed to look away. She had seen injuries at the theater of course, even the bone protruding through a worker's leg when he miscalculated distance and fell to the stage, but this was the first she'd seen an injury so deep and so close.

While he never took his eyes off his work, cleaning the wound with the water, Christine could only offer intermittent glances. She pressed her fingertips hard to her lips, hoping to forestall the bile that rose to her throat.

"It will only get worse," the Count said, and she felt her hackles rise at the sardonic amusement in his tone. "Perhaps you should wait in the parlor, as I instructed."

She firmed her shoulders at his inference that she was some weak-kneed little ninny and forced her hand back to her side. "I am fine," she said with quiet confidence and repeated, "I wish to assist, however I can."

He offered no more than a lift of his brow, his mask shifting upward, before returning his attention to the deep, ugly gash.

"Do you know how to thread a needle?"

Christine clenched her fingers into a fist in her skirts, forcing herself to remain calm at the implication such a question presented. She felt a little faint with the knowledge of what would come.

"Yes."

He nodded to the small carved box that lay at the foot of the bed. "You will find the necessary items in the chest Gregor brought. Bring me a threaded needle and the bottle of whisky."

With fingers that trembled, Christine managed to get the thread through the eye after countless failures, knotted one end, then handed both whisky and needle to him. He unscrewed the cap and poured the golden liquid over the gash.

A bloodcurdling howl erupted from the bed. "Saints preserve me!" the preacher gasped, a stream of repetitions imploring the saints and God above to save him.

The Count baptized the needle and thread with a thin stream of whisky then handed her the bottle. "Give him this to drink to shut him up."

Christine frowned at his lack of compassion but did as directed. Thankfully, after another scream, their patient fell into a state of unawareness and the needle made its first prick into skin. At first, Christine thought she might faint at the sight of his long, slender fingers glistening with blood, dipping the needle in and out and sewing together the gash. But after a time, horror led to fascination with his skill as he swiftly accomplished the task, his stitches precise and even, as if he'd done this sort of thing before.

She lifted her eyes to the black mask covering the two-thirds she could not see of his expressionless face. Not for the first time she wondered what kind of man it hid. Had he once held aspirations of becoming a surgeon and studied in the field, his exalted station in life perhaps denying him that dream?

As if aware of her heightened curiosity, he spoke, never taking his eyes from his task.

"I have had the need to educate myself to excel in many accomplishments in my lifetime. Hand me the whisky and move the box closer."

She did so and watched as he made a knot of closure then poured whisky over his stitched work.

The priest let out a subdued moan of anguish. Christine wasn't sure in the shadows cast by the lambent light of the candles, but she thought she saw one side of the Count's lips flicker in a churlish smile.

"My lord?"

He ignored her and tore a long cloth into strips, wrapping one around the man's exposed middle. "It is most fortunate that he is again lost to his surroundings. The next part will be just as unpleasant."

She watched as he removed his muddy shoe and short stocking. In three quick moves almost unmerciful, he placed his hands low along the limb and set the bone with a crack. Christine grabbed the bedpost, in danger of sinking to the floor as the priest let out another unholy yell.

The Count moved to the cold hearth and selected two sticks that lay near the ashes. Christine watched in amazement as he supported the weak bone, bracing the ankle with the sticks he then asked her to hold in place and wrapping the rest of the strips around them. Picking up what was left of the cloth, he wiped the night's gruesome work from his hands.

Christine looked at the priest, who lay with eyes closed, his face pale, but still breathing. They had done all they could; now it was up to the Almighty alone.

As the silence grew heavy, she lifted her gaze from the foot of the bed and to those eyes that burned in gold.

"We will resume our discussion downstairs, in the parlor," the Count said, his voice mild but brooking no refusal. He threw down the cloth and swept his hand toward the door. "After you, mademoiselle…"

Her heart suddenly beating like a metronome, Christine meekly nodded and preceded him from the room.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~⊰⊰~~~   

Chapter XIII

~~~⊱⊱~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~⊰⊰~~~   

Once in the parlor, Christine reclaimed her glass and took a reviving sip of the golden libation she now knew must be whisky. She preferred wine or even brandy, but after the first bitter scourge to her throat, this warmed her well enough and eased the stiffness in her bones from the trying night. The Count motioned to the throne-like chair in the room, and she reclaimed that as well.

He poured himself a drink from the same crystal bottle and returned to the fire. She watched as he stared into the flames, casually tilting the glass back and forth with his fingers and thumb, having yet to take a drink. A long moment passed, and she wondered if he had forgotten they shared the chamber.

She cleared her throat softly. "Will he live? Is he out of danger?"

He snorted what could almost be called a chuckle, if it weren't so derisive, and took a drink from his glass. "You have done all you could. Take comfort in that."

She hardly had done a thing – the Count the true saving grace for the wounded priest, but she held her tongue, sensing he had no desire to hear those words. He was the true hero in this, but seemed to want none of the credit.

As if he discerned her thoughts, he looked her way.

"Let us return to our initial greeting upon your arrival. Why are you here?"

"To seek your aid, of course, and I'm grateful to you for giving it."

He shook his head in impatience. "That is not what I meant and well you know it! Why are you gallivanting about like some damned fool in this perilous countryside in the pitch black of night?"

She scowled. "I was not gallivanting, my lord." Harsher words burned, and it was only the knowledge that he was unaware of her situation that kept them from flaming from her tongue. "I have left Montmarte. I shall never return to that awful place."

He narrowed his eyes and took a step toward her. She swallowed hard.

"For what cause did you leave?"

"I had no choice."

"Did the earl harm you?"

His voice came quiet but lethal, and she shook her head.

"No. Unless you count entrapment into unwanted marriage as damaging." Which she did, to her soul, but if he possessed the mindset of most men, he would scorn her idealistic preferences as pure foolish fancy.

He nodded slowly as if at last his question was answered. "So. Your great uncle has found a match for you, and you would rather not have him."

She did not forget that this man had made clear his disinterest to court her, despite his scandalous advances, and she lifted her chin with grim resolve.

"I won't have him. I won't have any man if I don't wish to."

"Your uncle must have taken great delight in hearing that," he said dryly.

She said nothing.

"And so your solution is to flee from his manor in the dead of night, when you know there are wild beasts lurking in the forest?"

Must he keep bringing that up? She stuck her lip out slightly in exasperation at having to constantly explain herself, when her reason should be quite clear.

"I had no choice. I had to wait until the household retired for the evening, didn't I? And ran away before they woke."

He narrowed his eyes at her brusque remark - causing her to feel badly for taking out her frustration on him, when he had been nothing but helpful.

"I'm sorry," she lowered her eyes to her glass and took another small sip.

He studied her a moment before speaking. "Where exactly is your planned destination, Miss Daaé? I assume you have one."

"Paris."

A glimmer of something familiar shone in his eyes but in the next instant his expression was shielded from her curiosity as he turned again to look into the fire, and Christine felt she might have been mistaken.

"Paris," he said softly. "That is where you are from?"

"Yes, I have friends there. And a home, should I wish it." She was certain Madame Giry would give her back her place in the chorus, if it had not already been filled. And if it had, well, she didn't think Madame would send her to live out on the streets as one of the destitute. Surely, there was some task Christine could manage at the theatre.

She tried again to appeal to the kindness in his nature, a glimpse of which she'd seen before. "Now that I seem to have lost my horse, I need transportation. If there is any way that you might see clear to, if not loaning me your horse, helping me return to France?"

"It is impossible."

And with those clipped words, he punctured the fragile sheen of her hope.

"Impossible?"

"I have duties to attend that require my presence here."

"Oh, I wouldn't need an escort. I have traveled alone before – it's how I got here…" At his black glower, her words trailed off and she tried again. "Perhaps if you could take me only as far as the village and loan me money to hire a stagecoach -"

"No."

"I will repay you," she said, a bit desperately. "It's just – I don't have any money with me at this time."

Those golden eyes became formidable. "And it was your plan to travel hundreds of miles across this rugged countryside – how?"

She lifted her chin. "I would have found a way."

He expelled a disgusted breath and shook his head.

"I can give you shelter, this one night, until it is again safe to return to Montmarte. I have instructed Gregor to prepare a room. You will find it two doors down from where the priest resides. But that is all I can do for you Miss Daaé."

She frowned at his implication that she would return to the manor that had brought her nothing but woe, but felt a little thrill of shock at his grudging invitation, though she should not be surprised at his gallantry, reluctant as it came. He had made it patently clear that he would not let her go until the dawn, and nighttime in Berwickshire was anything but tranquil. Regardless, she felt a bit apprehensive to realize he meant for her to stay the entire night at his castle.

The connotations of the gesture were given as a courtesy, but should anyone discover that she slept the night there, what little reputation she was considered to have in this shire as a thespian, of those who knew it, would be entirely ruined…but surely, no more appalling than striking out in the night, an unmarried woman alone, to flee across foreign lands so as to return to familiar turf.

What did she care what these people thought of her, since she would soon never again see any of them? Never again see him…

A strange sadness prickled inside her heart as she regarded the golden eyes that so steadily regarded her and realized he awaited a response.

"Thank you, my lord. I find myself at a dead end, and must accept. If it's alright with you, I would prefer to sit here awhile, by the fire. I still feel a bit of a chill."

He nodded slowly. "As you wish."

A congenial if uncertain silence stretched between them. Christine's attention wandered to the entrance of the adjacent chamber she discovered hours ago.

She realized she risked his anger by her next words, but curiosity wouldn't let them rest.

"Earlier, while you were gone, I, um…" She hesitated when he turned the full power of those eyes of fire and gold her way. "In order to remain awake, I wandered the room and found the chamber with the instruments inside."

He narrowed his gaze until his irises were flickering points of light. She nervously cleared her throat of her lame confession solely fashioned to learn more.

"I, um – do you play any of them?" When seconds whispered past without an answer, she added, "Or do you only collect them? I remember in the maze you told me that you have studied music and its composers, which is why I ask."

"You have a remarkable memory … when it suits you to remember."

The glow of his unexpected compliment faded with his last sardonic words.

"Meaning?"

"How often have I warned you not to wander about the countryside at night?"

She sighed in wearied exasperation of his tiring mantra. "I told you, I had no choice. What is confusing to me is why you pretend to care. You made it explicitly clear that you wanted nothing more to do with me, ordering me away -"

"And yet, here you are, in my home."

Unwelcome tears pricked the back of her eyes at his detached, cold words and his clear displeasure with her presence. A mistake she would not make again.

She rose from the chair and held out her glass for him to take.

"Thank you for your kind invitation, my lord Count, but I will have to decline. I have no desire to stay where I am unwanted."

"Sit down, Christine."

Again, with his soft use of her familiar name, she felt unarmed. Wounded offense had spurred her into action without thought – truthfully, where the devil could she go in this wild stretch of forest without a horse to carry her far and fast? She was trapped here, without either of them wishing it, and could do nothing but wait for the morning to crawl in.

She felt frustrated and angry and hurt and sank back to the chair, gathering the tatters of her battered pride around her like a flimsy shield. Pressing her lips together, she stared hard into the fire.

"I have found that music is the catharsis for a weary soul," he said quietly, shocking her as she acknowledged his response to her earlier question. "I both collect the instruments and play them."

"I wish I could have learned," she said wistfully after a moment, a trifle more at ease now that her accidental host had initiated easy conversation. "Meg and I would sometimes sneak backstage when it was empty and play the upright piano there, or try – as well as two little girls with no training could manage." She shrugged with a despondent little laugh. "Actually we were rather awful."

He studied her intently, as if confronted with a puzzle. She wished to know what he was thinking but didn't ask.

"What music do you like best?" she inquired, wishing to fill the new silence.

"Opera."

"Oh," she breathed softly. Another thing they had in common, though she shouldn't be surprised. He had uncovered her scheme of Gounad's fictional characters for her ghostly dance partners.

"Have you been to many of them?"

"I have attended operas all over the world."

She was quite surprised to hear that – the reclusive Count traveled? And yet, had she not been told that he only arrived at this castle two years ago?

"Is there one opera you prefer over others? Perhaps a composer you favor? "

Beneath the full mask, his lips flickered into a half grin. "You ask many questions."

"I love music. It's nice to share that love with someone. The earl nor Lucy had any real fondness for it, and Raoul regarded music only as an occasional entertainment."

The Count considered a moment, as if deciding whether or not to continue their conversation. Christine had the oddest feeling that he both wanted to stay and wished to go. Another thing they had in common.

"I would assume Faust is your preference?" he asked at last.

She smiled, perhaps her first genuine smile of the evening, of the entire week. She could discuss music for hours.

"I do like it, the Jewel Song especially. But I think my favorite to sing would be La Traviata."

His brow lifted, his mask shifting upward. "Yet another story of a woman fallen from grace?"

She fidgeted slightly, resolving not to take his words as an insult.

"Those operas suit my voice. I also like Mireille. I like that it incorporates folk songs, similar to the songs of my youth, when my parents were both alive." She gave another wistful sigh. "I also enjoy the comedic operettas, though they can be quite bawdy. And you?"

"I tend to prefer the darker nature of a story along with the dramatic."

His admission fit the manner of man he was, and she was pleased he had unbent enough to satisfy her curiosity. Again he seemed to hesitate an extensive time, as if unsure he should speak or act.

"If you are not yet ready to retire for the evening, perhaps you would not mind if I played?"

His words were low and tentative, entirely unexpected, tasty morsels uneasily offered – and Christine grasped them to her with greedy delight. "Oh, yes, please. At Montmarte there was no music and I have missed it so."

"That comes as little surprise. The earl is tone deaf."

"Is he?"

She had lived there over a month and had no clue; the Count had visited briefly with the earl one afternoon, and judging from what her uncle told her, their conversation had nothing to do with music.

He noticed her expression of curious astonishment.

"I overheard others speak of it at the ball." He took a sip of his drink. "Any preference?"

For whatever reason, what came to mind was the first opera her Angel taught her, Médée, though surely the Count wouldn't know it. An opera from almost a century past, the Angel told her it was never again played after its lukewarm reception in Paris.

She shook off the melancholy that always invaded her heart when she thought of him, and chose instead something the Count was sure to know.

"Something from Faust perhaps?"

She wondered if he could also sing, but decided not to abuse his generosity and ask. He inclined his head in an amused little nod, his eyes glowing devilishly with an eagerness to share his craft that, to her knowledge, all artisans possessed.

He turned into the music room and vanished from her sight. With no door to block sound, she would hear him well and remained seated on his throne-like chair...

The first silken notes flowed from the chamber and wrapped around her soul. She inhaled deeply of its essence, feeling the melody soothe away the cares of life and bring her a much coveted serenity. He played with expert grace, but it was not his skill that impressed her so much as his art – as if his soul reached out to her, beckoning her to enter his world...

Helpless to remain seated after several stanzas, she rose and moved slowly toward the chamber, wishing to see him caress the chords so tenderly with his fingers as sound implied.

And then he began to sing the first lines of Faust's cavatina: Salut, demeure chaste et pure, an ode to Marguerite as a pure child of nature.

Christine went entirely still, suddenly forgetting how to breathe.

When he had first spoken to her, at the festival, and each time after that, she had a strange sense of awareness, thinking it only the beauty of his deep tenor reaching through to her soul. Rich and full-bodied, like a most excellent wine, his speaking voice was strong, fluid…present. The voice of her past had been vacuous in whispers. Even when raised in anger, it had remained distant... ghostly... often bouncing in waves all around the walls, coming from objects impossible to comprehend.

But that voice... that voice...

Haunting her from her dreams in song…

Whispering to her in memories never forgotten.

She shook away the impossibility and drew closer still until she stood just inside the chamber. Her back to the lintel, she stared hard at his broad shoulders and dark hair that barely touched their tops, the strands not pulled back in their usual ebony silk ribbon. His long, slender fingers picked out the melody as his beautiful voice quietly continued to extol the virtues of the young Marguerite.

"Angel...?"

~~~⊱⊱~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~⊰⊰~~~

Her soft query came on a pause, causing Erik to go utterly still. After a long moment, he shook off the tremor of shock her innocently-aired word had given, and turned on the bench to regard her.

Her dark eyes were wide and bright and full of incredulity. She stood transfixed.

"Why would you call me by such a name?"

After the harshness he'd shown her, the 'monster' and 'beast' she had justifiably called him, 'Angel' hardly made sense.

She shook her head and blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and appeared quite flustered by his words.

"I'm sorry if I offended you." She gave an embarrassed little shrug of her shoulders and looked down at the glass still in her hand, taking a small sip. "It must be the hour and the whisky and your transcendent music. I wasn't myself for a moment, or rather I was - transported back through time."

Her words made even scanter sense. He motioned to a chair that stood near the cold hearth.

"Perhaps you should take a seat before you fall over."

She walked unsteadily closer and sank to the chair, looking down at her glass she cupped with both hands. He did not persist, sensing she would soon continue. He was not disappointed.

"I suppose an explanation is in order. You see, as a child, I believed rather foolishly in fables, that they were genuine. My Papa was a master at crafting them, and your music – your voice – brought those memories back. Of a time when I was newly orphaned, lost and lonesome, in my new home at the Opera House."

Thunderstruck, he listened to her quiet words that tendered sparks of revelation inside his withered soul. He could barely inhale to breathe.

It could not be...

"I prayed for an Angel of Music to appear, to teach me. The Angel from Papa's stories."

His eyes widened as he took in, as if for the first time, her long, dark curls; her glistening dark eyes and creamy, delicate features – that face once pinched and pale, the hair lackluster and much shorter, those eyes having been a lighter shade of brown, but then, as now, so haunted.

"Lotte," he barely uttered the ghost of the name beneath his breath.

"Did you say something?" she asked. When he didn't respond, she went on, "For a time, I did have someone special teach me to sing. I called him my Angel, though I now know he was but a man. I never saw him – he taught me from beyond the chapel wall. At least, I think that's where he must have hidden." She gave a little embarrassed laugh. "There were corridors behind the walls, you see, found years later by some stagehands. But my Angel went away; I think I must have displeased him. And well, there was never anyone after that willing to take the extensive amount of time with me that he did, in teaching me to sing." She frowned and looked back into her glass. "I have tried to recall all of his instructions, but it was such a long time ago. And I haven't always been successful, as you heard the night of the ball. Your voice reminded me of his. He sang with the voice of an angel... as do you."

He should have guessed earlier, when she first mentioned Paris as home and Meg as a friend - indeed, had felt a glimmer of recognition he just as swiftly brushed aside. The same glimmer he'd experienced weeks ago, when he first heard her sing at the ball - how did he not realize? Admittedly, he'd stood outside, hidden away, her voice distant and matured from the sweet child's voice he'd known. Still retaining its crystalline beauty, but not yet trained to its full potential…and in the fog, her song had been whisper-soft and wavering with fear. Much as the frightened child with whom he'd first been acquainted.

By the blood of his ancestors – how could he have not known!

She thought him displeased.

She could not have been further from the truth.

"My lord Count...?" Concern laced her voice. "Are you not feeling well?"

"Never call me by that name again."

His words came sharp, the timbre of them soft.

She winced as if slapped. "I did apologize. I never meant to call you Angel. It's simply where my mind was at the time -"

"I told you once, for you, my name is Erik."

Her surprise was evident by the manner in which her lips softly parted. Small wonder after his chill aloofness toward her these last weeks. If anything, he should continue to create distance between them, not invite familiarity. But no longer could he bear the meek way she said his title – as if he was exalted above her, when in truth, he was unworthy to kiss the hem of her garment.

She was pure of heart, like Marguerite…and he was Faust and Mephistopheles combined, the condemned and the wicked – though he would never wish to stain her innocent soul with his darkness, or wound her trusting nature.

Lotte…

Christine.

He shook his head and looked away, still struggling with the shock and the disbelief, that after all these years, after all this time, of all those to come to Berwickshire and to his castle, where none ever visited - she should be here now.

What wretched game did the Fates now play with his life?

"My lord?" she inquired in a gentle voice the moment before he felt her fingertips faintly touch his shoulder. He snapped his head up and sideways to look at her. She inhaled swiftly and snatched her hand back, the uncertain look in her dark eyes now familiar…

"I think it wise if you leave me now and retire to bed." His voice came low but fierce with the determination to be obeyed as he turned back to stare, unseeing, at the ivory keys.

"Yes, alright."

She retreated two swift steps and stopped as if she would say more, but after this discovery, he needed time to think in the dark comfort of his solitude.

"If you do not remember the way, Gregor will show you."

"N-no. It's not difficult to find." Her footsteps hastened to the door. "Goodnight then."

He listened to her hurry out of the main parlor and to the staircase, his keen hearing able to discern the staccato of her footsteps as she ran up to the second landing as if fleeing for her life.

He closed his eyes and hoped it would never come to that.

~~~⊱⊱~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~⊰⊰~~~ 

XV

~~~⊱⊱~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~⊰⊰~~~ 

Once Erik left Christine's side, he silently approached the earl, who paced before the blazing hearth. Catching sight of him, the earl opened his mouth to speak, but Erik raised a hand to stop him before the despicable man could utter one derogatory word.

"You will listen to what I have to say."

"Where is she?" The earl insisted. "Did you let her escape?"

"You will listen. To what I have. To say."

He drew menacingly close as he spoke, the earl retreating for each commanding step Erik took toward him, until the pompous buffoon fell back onto the chair, sprawled against it like a discarded puppet. Mouth agape, he blinked nervously up at Erik.

"At present, Christine is considering my offer of marriage."

The light of surprise in the earl's eyes shifted to greed, which Erik quickly banished to the outer reaches of Elysium with his next calm words.

"If she should agree, this union will commence solely on my terms. The first of which is this: you will not receive one farthing as a 'bride price'."

"Now see here –" the earl blubbered, his face going florid as his temper began to rise.

"NOT. ONE." The Count raised his voice, putting a swift end to the earl's protestations. "However, I will agree to extend the amount needed to acquire a worthy physician for your daughter. There is a specialist in London with experience in such cases. In addition, I will agree to a reasonable sum to aid in renovations for Montmarte, nothing excessive or unnecessary." He pulled his lips back over his teeth in a grimace. "Be warned, if even a shilling of that money should find its way into your purse for personal gain, I will know it, and you will rue the betrayal."

The earl grunted in reluctant agreement, somewhat subdued at the mention of Lucy. For all his failings, he did appear to have a paternal fondness for his daughter. Christine cared for Lucy, that much was clear, and Erik owed it to the young, addled girl to do what he could to protect her, fearing she, too, had been targeted for destruction because of him.

Once, he would not have cared about the fate of any mortal. To an extent, he still remained apathetic, but Lucy was different, naïve and unassuming. She did not deserve the fate that had been allotted to her, a fate that had caused her to hide herself away in a childlike mentality after having witnessed what she should never have seen. And Christine…well, she was Christine. His Lotte, as she had long ago first introduced herself and he had come to think of her in their chapel meetings, concealed beyond a wall of painted stone. Even then he had sworn a self-made vow to protect her from danger.

"The marriage, should it take place, will commence here, in my home. Moreover, you will agree never again to seek out Miss Daaé, and henceforth will remain distant from Castle Dragan."

"Why should I accept your grossly deficient offer when Lord Lomax has agreed to the sum of twenty-thousand guineas!"

The number of irony did not escape him.

"Lord Lomax will not touch one curl of her head, whether she accepts my offer or not," he announced darkly.

"And what is preventing me from taking my grandniece from your infernal castle at this very moment?" The earl stood to his feet, his mercenary appetite a reckless prompt to his bluster and bravado.

"I should think that would be obvious." Erik curled his fingers into tight fists at his side, barely restraining a demonstration of his fury, one that would so woefully end in this mortal's demise. He could still see the stinging red imprint of the vengeful slap on Christine's cheek –

If only he could end this fool without reprisal!

In those few minutes he had taken the previous day, while Christine waited near the staircase to deliver his message to Gregor, mesmerizing the holy man's mind into forgetfulness had been quite simple. With the earl, any dramatic change in behavior after having visited the castle was sure to cast suspicion. Such as Erik compelling the fool to lose all interest in Christine. His busybody of a grandnephew would certainly wonder at the abrupt turnabout, and ignoramus though the young upstart could be, the Vicomte was still Erik's lifelong foe. New in the role and wet around the ears, but a slayer nonetheless. Yet a modest command was in order; nothing that would raise too many wary heads but enough to warrant diminished interest. He had no desire to be on constant guard from the earl's pathetic attempts to regain Christine.

Slow and steady, the manipulation slipped from Erik's lips, his hypnotic gaze ensnaring his unwary victim's.

"Christine is under my protection. After the attack she suffered while under your care, my castle is the safest place for her. You have proven that you are not able to provide for her well-being. She will not leave with you, today or any other day. Nor will you demand it."

"I'll not demand it…" the earl parroted in a lifeless voice.

"Should she wish to accept my offer of marriage, you will do nothing to hinder it."

"I'll not hinder."

Erik supposed he could also compel the earl to forget the price agreed upon. But that surely would be considered suspect – for his avarice to disappear so completely that he readily agreed to receive no recompense from the arrangement, when he had been so adamant before. After his brief acquaintance with Lucy, the Count felt no regret to provide monetary help for the child or extend reasonable aid in the upkeep of the only shelter she would likely ever know, sensing Christine would wish it. He certainly could afford the cost; indeed, had more affluence than anyone in the shire knew about, tucked away here, in Paris, and in his homeland of Romania. He could also compel the earl to forget any notion of tracking her to France, and in so doing, warrant this marriage unnecessary - but if his kind discovered that she was bred from the Van Helsings, herself, a slayer - a more brutal peril would surely follow. Best to keep her under the black Angel's wing where he could watch over her. A wry smile twisted his features.

Angel of Music... Prince of Darkness.

What irony that he was the only one who could offer so pure a soul true protection.

"Excellent." He gave a tight smile. "I am pleased we could reach an understanding."

The earl blinked as the Count released him from the compulsion, and the earl dazedly shook his head. "Wh-what was... I don't recall..."

"Why your agreement, sir, that Christine should stay here, under my guard and as my wife, should she accept my proposal to wed."

"Ah, yes. This castle is the best place for her," the earl nodded then frowned. "If she should not accept your offer of marriage, what then shall be done with her?"

The earl's men were out of earshot, on the opposite side of the room and under Gregor's watchful eye, the barrel of the pistol steady in his hand. Yet ever attuned to the faintest sound, Erik was aware that another had heard their low conversation.

He turned to see Christine, who stood motionless in the doorway. She regarded them with a bold little lift of her slender carriage, though a glimmer of apprehension swam in her dark eyes.

"You need not concern yourself with my welfare," she said quietly to the earl, then looked at Erik. "I have decided…" She inhaled a deep breath. "I accept your offer, my lord."

~~~⊱⊱~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~⊰⊰~~~ 

A cold rain struck the glass, beating a symphonic rhythm that was to be Christine's wedding accompaniment, though no anticipatory march down a narrow church aisle followed. There was no traditional wedding dress. No bright nosegay of roses or lilies. No fairy-like veil. There was, however, a priest, wounded and inert among the cushions of the bed, but stable of mind and able to conduct the short, private ceremony in the guest bedchamber, using the small prayer book he'd kept in his frock coat.

The Count – no, Erik – now minutes shy of becoming her husband – had offered a stilted apology that they could not marry in the castle chapel. His explanation that the priest could never manage the staircase and should remain bedridden made sense. However, in light of the situation, it hardly mattered what chamber was selected. Christine was giving herself over to a veritable stranger, an enigma undiscovered, no matter what brief intimacies they once shared. She could not help court some disquietude to proceed with such a titanic venture, but oddly felt no bold, cautionary misgivings.

He did not require her love, though certainly she did not love him. She was as yet uncertain what feelings she could describe toward this man – intrigue and captivation, certainly, but unease and doubt had their place in her heart too.

If truth be told, she had not yet arrived to a firm decision when she entered the main parlor, but upon overhearing the tail end of their conversation, a destiny still vague suddenly shone clear-cut with diamond brilliance. She had been stunned to note the earl so readily agree with every one of the Count's demands, but what truly astonished was to hear her accidental savior speak with such conviction on her behalf that he wanted her to remain there, under his mantle of protection, in direct counterpoint to his near-hostile words of last night …

What had changed?

In all her years, Christine never felt so protected as she did when with the formidable Count, such faith in him stronger than those qualms of enthralled confusion that daily bound her with regard to his nature. His eyes sometimes threatened, burning in the midst of that strange black mask, but his voice could be gentle, as gentle as the touch of his hands…

He would never harm her; of that she was certain, and she had his word he would not make demands in the boudoir, which she believed genuine.

She still scarcely knew him, but - who was she? She no longer recognized herself in that she felt little of the reluctance that should accompany such a monumental decision. Since she arrived to this wild, forsaken shire, she found herself doing things she normally would never consider, thinking things she would never once have imagined. Change was inevitable with the passage of time; mindsets altered. Girlhood sentiments that once dearly mattered lost their grip in the present reality. Perhaps that best described her current frame of mind.

Perhaps she simply chose what professed to be the lesser of two evils...

Or perhaps madness was indeed an inherent trait passed down through generations of Van Helsings.

Her answer to him had come almost without realization, but once she heard the acceptance spill from her lips, she knew it to be valid. Still, the culmination of events was happening with a speed that left her wanting for breath. The Count had earlier taken her aside and privately advised that they not delay, lest the earl again attempt to interfere, and Christine agreed, seeing that she had no sane choice. The priest waived the usual bans, as she was an orphan alone in the world, with her sole guardian the unfeeling man who stood between his two dour henchmen. These three their only witnesses in this strange, impromptu ceremony.

In a weak voice barely at voluble level, the priest spoke of promises and honor and forever. At the continued utterance of such weighty precepts, Christine's unease mushroomed, so that she nearly whispered out a plea to end the proceedings. Barely shifting her head, she glanced toward the Count. His somber attention was on the reclining priest, his expression beneath the mask giving nothing away. As though sensing her need for some inkling of reassurance, eyes like a candle's glow flickered in her direction, bearing no threat.

She brought her anxious focus from one socket hole of his gleaming black mask to the other before he offered a faint nod, meant to soothe. By her hip, she felt the surreptitious brush of his fingertips against her palm and swiftly clung to his cold hand like a lifeline.

The chill of his flesh soothed her, and for the remainder of the ceremony, they stood motionless and stiff, with her hand desperately grasping his. Five long digits and an equally icy palm were the anchor that kept her grounded and silent throughout the droning words that lost all meaning through a mind that had abandoned her in a fog. No matter her dazed state, she did not enter into this commitment lightly and understood all of what was true: Marriage to this man for one year, as per their arrangement. To escape a living death in an unwanted union. To know protection. To learn to sing with the excellence Little Lotte had desired… again and again, these served as a reminder to keep her calm and maintain her fragile bravado. It would be worth the sacrifice, she convinced herself. To gain unspoken dreams of acclaim, she was willing to put to death girlhood fantasies of love.

The priest concluded the rite and looked expectantly toward the Count. Christine turned tentatively to face him, thinking he might kiss her as custom proposed. For a moment, he seemed to consider, then took her hand still held in his and lifted it to his lips.

"Countess."

The new title so quietly uttered stole her breath, but the whispered touch of his cool lips against her fingers brought a flush of warmth to blossom and spread beneath her skin.

Once he released her hand, he looked at the priest. "I assume that you require sustenance. I will ask Gregor to see to bringing you a meal." He shifted his attention to the earl. "You should return to Montmarte without delay. You are no longer welcome here."

The earl appeared a bit flustered. "Our agreement…"

The Count's scowl came dark. "Our agreement stands. I never renege on my word; bear that in mind. We will discuss the details downstairs while your men ready the horses for your departure."

Left behind with the priest and feeling a bit adrift, Christine watched her new bridegroom leave with her former guardian and his men. She stared at the empty entryway a moment before looking back to the priest. His kind regard altered into worried confusion.

"Is anything the matter, child?"

"No, no, of course not. Is there anything I can do for you, Father? Perhaps get a message to someone telling of your presence here?"

He wearily nodded. "Mrs. Polliner - she cooks for me and cleans the vicarage. She is likely to wonder why I haven't yet returned."

"I will see that she gets the message."

"I am grateful, my lady."

My lady. His response stunned Christine, to realize he addressed her. It was inconceivable. She was now a woman of title, a noble, and wasn't quite sure how she felt about that. Astonished by the prospect, anxious for the same reason. What did she know about running a castle or being a countess? His Countess? Even if only for a year, she would certainly be expected to perform some type of duties...

"If you should ever wish to talk," he added when she remained silent a prolonged time, "I've been told I am a trustworthy confidant."

His tongue-in-cheek remark made her smile. "There is something I have wondered... about last night. Have you any recollection of what happened yet?"

"I fell off my horse. Poor beast must have slipped in the mud and broken her leg. A shame she had to be put down."

Christine regarded him in mild confusion. "That is all you remember?" How could he have forgotten so much? She had heard that a bad knock to the head could jar a person's memories for a short spell, but eventually they did remember. At least those she had heard about.

"Was there something else I should know?"

He seemed genuinely puzzled, and she shook her head. "No, it's nothing. You should get some rest. I'll check in on you again later."

He inclined his head in smiling gratitude and closed his eyes to sleep. He seemed improved, remarkably so for the extent of his injuries, though still clearly exhausted, and she brushed aside further concern.

Once she descended the stairs to the first floor, she found the main rooms empty. Thankfully, the earl and his men appeared to have left, but where had the Count disappeared to?

Christine ducked her head into the music room, not finding him there either. She held back from exploring further down the corridor into rooms not yet visited then called herself foolish and cowardly. She was mistress of this castle now, a fact still incomprehensible to sane thought, and she had every right to look into any chamber, as the Count had also given his permission…those not locked.

She moved past the main stairwell and down an unknown corridor, dimly lit by the glow of few candles, all the doors closed here. She tried the latch of one – locked – and moved to the next. The door gave in with a creak to reveal a small storeroom. She moved to the next door and put her hand to the latch – inhaling a startled yelp and jumping back a step when it moved suddenly toward her.

The Count's manservant emerged like a stooped vulture, with hooked nose, thin lips and baleful eyes rife with accusation. Again she noted his lanky limbs and great height for his advanced years, nearly standing as tall as the Count. The servant's brows were dark and bushy, and though balding on top, hair of a white ash color grew a little past his shoulders, giving him a wild, bohemian look, matched by the expression on his craggy, lined face. By appearance alone, he was the perfect aide for the Count, though the manner in which he regarded Christine gave her a decided chill. He did not possess the strength of a man twice his junior, but had proven no less intimidating by his display with weaponry in the throne room, the pistol now thankfully absent. Not that she suspected the Count even required a guard; his mere presence exuded power and intimidation without his need to move a muscle.

"Hello," she tried, wishing her voice didn't tremble so, "I understand you are Gregor. I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

Her smile faltered when his gaze remained just a sharp, his response just as silent. Evidently he wasn't in favor of his master's new wife. Awkwardly she smoothed her hands down her skirts and lightly cleared her throat.

"Would you happen to know where the Count is?"

"The Master is busy for the remainder of the day." His voice was as harsh and forbidding as his demeanor. "He expressed word that he will see you tonight."

"Oh, I see."

Tremors of relief not to immediately face her new bridegroom in this bizarre arrangement they had fashioned came weaker than the surprising surge of disappointment that he had abandoned her on their wedding day. She called foolish any unwanted feeling of rejection and held her head high.

"I was told – that is, the Count told me – that you would drive me where I needed to go."

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he inclined his head in a curt nod.

"Yes, well, I should like to go to the village, please."

She tried to attain an air of polite authority, a role with which she was wholly unfamiliar. His vulture-eyes never strayed from her face and did nothing to plump her confidence.

"I should also like to go to Montmarte to retrieve the rest of my things." Now that she would remain in Berwickshire, she would need a change of clothing soon, especially after last night's wet romp through the forest.

"That will not be necessary."

"Pardon?" she blinked at his unexpected reply.

"The Master has made known that you are to acquire all you need in the village, if you wish it."

"Oh, alright then." She felt a bit stunned that the Count had arranged it without telling her first, that he would even recognize her need. "If you will please take a tray to Father Kiley, we will leave directly afterward."

He lifted his head in arrogance. "I have my instructions."

He withdrew a ring of keys and locked the door he had just left, then walked past her. She turned to watch him approach the locked door and unlock it. He sent her a dark look of warning, as if in command not to follow, then disappeared behind the door he securely shut.

Exhaling a nervous breath, she sensed her time as mistress of this ancient fortress would provide the greatest challenge yet faced.

xXx

Chapter Text

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Chapter XVI

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A short time after her tense altercation with the Count's servant, Christine found herself riding in a closed carriage down narrow dirt roads of the village, with Gregor glowering behind the reins. He had not refused to take her, so she supposed she should be grateful for that, but he made it clear he was only following the Count's directive and gave Christine no more attention than he would a snail crawling across the ground. She assumed he was simply territorial - loyal to his master and naturally suspicious of the woman he had never before met, who in the blink of an eye, had suddenly become the Count's wife.

Christine carefully studied the wooden placards that hung suspended from chains on horizontal iron rods above doorways, announcing the business each shoppe offered. While the village was nowhere near as large as Paris, she was nonetheless astonished by the myriad tradesmen and plentiful services offered. She spotted the sign for which she'd been searching and relaxed back in the seat, having told Gregor first to take her to the other side of the village, and the vicarage there.

Upon their arrival, she studied the small, simple cottage with its thatched roof. Several black and white geese pecked along the grounds, giving the place a certain charm. Gregor did not move from his seat to give her aid, not that she needed it, and Christine thanked limber limbs as she jumped the short distance down from the high step of the carriage. A matronly woman with grey curls tucked beneath a blue kerchief answered her knock and verified that she was Mrs. Polliner. Christine delivered the minister's message, and relieved to hear Father Kiley was well, the woman effusively thanked her, inviting her inside for tea. Christine considered but politely declined, wishing to tend to her final errand and hasten back to the castle before the Count could conclude with his business and return. She had no idea when that was, as he'd never even told her he was leaving.

Once they arrived to the shoppe of the seamstress, Christine again managed the small jump down from the carriage and entered the building, surprised not to see what she needed in the sparse front room. Shelves that contained bolts of material in various types and colors ran floor to ceiling along the back wall and a door stood open to a back room. The fresh aromas of new cloth, lemon, and sawdust filtered through the air. A different woman than had fitted her for Lucy's dress stood behind the counter. Prim and slender, she reminded Christine of Madame Giry, with her black silk dress and hair done up in a pinned braid, but especially her piercing gaze. She dropped her gaze from Christine's face to her attire, as if taking in every detail and sizing up her potential customer by wardrobe alone. Christine glanced down, taking note: A navy frock with a small rip in the sleeve near the cuff after her reckless escape from Montmarte. Once used as a commoner's costume in an old opera, later delegated to a day dress. The wool sturdy and suitable for a member of the working class.

"May I help you?" the clerk asked, lifting fair brows and dripping tones of superiority.

"Have you no day gowns for purchase?" Christine looked at the bare walls, where only two chairs stood, having expected a rack of clothing as the Opera House furnished for its members. Castoffs had been allotted to the chorus for daily wear for a modest price, usually subtracted from their wages. Christine had purchased four upon leaving there, three of which hung in the wardrobe at Montmarte.

"We do make dresses. Are you here to purchase this for yourself, or have you come to make arrangements for your employer?"

"Oh, myself," Christine quickly agreed. "This is all I own at the moment, and I feel I should have a spare."

"Mm," the woman said with some disinterest. "Circe," she called, and another woman came hurrying from a back room. "I shall need you to take measurements." She looked back to Christine. "Go with Circe. She will measure you and we will go on from there." The woman went back to a ledger open before her.

Accustomed to costume fittings, Christine shed her gown in the chill back room and stood motionless on a stool in her chemise and corset, while the young girl, who at least offered a kind smile, brought a ribbon with markings around Christine's shoulders, bust, waist, and hips, writing each with a pencil into a ledger, and then measured her height from shoulders to ankles.

Once dressed and returned to the main room, the older woman retrieved bolts of black scratchy wool and a sturdy brown linen.

"Are any of these what you had in mind?" she asked with a little sniff.

"I…suppose." Christine reconsidered. "Actually I was looking for something a little brighter? Perhaps in a dove grey."

"I have nothing of that color in wool or linen. Only silk. And light colors such as you described are best suited for evening wear."

"May I see it?"

The woman's brows arched as she cast her disparaging gaze on Christine's dress. "I should state that half of the payment is required in advance."

"Oh…" Christine had only a few coins in her reticule. "I had hoped I might put this on credit?" she asked, having no true idea how such transactions were made, proposing the idea from a conversation once overheard. Perhaps she should just leave the shoppe and run the feasible risk of encountering the earl at Montmarte to collect the abandoned dresses. She wrinkled her brow in distaste at the thought.

"Can you not charge it to my husband?" Hearing the new title drop as a near whisper from her lips felt foreign and a bit frightening, but also oddly reassuring.

The woman sighed. "And just who is your husband, Madame?"

"The Count cel Tradat."

The woman blankly stared, her jaw dropping, her expression going frozen. Behind her there was an audible gasp from her aide. The older woman's attention dropped to Christine's bare and ringless finger.

"You are the Countess," she said, disbelief rife in her voice and hard in her eyes. "I have heard of the Count, of course, everyone in the village has. He is a recluse and unmarried and makes his home in an ancient castle in the middle of the forest."

"Yes, well, we were only just wed."

"Really." There was that supercilious tone again.

"Yes." Christine struggled to remain patient and civil. "If you don't believe me, his carriage is waiting for me outside. His crest is on the door..."

The younger girl hurried to the front window and peeked out through the painted words that described the services offered. Another gasp, and she turned to look toward her mistress, giving a stunned nod.

"Oh, my…" The elder murmured, her entire attitude changing – almost comically - though Christine was not amused.

"Well, then, this just won't do." The woman whisked the wool and other inexpensive materials away and swiftly collected a light grey silk. "I agree with your selection - this will be stunning with your porcelain skin. Of course, one dress will not do, my lady. You will need five day dresses and as many for evening wear, and of course, a ball gown for the season, at the bare minimum. We have some delightful lush velvets, just arrived from Paris – this blue would complement your lovely figure and bring out the roses in your cheeks," she said, bringing another bolt from behind and laying it next to the silk. "But of course, for future reference you don't need to visit us here at the shoppe – only send a message what day to arrive, and we will come to you and serve you in the comfort of your home."

"I just need the one dress," Christine countered, doubtful that the Count would be too pleased if she came home with an entire wardrobe. She felt overwhelmed – a bird knocked out of the sky and forced to walk on land - uncertain how to deal with this ridiculous turnabout. At the Opera House, she had all such decisions made for her. Just another member of the chorus, she did as told and accepted what she was given.

"Perhaps you are not yet aware of the demands your new station will entail. There are certain to be parties and balls and teas – the grey silk is suitable as a day dress, of course, but you will need additional garments to attend society functions, and will certainly wish to be a complement to your husband."

"My husband doesn't like to socialize."

"Be that as it may, you cannot wear the same dress every day. It's simply not done, my lady, not for one of your stature…"

The woman continued to gush and fawn and sweep a startling number of bolts with shimmering and plush material in a rainbow of colors for Christine's perusal.

"Of course you'll need the right gloves and stockings, undergarments, a nightgown - perhaps another cape? The one you own has become rather frayed at the hem, but then that sort of cloth does not repel water as it should. We can outfit you with a wardrobe suitable for a Countess and have it delivered to you by the end of next week…."

The woman merrily prattled on, and though Christine was tempted to just turn around and walk back to the carriage, she did need a spare dress. She really had no choice. This was the only seamstress she'd seen advertised among the signs posted outside.

Her repeated attempts to decline what she considered superfluous garments were as effective as a pebble disturbing a large pond. The young assistant quietly chimed in when asked, offering her smiling encouragement and agreement, and weary of it all, Christine surrendered to their manipulations, hoping the Count would not be too terribly angry by what was turning into a ridiculously exorbitant shopping venture.

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The twilight of evening brushed heavy shadows across the broad canvas of land, the sun forgotten as it sank deeper into oblivion beyond the dark forest of trees. Christine moved away from the mullioned window, hoping the Count would soon make an appearance.

Supper had come and gone, Christine sitting alone at the long dining table and served by the perpetually taciturn Gregor. The food, no doubt, must be a product of his work - awful, dry, tasteless and bland - and after two tentative forkfuls, she pulled the napkin from her lap and threw it on her plate. She wondered why a man of such wealth with a castle so grand possessed only one servant. Why was there no cook, no maids, no driver? Gregor was clearly more suited as a personal manservant, but seemed to manage, or when pertaining to culinary efforts - mismanage - everything at Castle Dragan.

She wondered if the Count took his meals in the village. That would explain his absence tonight, though she would have thought he might join her. Was he avoiding her company? She had been told that he'd been a virtual recluse in the two years since he'd come to the shire, rarely setting foot outside the castle, his sudden presence at the ball stirring up quite a clamor of shock…

With supper a decided travesty, not to mention lonely, she wandered into the music room. The chamber was dark, and she retrieved a taper, lighting it with the fire that burned perpetually in the throne room, then proceeded to do the same with the candelabra atop the grand piano.

Standing before the impressive instrument, she brushed one of the keys with her index finger, gently letting it slide down and giving weight to the edge to answer in a gentle note. She pressed another, then another, her idle touches stirring soft, sporadic tones, and she began to hum, using the last key struck as a guide to begin. The wordless melody had no true form, until it did, and she found herself softly singing Elissa's solo aria from Hannibal.

A prickle of awareness needled at the back of her neck and Christine sensed she was no longer alone.

Turning to the door, almost as if caught, she noticed the Count standing on the threshold, watching her, and felt overcome as always by his commanding presence. Clothed head to toe in burnished ebony, save for his waistcoat of rich crimson silk embroidered in black, he was the quintessence of dark mastery.

"I – I didn't hear you come in," Christine nearly whispered.

His response was the twist of a devilish smile that made it difficult to breathe. He studied her a moment before covering the distance between them.

She forced herself to remain motionless as he drew near, so close they were inches near touching. A strange case of nerves made her want to flee. She didn't fear him, not exactly; rather she feared how he made her feel… helpless... but at the same time inherently… powerful. Uncertain, but unwavering in her resolve.

He held still a breathless moment then walked slowly around her, taking a seat at the bench.

"Your day was satisfactory?" he asked, and she heard the light strains of music as he fingered a series of keys.

Christine continued staring at the grey wall of stone a moment, taking deep breaths for calm before she turned around to look at him, remaining where she stood.

"It was… an experience."

"Oh?" He lifted his brow, evident with the way his mask moved a fraction higher. "A pleasurable one I would hope."

"I went to the village." How could he deem the day pleasurable when she was forced to spend it without companionship? "I spoke to the woman who works for Father Kiley, to inform her of his accident and assure her he was well…"

At this, she noticed how his jaw tensed.

"And then I went to the seamstress," she finished more quietly.

"I should think the vicar recovered enough by now to return to his vicarage. I would have thought he would have left this afternoon." His tone was less than amenable, and she looked at him in surprised disbelief.

"With the severity of his wounds? Why would you think that? He was injured only last night!"

He looked at her as if puzzled. "Then his condition has not improved?"

"Well… no," Christine recalled her earlier astonishment at how their patient's health had made such a marked improvement. Even after returning from the village this afternoon and visiting the priest a second time to check in on him, she had been amazed to see the man sitting up in bed, propped by a pillow, and reading from his missal. "I wouldn't say that. Except for being weak, he seems quite fit."

The Count nodded once and turned back to the keys, softly picking out more chords. "After his supper, he will have regained strength. I will speak to Gregor about driving him to his vicarage in the morn."

"Not if he's served what I had, he won't," Christine muttered beneath her breath.

He stopped playing and looked at her. "Your meal was not to your liking?"

She blinked at him in wide-eyed incredulity. "You heard me?" How could he? She had barely spoken and he'd been playing – softly – but surely enough to cover bare whispers of sound. "You must have the hearing of a bat!"

His chuckle came out as a faint snort. "I do have acute hearing, my dear. But you did not answer my question."

Christine had no desire to instigate trouble, especially on her first day at the castle, and certainly did not wish to speak ill of others. At his insistent gaze, she sought for a satisfactory reply that would do no damage. "After tonight, I understand your preference for eating in the village. Your servant surely is adept at many skills for you to rely on him so heavily; unfortunately cooking isn't one of them. But then, I'm sure you must know that."

He returned his attention to the keys and stared, almost as if he did not see their white and black scales, only the information sifting through his mind.

"I had not realized," he said, half to himself.

"Perhaps it was only a bad day in the kitchen," she excused.

"If matters do not improve with the next supper, let me know."

"You don't plan to eat with me tomorrow night either?" She had not meant her voice to sound plaintive, and he regarded her with surprise.

"My business does not conclude until the evening; it is rare that I would return to the castle before the evening meal is served."

"Then you will never dine with me?" The words slipped out before she could stop them. "I mean – I'm not accustomed to eating alone. But, of course, that wasn't part of the arrangement. Pay me no mind. This is all new to me and will simply take some time getting used to…"

He again turned those burning eyes of interest her way, and fidgeting under so intense a stare, she dropped her gaze. It was a moment before he spoke.

"You may visit the village whenever the mood takes you. I am certain you will find the companionship you seek there."

It teetered at the tip of her tongue to ask what his business was composed of, to spend so much time away from the castle – but she refrained and said instead, "The vicar's housekeeper invited me for tea. Perhaps I will accept her invitation."

Though she did not look at him, she sensed his irritation with her announcement. It was a moment before he spoke. "You mentioned your visit to the seamstress. Did you find what you needed there?"

A second wave of apprehension brought heat rising to her face. "Yes, about that… I, um, went there to purchase a gown, only because this is all I have and I've no wish to go to Montmarte to retrieve the rest."

"Christine, you do not need to explain yourself. I told Gregor to take you wherever you wished to go."

"Yes, well…" With her hands hanging down meekly in front of her, she clasped them together in her skirts. "The thing is I may have arranged for more than one gown."

His lips twitched in amusement. "I am frankly astonished that you could find anything of true worth in that paltry village."

She shrugged and looked away. His eyes grew intent on her face.

"Something upsets you." It was not a question.

"It's just that… they didn't believe me to be your wife. At times today, I wasn't sure I believed it. Attempting to convince them was difficult. Only once they saw the carriage waiting for me outside did the women there finally believe me - and then the owner tried to convince me that I would need more than I came there for. I barely had a say in any of it – I only tell you this because I never meant to spend so much of your money."

The Count scowled at their unsurprising exhibition of greed but directed a reassuring glance her way.

"Do not be concerned with such things, Christine." He waved a flippant hand. "It is only money. If you are pleased with your purchases, then give it no more thought. I could send Gregor to Montmarte to collect your things. Or perhaps a Parisian wardrobe from one of those famous boutiques women cater toward would be more desirable?"

She blinked in clear shock. It was a moment before she spoke. "You are offering to take me to Paris?"

He continued to regard her, neither agreeing nor declining.

"But what of your business here?"

"I can take a short amount of time away, if you wish it. Those fool clothiers were correct on one matter. As my Countess, you should have more than one additional dress."

"I have no wish to be a burden," she countered quietly.

"You are no burden," he said, his voice like dark silk. "You are my wife."

His eyes held contact with hers, their tenderness and his words causing her heart to skip a beat. She regarded him in confusion.

"I know this was never your choice, not really. You gave me your name and home only to protect me from my uncle and his plans for me. I desire no more than that."

The Count said nothing, pulling from his pinky finger one of two rings. He lifted his hand and beckoned her forward, crooking two fingers.

She hesitated briefly but obeyed. He held his hand out but she only stared.

"Give me your hand, Christine," he urged.

She found herself heeding his soft command, barely aware she did. The moment his icy fingertips touched her palm, a little shiver of warmth coursed through her.

"This," he said, setting the ring into her hand, "will correct any misassumptions that you are not who you say you are…"

She brought her hand closer, looking with awe at the carved gold band upon which were mounted small cut stones of emerald, above which was half a hand clasping a heart on each side of a raised setting that held an oval stone of dark emerald. Carved into the band itself were words in Latin, she presumed – Quod Deus conjunxit and as she turned the mastery of art to look, she inhaled an awed gasp to see on the inside of the thick setting, a small oval had been cut out and in its recess was the carving of a baby. She had never seen a ring like it.

"The babe stands for life." He followed her intrigued gaze. "And this…" he pulled the second ring off his pinky finger, "will prove to all who see it that you are mine."

She felt dizzy with the hint of possession in such words that did not fit with his claim that this marriage was in deed only. He set the second ring in her palm next to the other. Where emeralds adorned the first ring, rubies had been crafted, the raised stone rectangular, also a ruby. Nemo Separet was inscribed on this band, the other half of a hand that held the heart on the first one. Where the baby had been carved in the first ring, in the second, a skeleton rested as if in a grave. The background for it was black and not green as the alcove in which the baby rested.

She blinked questioning eyes toward him.

"The skeleton symbolizes death," he explained quietly, "When put together, it signifies the memento mori, life and death…" He proceeded to fasten the two rings like a puzzle, using a fragile hinge on the side of each. "The first is yours, the second mine, and when joined together, the pattern is fulfilled."

She gasped to see that indeed, the ring had attained a completeness not apparent before, an intricate perfection. The memento mori was concealed within the two halves, knowledgeable only to the wearer of the ring. She was amazed to see on one side of the two raised gems another picture had formed in the shape of a small engraving – what she had thought might be the fingers of a hand when looking at the first band alone was instead the crest of the dragon and the rose when paired together – mirroring the emblem she had seen in the tapestry of the throne room and the insignia on the ring he always wore on his index finger.

"And the words?" she barely managed to ask.

"Quod Deus conjunxit, Nemo Separet – What God hath joined together, let no man tear asunder."

She felt hot and cold at once, the meaning of the puzzle ring heavy with significance; the crest on the side proving it must be a family ring, an heirloom. If he wished only to keep their bond intact for a year, why give her a ring that promised eternity? Why had he not furnished her with a simple band of gold instead?

He watched her face intently as he held the linked rings out to her, and she tried to mask her baffled uncertainty that rose at such inner questions.

"You need have no cause to fear," he said, his tone achieving a slight edge. "I will honor the vow I made to you in a year's time. You have my word."

Christine swallowed hard that he seemed to read her mind, though strangely his promise brought none of the comfort it should. She looked at the ring he held out to her. "It is quite beautiful and unique. Has it been in your family long?"

"Since the Middle Ages," he remarked offhandedly. Her eyes turned up to his in surprise. "It is called a Gimmel ring. Very popular at that time period. Each set crafted by custom and unique in design. By tradition, the bride would wear the first band and the bridegroom the second in the time preceding their nuptials. During the ceremony, the rings would be joined as their lives would be joined and both be given to the bride to wear as a sign of their vow."

Her expression filled with wonderment as he shared the history. She looked at his family ring then held out her hand that slightly trembled, her fingers spread.

"Would you?" she asked softly.

The breath caught in his throat as he looked at her pale ivory hand. Ghosting his fingers under hers to keep it steady, he slid the band along her finger, unprepared for the surge of emotion that clutched the center of his chest as the twin bands of linked metal found their resting place. Had he a heart that beat, it would be pounding. He lifted his eyes to her dark ones, noting a tenderness glimmered there he'd not seen before. He held her warm hand a moment longer, clutching it gently in his cold grasp…

Wishing this moment meant more to her than it did… wishing that fate had, for once, been kind… wishing for something that could never be...

Realization brought with it the quick release of her hand, and he turned abruptly away, again facing the piano. He sensed rather than saw her injured confusion.

He had married her to protect her, planning to share her company solely for lessons and keep himself distant the majority of the time. Once he learned the identity of his Little Lotte, his Christine, there had been no choice, none that his battered sliver of conscience would allow. He had failed her once, long ago; he would not do so again.

"I promised to teach you to sing with the expertise any diva would beg to know," he said, keeping his voice low and unmoved. "If you are not too weary, we may begin your instruction." He offered no more than a brief glance in her direction.

"Yes, alright..."

The Count ignored the uncertain confusion in her tone as with determination he proceeded to play the scales, watching while Christine chimed tentative notes and twisted his rings of ownership that now encircled her wedding finger.

What he offered her was so much less than what he wished to give - what he would never be...

But he could not extend the full promise of what he would never have. Nor must he allow enticement to lure him into seeking out all those pleasures ever wanted.

To do so, to give in to such sweet temptation, could expose their hidden natures and destroy both of their lives.

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For those curious as to what I based the ring on - here is a pic. of the Gimmel ring (this one appearing to be from 1631) - Mine is not exact to this one, of course, since I customized mine to Erik's crest, etc, - (though I did use the Memento Mori as shown and a few other things). From what I read, each ring was unique, customized to how the buyer wished it... and so I fashioned mine to fit my story.

And here is an idea of what it would look like when put together (though of course mine is different, since it has the dragon and roses on the side, etc: Still, it gives an idea. : )

for anyone who wishes to read more - here is the link to the website (scroll to see the Gimmel ones):  https://withtheseringshandmade.com/history-of-wedding-rings/

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Chapter XVII

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The Count stood within his massive bedchamber, the scope of which he'd spent years perfecting to meet his eccentric requirements. Though daylight was not truly an issue for him, thick drapes of ebony velvet blocked out all of Apollo's errant rays. Beneath the enormous four-poster he'd crafted to fit his height was concealed a means for escape, and within the clothes cupboard a hidden door at the back concealed bottles of the sustenance he needed to remain alive.

A strange term of phrase for one long dead…

He retrieved one of the wine bottles from its cool containment, the thick stone walls of the castle keeping chilled the liquid that had been replaced within. He preferred his blood warm, from a living female vessel, and had on occasion also indulged in carnal pleasures once his thirst was sated with his compelled victim. But he had dispensed with the latter method decades ago and rarely imbibed in the former. It was to his misfortune that there were only so many of the reprobate scum in this district who deserved his dark brand of justice. With them there had been no compulsion; he had drained the fiends of every ounce that engendered their contemptible breaths…

A change of venue would be welcome.

Erik finished pouring his meal into a glass and tipped it to his lips, as if sampling a fine wine. The comparison was ludicrous. He threw back his head and downed the glass, not wishing to extend the moment. This sacrifice to his existence held a gamey flavor – a middle-aged ruffian who never bothered to manage his health, no doubt. It was unsurprising. Felons were often deficient in their eating habits, and wastrels with all that ailed them. It was rare that he received a vintage with a pleasant taste…

And a slayer's blood was to a vampyre what ambrosia was to the gods.

The stem of the crystal goblet snapped between his fingers and thumb.

"Master, you summoned me?"

Erik turned his attention to Gregor, who hurried forward to swoop up the broken bowl of the goblet from the tapestry rug and held his hand out for the jagged stem. Erik handed it over.

"I shall retrieve for you another goblet –"

"There is no need. I've had my fill." Erik moved toward the cupboard and plucked up a cloth there, wiping the blood off his fingers from the cut that had already healed.

"I have need to speak with you, Gregor. I will be leaving for Paris tomorrow and require you to make the necessary arrangements."

"You are going alone, milord?"

Erik did not miss the disdain in that one word.

"The Countess will be joining me."

Gregor's face was a study in weary disgust. "Will you satisfy my curiosity on one matter?"

The man was nearing seventy and had been loyal to Erik since Gregor was a lad of twenty-seven, new to his role and eager to please. Erik supposed he was the closest he had to a friend, and for that reason, ignored the disapproval rife in his tone.

"Proceed," Erik said, inclining his head in permission, his golden eyes glittering a warning.

"In all the decades I have known you and the centuries of history I was taught, you never once took a bride. Nor were you ever inclined to. This woman you have known little more than a fortnight - and are wed to her to stop an alliance that has nothing to do with you..."

"I sense there is a question amid the unnecessary reconnaissance into my life," Erik said somberly, crossing his arms over his chest. "You have yet to express it."

"It is only this – why have you done this thing?"

"I have my reasons." It was all he would give.

"Master," Gregor went on, "I sense this is a mistake. She cannot be trusted. I caught her near the locked door of the corridor leading to the kitchens."

Erik pulled his brows together. "Did she see?"

"No, I managed to stop her and divert her interest to going into the village. Her first stop was the vicarage."

Erik grimaced. He could hardly forbid Christine to go there without arousing suspicion; and there were other chambers more damaging he would not wish found.

"Let her see."

Gregor jerked his grizzled head, taken aback. "What?"

"If she again shows interest in what lies beyond the locked door of the chamber, let her see. In fact, leave it unlocked."

"Is that wise? Surely she does not… you have not told her who you are?"

"Do you not mean what I am?" Erik corrected dryly. "The secret remains between us, as it always must. That room holds nothing that would arouse her curiosity or suspicion, unless she looks too deeply, and it is doubtful she would. There is little on the surface to stir interest."

"This can only end badly," Gregor gruffly remarked. "You should arrange a bill of divorce and send her away."

"She is and will remain my Countess," Erik replied, his patience wearing thin.

"But Master-"

"Enough!" He struggled to control his temper as he had been forced to control all else. "I allowed you permission to speak, in respect to the service you have afforded me these many years, but I will not hear detrimental words spoken against Christine, not even from you. Now…" He visibly relaxed tense muscles and attempted a nonchalant smile. "It has come to my attention that the castle needs a cook. Your efforts did not go over well, and I will not see my bride starve."

"It is not my area of knowledge, milord -"

Erik held up a hand to forestall his apology. "I do not bring up your lack of culinary expertise to condemn you, Gregor. Your niece, is she still unwed?"

Gregor nodded, catching on. "Mihaela? Yes, from my sister's last letter, she is available."

"Excellent. I will go tonight and bring her to Castle Dragan."

"It is an honor to serve you these many years. She, too, will be grateful." Gregor hesitated, clearly loath to continue. "I think it would be wise also to bring Anton. He has been groomed for these past five years, to take my place –"

Erik looked at him, aghast with disbelief. "Tell me you do not intend to leave me and put that boy in your role? He is not yet twenty!"

"Never, milord, would I leave your side of my own freewill. My family has but one purpose and has throughout the generations - to serve you, our master. But I am not immortal, and I feel the age of decades creep heavily into my bones. I fear I will soon no longer be of use to you."

The Count wanted to argue the point, but the ravages of time were their own proof. Gregor grew more stooped with each year, his reflexes no longer quick, his mind not always alert. Trust wasn't an easy issue for Erik; it had taken him nearly two decades to believe Gregor's full loyalty, and he had no wish to initiate another servant into his household. Though all of Gregror's family was trained in their inherited roles, they each had individual freewill. It was tempting to turn his servant, eternally to serve him, but that went against the oath taken by their kind. And though, even then, the Count alone had the power to circumvent such rules of which he often scorned, Gregor was indeed old. To consign him to eternity at this stage would be a punishment, one he did not deserve.

Erik sighed at the bitter understanding. "Very well. If Anton is ready, he can be to you an apprentice." In a rare display of masculine affection, he clapped a hand to Gregor's shoulder. "If it is your wish, when the time comes that you no longer feel capable, you may return to our homeland to live out your last years among your family. Now go; make preparations. We leave for Paris by rail tomorrow afternoon."

"Thank you, milord. I am grateful." Gregor nodded once, and left.

Erik slipped on his frock coat and secured his cloak around his shoulders. He wished to return before daylight broke across the land and Christine could awaken, again to question his absence at the castle. Never had he thought anyone would care to inhabit his presence, but she'd been different… since the night of Samhain… since the morning he met her as a child… as Lotte.

Always she had sought to be near him, a blessing and a curse, and he strictly reminded himself of why the latter would never cease to apply.

~~~⊱⊱~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~⊰⊰~~~

Christine sat at the long table, again alone, the offering of fruit at least palatable, the leavened bread no doubt purchased from the baker in the village. From high rectangular windows cut into stone, rays of morning sunlight cut swathes of white beams across the dark furnishings of the long, narrow chamber, glinting off the gold candelabra of unlit wax tapers.

She rested her forearm on the table and lifted her hand to allow the edge of one of the rays to deflect off the joined rings. Gold and gemstones flashed in splendor, the dragon near the rose almost seeming alive by the tiny glint of its ruby eye, and within the center jewels locked together she thought of the babe and the skeleton, life and death.

Such an elaborate ring, one so ancient, must be worth a small fortune, and it unnerved her to wear it. Not because she regretted her platonic union to the Count; no, she understood the good fortune in that. But she had never worn anything of true value – and this was a museum piece! A family heirloom hundreds of years old…

She never heard him, only sensed him, and turned her head to the north entrance, looking past the shafts of slanted light and to the shadowed recess where he stood just outside the chamber. She fought back any unwanted apprehension. For better or for worse, their lives were joined, and she wished for whatever mode of companionship he would offer. Solitude was not a cloak with which she was familiar, not when she did not choose to wrap herself up inside its folds.

"Won't you come in and join me?" she invited.

It was a moment before he replied. "Alas, I cannot. I have matters to attend. I came to tell you to make ready. We leave for Paris in one hour."

~~~⊱⊱~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~⊰⊰~~~

Storm clouds raced dense and gray, flickering a stream of shadows along the withered meadow to the east and blotting out a weak sun. The most distant clouds loomed darker, illuminated with sporadic lightning, and Christine peered out the carriage window, anxiously wondering if they would make it to the train station before the deluge hit.

Her daunting companion had not said a word since they left Dragan Castle. Daunting, in that he never once cast a glance at the passing countryside, instead fixing his golden eyes, never wavering, upon her. She hoped the ride wouldn't last much longer and prayed that opposite seats would not be presented on the train. Though the thought of sitting beside him on a bench, pressed against his side, provoked a different rhythm of butterflies cavorting through her middle.

Finally, she could take no more and allowed the curtain to fall back into place. Lines of daylight edged the black velvet, dimly lighting the interior. His eyes glowed in that small darkness.

"Would you mind not staring so?"

His lips flickered into a fleeting smile, then settled back into their impassive lines. "To be looked upon so steadfastly can be rather unsettling, can it not?"

Warmth flushed her face at his words that stirred the memory of her own breach in civility. She had stared at him, and often, on the first occasions of meeting him. And though she would never admit it, when he fixed his attention elsewhere, seemingly oblivious to her, she still did.

"I suppose that's fair," she surrendered. "I haven't been exactly blameless."

"Hardly fair," he said, surprising her. He motioned to his black mask. "You have this monstrosity on which to dwell, while I have the privilege to look upon one of the most beautiful women to grace this kingdom or any other."

His words came detached in presentation, ancient, as if from another epoch of time; but their composition sent pleasurable tingles to ripple along her skin. She had received many a compliment in the past, yet to hear him say such words affected her in a way they never had before.

Since he brought up the subject, she dared to probe a little further.

"You never did tell me why you wear a mask." She held her breath upon hearing her long-curious words given sound.

He looked at her, unblinking. "No, I did not."

Similar to the night she questioned him in the maze, no more was forthcoming; nor did he seem angry.

"Were you injured?"

"My dear, there is a reason I choose not to speak of such things."

He said nothing more and with grudging surrender she yielded to his wishes. That the mask concealed some physical malformation, perhaps burns, was evident. There were times when he engaged in a burst of activity that the mask slipped the barest fraction - enough to glimpse the slightest streak of abnormal, puckered skin of a reddish hue and not the bone-white of his uncovered features - before he moved away or quickly adjusted the leather back into place.

She changed the subject to one more general. "Was the seamstress very upset to lose her order?"

The mask inched slightly upward, testimony of a lifted brow. "After her ill treatment of you, I am surprised you would care."

"She never allowed for introductions, thinking me only a penniless wayfaring wanderer, I suppose. I wasn't pleased with her attitude, no, but I wouldn't wish for her and especially the girl Circe to suffer unduly…" She was going about this badly, she realized in the narrowing coldness of his eyes. She didn't think the Count would actually harm two helpless women, not physically, but his tongue could be barbed and draw blood.

He studied her a moment before responding. "Madame Declan has been informed that her services are no longer required. She will not again be so swift to judge on appearance alone."

His words were thick with… offense? Disgust? That he was upset with her was evident.

"I never meant to imply that you would actually hurt them."

"Did you not?"

"No. You have saved me again and again after I made reckless choices. I could never think such a harsh thing of you."

Another length of awkward silence staggered them, and Christine softly wrung gloved hands in the lap of her skirts.

"Have you been to Paris?" she inquired, landing on a subject she felt safe.

The golden eyes never seemed to blink. "Many times."

"And did you visit the Opera House?"

"Of course." Before she could ask if he had been there recently, wondering if he might have happened to see her dance, he added, "It has been awhile since I last attended. Does Signora Palozzini still grace the stage?"

"No, she left years ago. Another Italian singer, La Carlotta, took her place."

"The Carlotta?" he scoffed. "Sounds rather pretentious."

"Oh, she is," Christine responded without thinking.

He darkly chuckled. "Indeed?"

Realizing she was being uncharitable and not one to delight in gossip, Christine shook her head. "I shouldn't have said that."

"Why, if it's the truth?"

"It was unkind, and that's not who I am - or at least, who I try to be."

He considered her another long moment, making her fidget. "No, you're not, are you," he mulled quietly. "In truth, I have never known a maiden quite like you. So, tell me my Countess, what makes you so unique to others, who care not a whit for anyone but themselves and what intrigues in which they may partake?"

Her heart tingled to hear him address her as his countess: indeed, what she was, even though the verity of their marriage being genuine was false. At the same time she wondered if all his words should be taken as a compliment or if within lay buried an insult. With the level tone of his silken voice, it was difficult to tell. She decided to take them at face value and prolong the conversation.

"I told you of my Angel of Music," she began tentatively. She would never have spoken of that time in her past had she not already mentioned it; she still felt discomfited to speak of such things and admit her gullibility.

The Count seemed to tense, his narrowed eyes the only outward sign that he'd heard her.

"I also told another, my dearest friend, Meg, shortly after he left me. I told her everything of that time shared and thought I'd spoken in confidence. But we were overheard by two of our peers, girls who took pleasure in speaking ill of others – and I became their latest victim. Soon, every dancer in the theatre learned of my late night meetings with my supposed Angel, who I then thought a true celestial being and expressed my feelings to Meg as such. Among the labels I was given, "dotty" and "having bats in the belfry" were two of the spiteful things whispered about me or spoken to my face. I was treated as if I wasn't fully sane, seeing fantasies that weren't there and warping illusions into real life. As the years passed and we all grew older, the name-calling ebbed, but I never formed close attachments with anyone but Meg. Having had dirt slung at me through cutting words, I prefer not to sling dirt at others. Even if the words are deserved."

She shrugged in half embarrassment, uneasily drawing a comparison to the deranged members of the Van Helsing line. Had she also been a little mad to believe? Is that why she had been susceptible to an Angel's voice? Lucy heard faeries and Christine heard angels - only one - but what if it had all been in her mind too?

"You should not have been made to suffer for his sins," the Count said at last, his deep voice soft and pensive.

His sins? Her Angel of Music's sudden and inexplicable desertion had wounded her, most certainly, but she wouldn't call his choice a sin. She simply hadn't been good enough.

Or... more alarming... perhaps he had never truly been there at all.

Briefly she closed her eyes to the idea. She could not continue to think like this or she would drive herself mad!

Further conversation ceased as the carriage reached their destination. Gregor drove the horses further to some predetermined point, and Christine focused attention to the platforms of the busy railway station. Passengers moved to and fro in a whirlwind of activity, the stout wind pushing some of them forward while impeding the procession of others.

Each day was like that wind, the level of success dependent on the choice of direction taken. Sometimes it came together with ease, pushing one along as the minutes breezed by swiftly; other times it acted as an obstacle, making it nearly impossible to reach a chosen destination. With the Count, she often felt that she was pushing forward against an obstacle she couldn't see or define, attempting to head into a gale-force wind that only blew her back in retreat and impeded any progress made. Even simple conversation came stilted of late, the walls he put up endless.

Once they exited the carriage, they did not weave through other passengers or join in long lines or even traverse the platform. The Count led the way to a railcar at the back of the train, ignoring the ticket counter. In confusion, Christine watched as he took the wide gap up from platform to first step with ease, and then to the second, turning and holding out his hand to assist her. She followed him up the three remaining and turned left at the door, into the interior.

Her eyes widened at the sight. That this place belonged to this man was patently obvious. The gothic décor of scrolled black ironwork matched furnishings she had seen at the castle. The predominant colors inside the rectangular room were of deep plum and ebony, with splashes of crimson all around. But if neither of these suggested ownership, the tapestry on the wall of the cel Tredat shield, with the swirling roses around the dragon, cinched it.

"This is yours?" she asked in quiet astonishment.

"I am a primary investor in Midland Railway. As a shareholder I made one stipulation in lieu of funds – that of my own private railcar, always ready for my use. I do not do well traveling among strangers… I trust it meets with your approval?" he said with a modicum of amusement when she only gaped at him, speechless.

Christine blinked. "Yes, quite lovely."

She had been told he was possibly the wealthiest man in Berwickshire, he owned a castle for pity's sake, but she had never imagined the extent of his riches. It both unnerved and amazed her.

She set the cloth knapsack with the entirety of her belongings, carried in one hand, down onto the plush sofa – the structure wide and firm, upholstered with soft velvet. Gas lamps were bracketed in black filigree holders to the walls on each side of four curtained windows and near the sofa and two chairs. At the back of the oblong room stood a pair of carved mahogany doors behind a short bar, and exotic carpeting covered the floor. Even the gold ceiling was opulent, carved in intricate design, reminding her of the theatre lobby. A luxuriously outfitted railway car, it did not skimp on comforts, containing a small hearth of black marble. Beyond the grille, a fire lowly burned to provide warmth. Clearly the car had been prepared for its master, a message likely having been sent ahead to expect him.

"I recommend taking a seat before the train pulls out, if you do not wish to lose your footing," he advised, doffing his fedora, gloves, and cloak and tossing all three to one of the chairs. "Would you care for an aperitif?"

"No, thank you." She sank to the heavy, upholstered chair nearest her and curled her hands at the end of the scrolled armrests. He took the chair opposite.

At first Christine feared he would sit and stare at her as he had in the carriage, and she exhaled an inaudible breath of relief when he pulled a book from his carpetbag and settled back, crossing his legs in relaxed elegance and looking every inch the aristocrat. He opened the cover and held the book aloft so that it obscured his view of her.

Deciding to do likewise before the train went into motion, Christine hurried to grab her knapsack, also removing her cloak and draping it over the sofa. She then returned to the chair, darting a glance the Count's way to see his book had not moved.

Unknotting the cloth, she selected her ancestor's journal, having packed it as a way to pass the time. She still thought the sightings and warnings no more than absurd fantasy, though the narrative did contain a level of entertainment, mild due to the fact that this drivel came from her family, her blood, still disconcerting to realize.

The train gave a sudden alarming lurch before moving forward, and Christine noticed then that the bottom of the chair legs sat in shallow hollows of the carpet, designed so that they would remain stationary during travel. The black velvet curtains were closed over all windows, as they had been in the carriage, but the gas lamps provided enough light to read by, and she opened to the last page where she'd left off at Montmarte:

I have tracked the abysmal demon to a cave by the river. Three hours remain of daylight but the monster will not yet show himself; the sun would incinerate his flesh and leave him as naught but ashes if he should attempt to leave the caverns and attack before night falls. And so I wait, for if I must choose darkness to put an end to his reprehensible deeds against humankind, let it be on the turf with which I have become familiar and not in the winding hollows of a dark cave with unseen drop-offs. His wicked thirst for blood shall not allow him to remain hidden and enclosed within what will assuredly become his tomb. If the beast has not yet fed, he will weaken and be easier to extinguish. The life is in the blood and Death must possess that life to exist...

Before moving to the next entry and the next page, Christine lifted her eyes above the open book and felt a startled jolt to see golden eyes likewise peer at her over the top edge of his.

"Oh," she breathed to realize he'd again been watching her.

"I do not recognize that volume as belonging to my library," the Count said, lowering his book to his lap.

"No…" She hesitated with what to say. "It's a journal."

His lips twitched beneath the black leather mask. "I did not presume you the type to keep a listing of your daily activities."

Too ashamed and embarrassed to admit what the journal truly contained or that the original bearer was a crazed ancestor, she lowered the book. "What type did you presume me to be? The type unable to write a full paragraph, without an intelligent thought in my head?"

He huffed a quiet chuckle. "I did not presume that your literary skills were limited to dance cards of pretense, no. I meant only that you seem the type to enjoy each moment of life as it presents itself, rather than waste what hours are given to look back upon the day's path and jot down each step of how you came to arrive there."

She closed the journal with a decisive snap. "You make keeping a journal sound quite dull and wearisome. I think it might be rather nice to record one's thoughts and experiences and have them as a memory to fall back upon."

"You think? Then you have not actually engaged in the pastime?"

Curse her rash tongue! "No, I mean I know, of course. Not only does it make a lovely source of reflection, it provides inspiring thoughts and considerations for future generations to ponder."

He surrendered with a genial and mocking incline of his head. "I stand corrected. If you should wish to jot down your inspiring thoughts and considerations, feel free to use the writing desk…" He motioned with an elegant wave of his hand to the far end of the rail car. "There should be a quill and a bottle of ink at your disposal."

Fidgeting with unease at her little white lie, Christine countered, "I think I will just read what I have written for now."

"I listen well, if you should wish to air your inspirations."

Merciful heavens – that was the last thing she wanted! She certainly couldn't admit her feeble duplicity and read to him the far-fetched lines from the ridiculous journal; nor was she certain she could create words out of nothing to relate her prior activities, or that she even wanted to. She had no desire to carry this little deceit further.

Finally, he offered a morsel of seeming companionship; she had no desire to throw the coveted gesture back in his face.

"Actually, I would like something to eat if it's no bother." Not having had a meal since breakfast, she hoped he had thought to bring along some food in that large carpetbag of his.

His eyes widened behind the mask, as if in revelation, and his sarcasm instantly evaporated. "Of course, my dear. How remiss of me! I will see to it at once."

Without another word he gracefully rose from his chair, quickly strode to the door, and exited the car!

x

Christine gasped in shock – surely he wasn't planning to jump off the train! – and hurried to follow, wrenching the door open. The swift motion of the locomotive created a high wind that whipped her hair and skirts into a frenzy. She squinted her eyes against the heavy gust. Through the door's window of the adjoining car, she spotted the Count's tall figure stride in retreat down the aisle of the empty car and realized he must have taken a wide step over the gap between railcars to reach it!

Her right eye suddenly stung; fitfully she blinked it as tears watered down her cheek. Pushing the door closed against the force of the wind, she returned to the safety of her chair, using one hand against the wall for balance. She heard rather than saw his return.

"Is something the matter?" his voice came to her from the distance of the door.

"Something blew in my eye when I looked outside," she said in pained embarrassment.

"Why would you do that?" His voice came close and she realized he had come to kneel before her, his steps characteristically silent.

"I wondered where you had gone." She half-shrugged in explanation. "I don't have any previous experience in train travel and didn't realize you could step over to the next car." Though it did seem dangerous on a moving train.

"You thought perhaps I had flown away?" There was no disguising the dry humor in his tone. "Here now, let me see."

"It does sound rather foolish when you put it that way. I was only curious." She shivered as his icy fingers slipped beneath her chin, turning her face toward him, while his other hand pushed back stray strands of hair from her eyes. "I – I can be extremely curious at times," her words faltered on a breath at his touch. "When curiosity itches at my thoughts, I tend to want to scratch."

A black silk kerchief appeared in his hold, and he dabbed at the corner of her eyelid. "More inspiring thoughts for your journal?" She hitched a breath as the silk gently scraped the white of her eye. "A stray cinder, nothing more," he assured and pulled the kerchief away. "Better?"

She nodded. "More like a flaw to share that you should know about me."

"Did your guardian not tell you that it can be dangerous to scratch in areas unknown?"

She felt a little foolish as he whisked the silk over the helpless moisture that had rained down her cheek. His admonition seemed a warning, his touch a blessing.

Her eyes lifted and locked on his, and she experienced a sudden shortness of breath to realize how close they were to each other. His eyes…such mysterious and beautiful pools of gold and fire rimmed in lashes so dark, and in that moment, she wished to pull the mask away, to see all of what he would not allow to be seen. To know and understand his mystery. Her gaze dropped to his lips, watching as they slightly parted, and she felt another lurch of her heart to remember their shape pressed so fully against hers. His skin, his touch was cold as death, but the breath that fanned her face was warm and sweet like wine...

She felt herself sway slowly toward him. In the next instant, he abruptly stood to his feet and turned on his heel, moving to the opposite chair. Startled by his swift departure, she watched him erect yet another wall...

Erik faced the covered window, his back to her, sensing her wounded confusion. His eyes fell shut with the branded image of her dark, glistening eyes silently asking for his kiss. And, fool that he was to invite her into his home, into his life, he had almost yielded. It would be a mistake; it could be nothing more. Memory taunted to revisit their last and first true kiss, near the edge of the forest, the softness of her lips and eager warmth of her mouth not easily forgotten. Nor was the scent and feel of her skin ...

"A steward will be along shortly with supper," he announced. He needed to put his hands to something, needed to occupy his disloyal mind, and pulled out his violin case, retrieving the instrument and the bow strapped within.

"I trust you don't mind," he said curtly, turning slightly but not looking at her.

A pause then a soft, "No, I would love to hear you play."

He plucked the four strings, testing their tone, adjusting pegs, then brought the bottom curve of the violin to rest beneath his chin. Bringing the bow to glide across the strings, he commenced to play a sonata, one of hundreds he knew, allowing the rhapsodic music to soothe stretched nerves and provide a different outlet for his escalating hunger, to engage in the passion of creating flourishes and rhythmic notes that saturated the air and wove them into the world of its composer…

Halfway into the second movement of the fugue, the steward came with her supper, but Erik did not cease to play, giving no heed as the man arrived and left, on through the andante and finally, into the fourth movement of the lively allegro. Only then, did he look in Christine's direction.

She sat, supper untouched, mouth softly parted in wonder, her eyes wide and bearing a glimmer of curious …recognition?

Impossible! Never had he played Bach's compositions when hidden behind stone walls in the chapel, and seldom had he played for her during those three seasons he instructed her to sing. He closed the piece and lowered his instrument to address her.

"Is the meal not to your liking?"

She blinked as if coming out of a stupor. "I… no, it's not that, I…" She paused and shook her head as if to collect scattered senses. "You play so beautifully, with such mastery. It's easy to forget all else exists. You could belong to the orchestra at the Opera House; you are most certainly better than any musician there!"

Erik bowed in stiff gratitude at her effusive praise. The piece had been written early in the 18th century, indeed he had been at Cöthen court at the time Johann Sebastian Bach was employed there and completed the sonata; the violin, itself, had been created two hundred years previous to that, in the 16th century. With that much practice to hone his skill, it was little wonder that Erik excelled above those who could only claim a paltry forty years at best in playing what had often been alluded to as the devil's instrument.

Fitting that the violin was his instrument of choice.

Christine picked up her knife and fork to cut a slice of whatever fowl the dining car had provided. She suddenly paused in her task and looked up at him. "Are you not eating as well?"

"I dined earlier."

She stared a moment, as if trying to calculate when he would have had the chance, but did not question, cutting her baked bird into tiny portions, doing the same to the carrots and squash that accompanied it. He watched as she brought a tidbit to full, rosy lips, the flash of her white teeth nipping at the morsel, her lips slipping around the tines of the fork and slowly pulling it away. His breath elevated as he watched the mundane task become something utterly sensual. As softly she chewed, her midnight dark eyes lifted to his, uncertain and questioning…

He snatched the violin back to his chin and spun away, his fingers flying along the neck as he rapidly brought the bow to dance across the strings, engaging in another lively sonata.

~~~⊱⊱~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~⊰⊰~~~ 

Chapter XVIII

~~~⊱⊱~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~⊰⊰~~~ 

She had reclined on the wide sofa and listened to his beautiful music, her heavy eyelids closing and later, slowly lifting, to see him play his violin as he sat so tall and debonair in the chair across from her. She recalled that his frenetic notes had eased into a softer, more poignant melody that both lulled her to sleep and awakened her from dreams. And in that state, she'd felt a coveted protectiveness stem from his music, from his very presence, that had sorely been missing from her life for what seemed an eternity, ever since an unseen angel favored her with his desired visitations.

With tenacious hold, Christine clung to the memory of the music as fiercely as she clutched the wooden rail, while the wind whipped at her skirts, tearing the cloak's hood from her hair, and spray from the channel struck her face. She locked eyes on the tumultuous body of water that stretched so abysmally far ahead of the ferry on which they stood, never once looking away from its threat. With every fiber of her being she wished there was another passage into France and despised that the sole method of transport must involve water. This time, such violent water...

"Christine?"

His voice came near, but she felt turned to pale, white marble, could not even turn her head to acknowledge him or make her paralyzed vocal cords respond.

"Christine, what gives you such fright? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

She anxiously shook her head at his words that held concern and trace mockery, her white-knuckled grip tightening even more around the smooth wood. A frisson of shivers moved through her at the brush of his gloved fingers against one fisted hand. Her breaths came more fractured, the inability to inhale and exhale correctly causing her to feel dangerously lightheaded. If only she could lose consciousness; then she wouldn't have to experience this most wretched, slothful hour!

A wave slammed against the ferry, a rush of foamy spray arcing near where she stood, and she gave a helpless little cry. Rain was an omen in the ominous gray clouds that cast a pall above and blended into the slate-hued water from the channel – both of which she was sure must mark the conclusion of their lives.

Two strong hands firmly grabbed her arms below the shoulders from behind, his broad chest pressing against the entire length of her spine. Grateful for his closeness, when so often he created detachment, she melted back into his strength, though her dread of the chaotic water did not diminish.

"Tell me…," His rich voice near her ear was a lifeline and she clung, "…you, who are so courageous in all else, why do you fear a little wind and water?"

A shudder went through her from head to foot at his innocuous description of the impending storm.

"I was six," she whispered, somehow finding voice to give. "I played too far out in the sea..." Her eyes fell shut with the memory. "It was a day, like today ... a storm on the horizon. The waves pulled me under and drowned me." Her Papa had swum out to save her and she had come to, coughing up water on the beach.

With the waves violent and crashing all around them on the crowded ferry, she was surprised Erik could hear her terse admission, but the gentle squeeze of his hands reassured that he did.

"Would you prefer to move elsewhere, away from the rail? Perhaps I could find you a seat on a bench?"

They had been among the first to board, whereupon the Count immediately sought the rail; Christine knew that with his back to everyone, no one could then stare with curious impudence at his masked face, as many had on their journey from train to ferry, and she tensely shook her head at his offer. She had no desire to be separated from him when he held her close like this, giving her a measure of reassurance, even to weave through the swarm of passengers, away from the water, in what seemed a futile attempt to find an empty spot on one of four populated benches in the middle of the ferry. And she certainly had no wish for him to think her cowardly or infantile, even if he was witness to such inadequacies through the constant trembling of her body.

"Soon we will be on dry land again," he spoke into her ear. "From there we will take another train and be in Paris by tomorrow morning. Rest easy, my Countess, I will let no harm come to you."

It made little sense that his words should help calm her – he had no control over the forces of nature – but she rested back against him, feeling almost safe as he brought his arm across her collarbone and wrapped her within the folds of his cloak. Then, to her astonishment, he began to hum strains of music he had played on the train, her inner ear easily perceiving the notes, as if they came from within her mind...

And though she did not release her death-grip on the rail, she closed her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder, allowing his lilting voice to soothe her terror of the deep and unforgiving ocean.

~~~⊱⊱~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~⊰⊰~~~ 

After nearly five long days of travel, they arrived in Paris in the early evening and took up residence at a topmost suite Erik procured at the Grand Hotel. Christine was exhausted, in mind and in body, and Erik quietly directed her to go to her room and lie down to rest.

His bedchamber faced hers across the room, the sitting room they would share in the center. A grand piano he arranged for this room in its early years of business sat before the tall draped windows that led to a short balcony. A short sofa and two chairs were situated on the opposite side of the room, before a marble hearth in which the hotel chambermaid had laid a low fire.

He watched Christine's lethargic retreat into her bedchamber. At the soft click of the door between them, his eyes fell shut and the invisible mask of polite indifference fell from his features, covered by the mask but his expression, he knew, still discernible. Like the Titan, Atlas, he felt as if he carried the punishment of the entire weight of the world on his shoulders. Each day, Erik worked to lengthen the aloof distance he knew he must create; each day, some random incident occurred to make that endeavor more difficult, if not impossible.

He had been to her the Angel of Music, a moniker accepted in blasphemy the moment he heard her soft, fervent plea for such a heavenly being in the chapel. Protection, he would give her, would always give her, as he had done in her childhood. Companionship she wanted, and a small measure of that he could allow, enough to teach her to sing as had been the plan when she introduced herself as Lotte. Theirs would remain a fragile camaraderie, shallow in composition and meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Anything else, how could he bear it? He had made hiding his true nature into a classic art form; to continue his concealment wouldn't be difficult within the boundaries he erected into place. This moment in time would pass, as they all passed. He could bear the decades, the loneliness that must transpire, to know he had helped her achieve her dream and not abandoned her as she thought, even if she would never know that truth. Telling her of their past and his sham of creating it could only be a mistake, forging avenues he had no wish to traverse.

His mind mocked his stalwart decision. He had no heart to beat; no more than a corpse. Yet the sensations he felt when she drew near begged to argue the fact. It was as if her very presence brought him to life. Physically it was implausible, but his emotions knew no such boundaries. Little that it mattered.

Damned twice – in features and in form: A mask covered the horror of the first atrocity, but nothing could eradicate the monster within, the monster that shaped him…

With a grimace of self-loathing, the Count pulled the brim of his fedora low over his head and took the back stairwell, exiting the hotel, unseen. The sun burned stronger today than in past days, and feeling the despicable weakness settle over his bones, he ducked into dark alleys to avoid the destructive rays of heated light. He gripped his hand with the family ring into a fist, the abhorrent token all that kept him from burning to ash.

In the dark space between tall buildings, a young lad crawled on the ground near a wall, reaching for something in a crevasse. With a lift of his brow upon recognition, Erik kept his steps silent as he moved to stand behind him.

"One would think after surviving The Plague, rats would be your last choice of culinary selection."

The boy awkwardly jumped, bumping his head on the planked wall, then scrambled to his feet and ambled around, his eyes going wide in startled shock.

"Sire!"

"Archer," Erik returned in gruff response. "Why are you in Paris? When last I left you, London was your home."

The lad, who looked to be in his early teens, wore a scraggly rope around his waist from which hung three wriggling rats, each tied by their pink tails with string. Long lank hair, the color of which was indiscernible in its need for a wash, hung past large outspread ears and into grey eyes that framed a thin face. His entire family having fallen victim to the Great Plague and turned by Erik's nemesis in the latter half of the 17th century, the boy had been abandoned to his own devices. Erik had experienced a rare bout of sympathy for the lad, taking a fortnight to teach him how to manage his vehement cravings and evade capture, before then leaving London.

"I make the rounds through the cities, as you told me, sire. I grew weary of England after a half century there and came to France."

"And has the selection of this city grown so poor that you would stoop to rats' blood?"

"I've no choice," the boy grudgingly admitted. "I was near caught. People have been asking questions, starting to say it be queer I don't age."

Erik's eyes narrowed. "Then why are you still here? You must leave! I instructed that you cannot stay in one place for more than five years – not at your young age."

"I haven't the money to go nowhere, not yet. Though I got prospects."

"You have feet; use them." Erik thought a moment. "Have you heard of Berwickshire, on the border of England and Scotland?"

The boy shook his head. "Never been there, not to my recollection."

Erik pulled his wallet from his frock coat and selected enough bank notes to secure travel. "This will get you there."

The boy's eyes widened at the amount offered. Quickly he took the lot of them, stuffing the francs into his filthy shirt.

"Tell me," Erik instructed, veiling his fervor to know, "while you have been in Paris, have you heard anything of Nicolae?"

"No, sire." The boy winced, perhaps not wishing to be reminded of his true sire, but Erik sensed Archer withheld something of significance.

"Tell me all you know." Erik's words came menacing and still, power vibrating in their consonants.

"I don't know nothing, honest. That is - nothing of late…" The boy's eyes were stricken with a nervous kind of fear but Erik nodded for him to go on. "I did hear tell that a man of his appearance was in the city years ago, looking for you."

That came as little surprise. "How many years?" Erik asked the question though he was certain he knew it must coincide with the time he was forced to vacate the premises.

"I don't know, sire. Didn't ask."

Erik looked deep into the boy's eyes, ascertaining if he spoke truth, and convinced, he nodded. "Leave Paris on the next train. Do not delay. Upon your arrival to Berwickshire, go to Dragan Castle - it lies in the midst of the forest. Tell whomever should answer the door that I sent you." He cast a disgusted glance over the boy's scrawny form. "Wash the dirt from your face, find clothes that fit without holes, and do dispense with the rats before the journey."

With no more to be said, Erik walked away from the boy and continued on his mission, keeping close to the shadows when he could – both out of a necessity to maintain full strength and the desire to avoid the curious and suspicious stares always directed toward the mask.

~~~⊱⊱~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~⊰⊰~~~ 

Christine awoke into surroundings unfamiliar. The bed she lay in was softer than what she was accustomed to, though not uncomfortable. Curtains suspended over the window did not allow the sun to shine through their thick fabric, and she stumbled to her feet and moved toward the narrow chink of daylight, pulling the heavy drape aside to bring the light into the room. Wincing at the sudden brightness that assaulted weary eyes, she blinked to rid the sleep from them, the city-scape serving as an anchor of reminder to why she was there.

Paris lay spread out like a familiar blanket, though she had never observed it from this angle. From her bird's eye view, she could see over many rooftops to hints of streets beyond and recognized the ivory and gold dome of the Opera House nearby. She hadn't realized they were so close and hoped to persuade the Count to make a visit there. How dearly she would love to see everyone again, especially her dearest friend…

Recalling the reason they had come to the city, and noting by the sun's position in the sky it must be nearing noon – how had she slept so late? – she hurried with her morning ablutions. In the adjoining room, she found a pitcher of clean water sitting next to a luxuriously appointed washstand, in the recess of which sat a porcelain bowl decorated with golden flowers. A claw-footed tub with fixtures of gold sat near, with a cistern positioned high on the wall in the opposite corner, a porcelain bowl on a stand beneath with a long golden chain for dispensing waste. Only once had she seen anything like it, in a room shared by the public and nowhere near as splendidly outfitted, this mode of bathing and plumbing still new to society. This room for cleansing was as posh as her bedchamber, as elegantly decorated, the suite of large rooms clearly designed for the absurdly wealthy, and she felt a rush of lingering disbelief to realize she now fit into that class.

She thought about locating a maid to see about hot water for a bath, but decided to wait to take advantage of that small luxury since it was already so late in the day. A table stood next to the washstand, upon which sat several carved glass bottles, and picking up one of them, she found it was cologne and almost squealed. What a delight to the senses after long days of travel!

Once she washed with soap and a cloth she wet with water from the pitcher and donned her gown, she pressed the bulb, holding the bottle in her other hand and lavishing the sweet indulgence of lilac and roses all over her. Lovely. …She had just fastened the last of the tiny buttons along her shoe with a buttonhook when she heard a knock. The rapping was not on her bedroom door, but instead came from the other room.

Certainly, the Count had arisen and would see to their visitor, but when a second, louder knock came shortly afterward, she hastened out of her bedchamber and into the sitting room. She found it dark and empty, the curtains drawn in this room as well.

Had Erik also been a slave to exhaustion and slept long past the dawn? She cast an uncertain glance toward his closed door before opening the door to the corridor, her mouth dropping open in shock to see who stood there, when she had so recently been thinking of her.

"Meg…?"

"Christine?" Though Meg had been the one to knock, she seemed just as surprised to see her. "So then – it's true?"

Christine struggled to shake off her surprise. "What's true?"

Meg's focus dropped to Christine's raised hand that clutched the edge of the door, her eyes widening as she grabbed that hand and brought it nearer to her eyes, giving a little squeal upon eyeing the Gimmel ring. "It is true! What he said – you're married!"

Christine pulled back her hand from Meg's grasp, slightly embarrassed. "Come inside and we'll talk." Impatient for her to enter, she grabbed Meg's arm and hauled her inside before anyone could stroll by and overhear.

All of what Meg said suddenly registered, and as Christine closed the door, she turned to look at her friend. "You said 'he' – who do you mean?"

"Why your husband, of course! He came by the Opera House to talk to Maman and arrange for us to go to the boutique to select your wardrobe. Is that not splendid?" Meg touched her shoulder. "And you! I know I've always teased that you have your head in the clouds and your feet barely skimming the earth – but to leave for little over a month, and come back married – and to a Count! My word, Christine – or should I now address you as my lady, the Countess?" She giggled. "Perhaps there is something to be said for living in daydreams after all!"

"Oh, Meg, don't be such a ninny." Christine lightly laughed with her, though she felt a sober jolt to be playing out such a pretense - her marriage of convenience to Erik hardly a dream come true, fashioned solely out of necessity's bonds and not through love's shimmering ribbons.

"We should hurry," Meg urged, "The driver is waiting outside. Maman is only giving me the afternoon rehearsal off."

"Give me a moment. I should speak to the Count and tell him I'm leaving," Christine excused herself, but before she could move toward his door to tap on it, she was stopped by Meg's incredulous giggle.

"Christine, did you not hear a word I said? Bring your mind out of the clouds, mon ami. Your husband isn't here; he's at the Opera House or was."

"Right – of course…" She shook her head a little, feeling like the ninny.

Christine's senses were scattered; The Count had arranged for Meg to keep her company… in all likelihood as a substitute for his company. Distance he preferred, even before they were wed, but really, any injured feelings on Christine's part that he chose not to accompany her were misplaced. A gentleman like the Count would feel awkward and ill at ease inside a ladies' boutique. He did not welcome attention, and surely would receive it in droves were he to enter such an establishment. A lone male, and a masked one at that.

Christine gave a little shrug of her shoulders and a smile. "Let me grab my cloak, and we'll go."

She quickly gathered her things and joined her friend. Her mind studded with questions mounted in confusion, she waited until they were both seated in the carriage, which took off with a jolt. The driver never asked their destination, clearly having been informed.

"I am still in shock that your mother actually gave permission for you to accompany me," Christine began. "Tell me, has she so radically changed in the short time of my absence?"

"Why are you surprised? - You have!"

For some reason the words lightly stung, troubling her. "No, Meg, I'm the same Christine you've always known."

"Christine," Meg corrected gently with a pointed sort of gaiety. "You are a countess now, a member of the nobility. Of course you've changed! If not in behavior - simply by how the world perceives you. Just wait until the rest of the chorus hears the news of your marriage! That will certainly put a few girls' noses out of joint, after all the trouble they caused you over the years."

"Never mind all that – for what reason was the Count at the theatre?"

"To speak for you, of course, and request my company."

Christine shook her head in puzzlement. Why did it seem that there was more buried beneath the surface of a simple request for an outing?

"Do you recall the rumors flying around that we would soon get new managers along with a new patron?" Meg asked, breaking into her pensive thoughts, and Christine nodded. "I think that your husband may be that patron or even the new manager!"

"Why in heaven's name would you think that?"

Erik, had a fondness for music, a polished and supreme expertise not found in most men. But that he would become so involved while living an entire kingdom away – and never tell her a thing about it, when she'd brought up her life in Paris, at the Opera House – seemed ludicrous, strange…and as she gave the matter some thought, not all that implausible, as enigmatic and mysterious as the Count of Castle Dragan so often proved to be.

"It's just a hunch, really," Meg answered her. "I only heard the tail-end of their conversation – his mention of your name and that you're his wife – but when I walked into the room, I got the distinct impression that Maman and the Count knew each other. There was a strange feeling in the air – I can't explain it. A familiar sort of tension one wouldn't find among strangers. Something like the polite hostility that exists between Carlotta and her servants, though not exactly that either…"

Meg's explanation made a warped kind of sense. Madame Giry wouldn't give her consent for one of her dancers – certainly not her daughter – to leave practice for a stranger's whim; but she would show such subservience to someone she respected as an authority over her as she did the managers. That Erik was a nobleman was of no account. Christine once heard Madame staunchly tear into a Marquis who'd had a lustful eye on her daughter; his elevated station in life having not mattered one whit for Madame to refrain from expressing her mind.

Meg snapped her fingers in her face. "Christine? Are you still with me?" she teased.

Broken from her musings, Christine stared at her buoyant friend. "What happened then?"

"They immediately ended their conversation once I walked inside. The Count didn't seem all that pleased to see me - he remained silent, only nodding when Maman introduced me as her daughter, and left immediately afterward. Maman told me she was giving me a few hours off to accompany you to the boutique and would arrange for a driver. And that's the sum of it. Now…!" Meg turned more fully on the bench seat in a flurry of excitement. "You must tell me everything, Christine, all of how this happened – and don't you dare leave a word out!"

Christine smiled, a bit nervously. "We met on the night of Samhain, at a village festival…" she began, knowing she would get no peace from her effusive friend until she caved in and Meg's curiosity was appeased.

Tentatively she covered the complicated events of past weeks, omitting all mention of Raoul and his undead, while keeping in mind that of the three conditions her husband made, she promised Erik loyalty. She would not paint their marriage as anything less than what was naturally presumed: two people having fallen in love and after a whirlwind courtship exchanging vows of a shared eternity. Nor would she embellish it into more than existed: what, at the loneliest moments, some wretched longing inside her heart wished it might be …

She did not speak of the evasive night in her bedchamber at Montmarte and her vague recollection of his tempting arms around her in sweet seduction, what she once believed a dream… or of the other day on the ferry, when those same strong arms held her with such gentle care that she'd felt safe, her wild terror of churning water that nearly eclipsed her childhood fear of the darkness abated in his quiet song …, And she certainly did not mention the sole passionate kiss once shared at the forest edge…

Some things could not be shared. To do so wouldn't prove disloyal to her promise, but those special moments, so often at the threshold of memory, belonged centered only in her heart. She wished to understand what had changed between them, that he no longer invited her nearness. And then, in the next moment, though he clearly had high demands in whatever business ventures he dealt in, to remain absent from the castle each day, he dropped all of what was important to accompany her to Paris.

He blew as cold as a storm in winter, and then, with a suddenness that stole all breath, he radiated warmth and concern, though his skin always maintained that strange chill…

The Count was a locked door, to which she was determined to find a key. Perhaps the Opera House was the vehicle inside... though what Christine would find within the man both captivated eagerness and awakened her dread to learn his full mystery.

~~~⊱⊱~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~⊰⊰~~~ 

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

XIX

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

The experiences between the small boutique in Berwickshire and the luxurious salon in Paris were as comparable as night and day, in that they could not begin to compare.

From the moment Christine stepped through the elegant, carved white door into the posh rose and gold chamber, with standing mirrors festooned near one velvet-draped corner she was treated like a queen, along with Meg. Both were escorted to plush chairs and given tea along with pastries while two young women modeled gowns for them. Any in which Christine expressed an interest, those preferences were jotted down by a clerk. Unaccustomed to such opulence and a need to decide – (when fitted for costumes at the opera, she had always been assigned what to wear, the choice never hers to make) – she was more than a little grateful for Meg's ready advice and tasteful suggestions. Christine could sing and she could dance, though not as well as some, including Meg. But a fashion hound, she was most assuredly not.

At last she decided on a lovely day dress in a soft butter yellow and moss-green muted plaid with thin, dark lines of deep sienna that would pick out the highlights in her dark brown hair, and thought that was to be the end of it. But the clerk told her she must pick a minimum of at least twelve dresses, including one ball gown, one evening gown, a variety of cloaks, shawls, and all new unmentionables.

Christine blinked. "Oh, but I really don't need that much. One spare dress is all I require, at the most, two."

"My dear," the clerk said, not unkindly, "You simply cannot be seen in Paris society in the same gown more than once, not for a woman of your standing. It could be regarded as a slight against your husband and his ability to provide for a new bride's needs; you would not want the Count to be thought of as a pauper. The gossip would not be favorable."

A pauper? Oh, really!

Christine wondered if any gossip could be considered favorable but felt the boutique owner was taking things to the extreme to think that Erik would be mocked or ridiculed because she chose to wear a dress more than one time.

"I don't think he would mind," she replied. "He doesn't favor societal functions."

"Be that as it may, the Count instructed you were to have a full wardrobe befitting of a Countess, with whatever choices you decide upon."

"He did?" Christine tried to cover her shock, not too successfully. "My husband was here?"

"Of course. He arranged that all your needs should be met and put me in charge of the task, to ensure all was accomplished to the letter. Would you like to view more day gowns, or would you prefer to choose from those already shown before we move on to the evening wear?"

They had spent at least an hour at the boutique already, and Christine hastily agreed to the latter, the prospect nearly too much to bear. She should have known when they provided luncheon that this would be quite the process! Once more, Meg gave helpful pointers, and Christine agreed to each one, the dresses selected as the young women of the salon modeled each. The evening gowns were so luxurious, Christine could barely draw breath at their intricacies of glamour. Hesitantly she chose one that appealed, a lush velvet the shade of dark crimson with a graceful gathering at the front that led to an elegant bustle at the back. With tiny, unseen buttons along the spine, it bore flounced sleeves that left the arms bare for the gloves that would be worn past the elbows, and Christine was encouraged when Meg heartily agreed how well it would complement her dark hair and fair skin. The clerk jotted her preference, the head clerk whispering something to her, and the one taking notes nodded and made another notation.

Twelve gowns of satin, velvet, brocaded silk, muslin, wool, and one heavily adorned with Brussels lace later, three cloaks were then selected: one ermine evening cloak to go with the crimson gown, one everyday cloak, and a fur-trimmed cloak of heavy material for the coldest of winters, along with two lighter shawls. Underthings of silk and lace were hurriedly added: corsets, chemises, petticoats, stockings, drawers, bustles –as well as all the necessary accessories – a muff, gloves, handkerchiefs, and more.

Once the viewing and selection was complete Christine felt mentally exhausted by the time they took her measurements as she stood beyond a velvet drape in her underthings.

"Your figure is so slender! mes cieux! Such a long waist and lovely bosom," the head seamstress praised her attributes. "Well-proportioned to your form, but round and high enough to fill out the bodice. You will need no extra padding, save for the pillow for the bustle, of course, No one has a derriere so large. N'est-ce pas?" and she chuckled, causing Christine and Meg to share a grin in the looking glass. Her mischievous friend mouthed the words "La Carlotta", which caused Christine to shake with a few barely contained giggles, whereupon she was firmly chastised that 'My lady should stand still so as to be properly fitted.' She closed her eyes to Meg's antics. She shouldn't laugh and be unkind, she really shouldn't…

Perhaps, if she had been unaccustomed to fittings and seamstresses ogling her features to ascertain what was needed for various costumes, Christine would be embarrassed pink by such frank talk and the poking and prodding going on beneath her neck; but such detailed interest was commonplace in her former line of work. As was the tale-bearing and the backbiting – and she really had no wish to harbor cruel thoughts toward anyone – even the pompous diva, who often called Christine a "trivial leettle ballet rat."

"Of course you must have hats to match, and shoes."

"Thank you, but my shoes are still quite serviceable."

The boutique owner raised a doubtful brow as she looked down at the simple, black button boots Christine had discarded in the corner for her fitting.

"You cannot possibly wear shoes of that sort with an evening gown, my lady," the woman said patiently. "You will need slippers to match. Or perhaps velvet boots. Monsieur Redmond and Madame Carpentier have come from their adjoining shoppes to serve you."

Christine stifled a groan, having grown weary with all that a selection for a wardrobe entailed and wondered if this was the usual manner of how these things were accomplished or if she received preferential treatment, due to the Count's orders. She glanced at Meg, who was at the height of enjoyment as she rested head and shoulders back against the padded chair and popped one of the tiny sandwiches into her mouth. She beamed at Christine.

"Yes, Christine, I quite agree. You must complete your wardrobe down to the last button and buckle and bit of lace to be worthy of a countess."

"Don't you need to return to the Opera House soon?" Christine hinted with a false smile and heavy suggestive tone.

"Oh, we still have time," Meg said with a cat-who-ate-the-canary grin, before popping another morsel into her mouth. "Maman doesn't expect me back until late this afternoon."

Traitor.

Christine narrowed her eyes Meg's way yet couldn't help but quietly chuckle. Despite the tiresome repetition of view and select, she was having a good time, feeling something like the princess of a fairytale who'd had a magic wand waved over her, to receive all that she desired. Meg rarely was the recipient of such a well-deserved rest, which she was taking delighted advantage of, and Christine could not begrudge her that.

Once she again donned her dress and took a seat beside her friend, a tall middle-aged woman and short, bespectacled gentleman were escorted inside. The elderly man, albeit politely, almost apologetically, took measurements of her stocking foot and hurried out the door, soon returning with his lackey who bore boxes of ready-made boots and slippers for her perusal. The woman showed her hat after festooned, beribboned hat, some of them gargantuan, others short and squat from the round boxes her assistants had carried and stacked nearby.

It was all so much, too much, but at last she and Meg returned to the carriage, utterly weary but satisfied. The driver carried several tied parcels of items to see Christine through the week, items the boutique owner had on hand and a day gown the needlewomen in a back room hastened to make fit while Christine had endeavored with her long list of selections. She let out a relieved breath as she gracelessly flopped onto the seat beside Meg.

"Oh, Meg – just think," she groaned. "That was only a winter wardrobe – what on earth will I do once spring arrives?"

Meg shook her head in disbelief and laughed. "It is so hard to feel even an ounce of sympathy, when any woman in Paris would gladly trade places with you! Strike that – there are many, like Cecile, who would push you down and jump right into your place. Mon Dieu, Christine, you have procured an entire costume room of clothing!"

Meg highly exaggerated, of course, but Christine wondered what the cost must have tallied – the striking evening gown alone was surely worth thousands upon thousands of francs! At first she grew somewhat apprehensive of the Count's displeasure at what he might and she certainly did consider excessive spending. Yet he had ordered this, actually had visited the clerk with his instructions.

Why then, if he did not wish to avoid the boutique as she'd first thought, had he chosen not to accompany her?

Recalling his frequent bouts of impatience and mercurial mood swings, Christine reasoned that it was probably for the best. She doubted the Count cel Tradat would have been able to bear even five minutes of a session that had stretched over five hours, and certainly could not picture such a scenario in her mind.

On the ride to the hotel, Meg took possession of Christine's hand, rhapsodizing poetic over the dual joined rings. Not bulky or ostentatious they were elaborate in an elegant and dignified sort of way. The token wasn't simply composed of gold and gemstones but personal, as if wearing a piece of the Count, himself. And though she once shared everything with Meg – even the secret of an Angel – Christine found herself withholding information of the hidden memento mori nestled between and beneath the top gemstones. A skeleton and a baby…how strangely macabre and yet, somehow, quite touching in a now-unto-eternity sort of way, and she shivered in remembered pleasure at the chill brush of his long, slender hand as he slipped the band onto her finger …

x

The ball of an orange sun made its descent over a bustling city when the driver let Christine off at the front of the Grand Hotel, Meg wishing to stay but groaning that she should return before her mother had a conniption over her tardiness – but not before she secured a promise from Christine to visit the Opera House before leaving Paris. Christine readily agreed, having every intention to meet with her dearest friend once more.

Feeling too weary to climb five flights of steps, she took the hydraulic passenger lift, what she'd heard one of the bellboys call 'the ascending chamber.' She felt a bit nervous as the uniformed lad stationed inside its compact walls closed the grilled gate with a greeting nod and bashful smile directed her way. She told him what floor she required, and the iron box began its upward battle of a climb, the walls shaking slightly and making a raucous noise like large, thin sheets of metal being shaken, as had been the case with Erik the previous evening. Her husband's reassurance, that it was little different than the pulleys and ropes used at the theatre for hoisting, had not truly registered with her exhausted state of mind - but now she wondered how the Count would even know of such things. How would he know what went on backstage at the opera?

With her feet once more safely secure on the carpeted corridor of the topmost floor, she opened the door to their suite, eager to speak with the Count and tell him of her day. She hoped he would be amenable to all the details.

The sitting room was as dark as she left it, and Christine hurriedly lit the gas lamps in their wall holders then hesitantly approached his door and knocked.

"My lord?... Erik?" she corrected, recalling his sharp directive to address him with familiarity, not that she minded though, even after more than a week of wedded union, it still came difficult to believe her changed set of circumstances.

Silence met her query.

In resigned disappointment she took a seat on the sofa and pondered her next course of action. Deciding to read until his return, she collected the odd journal and settled down to another macabre and fanciful visit into the mind of her deranged ancestor.

… Eyes of blood red glowing like a demon's scourge could be seen through the invasive mist that came from nowhere and settled like a shroud over the land…

A strong prickle of unease brought her eyes up from the faded text. She could almost feel as if she were again cowering, terrified, in the carriage, sitting alone and vulnerable, while wild beasts prowled without, in the sudden strange fog of a dark forest...

A knock rapped against the door, breaking the silence and causing her to give a little yelp as the journal tumbled from her hands. Her heart gave a painful thud against her ribcage as she nervously collected the book and moved to the door, twisting the handle – to admit the chambermaid, there to light the fire in the hearth for the evening.

Sometime later, seated before a low, crackling blaze, another knock came once she read two more pages into the journal. This time she looked on with curious puzzlement as a bellhop wheeled in a small covered cart upon which sat a silver dome over a platter.

"I think there must be some mistake," Christine said doubtfully. "I didn't order this."

"No, my lady. I was told to deliver it."

"By whom?"

"My manager."

"Oh. I see." Erik must have made the arrangements. She may not know anything about the role of a countess, but she had some idea of what was expected, having observed gentlemen tip messengers at the Opera House. "I'm sorry. I have nothing to give you." She spread her empty hands wide in apology.

"That's quite alright, my lady. If there is nothing else you desire?"

"Thank you, no."

Once he left with a polite bow, she curiously lifted the silver dome, gasping with delight to see the meal that steamed beneath. The aroma of braised beef in red wine, with a side of steamed vegetables and what looked like potatoes au grautin made her taste buds come alive, but she noticed with a small twinge of disappointment that only one plate had been provided.

So, again the Count elected not to dine with her. Throughout their journey, he provided meals but never shared her company at one, with the excuse that he wasn't hungry or had eaten while she slept, or some other such claim that bore little credence. Certainly, he must eat; surely he could have waited. So she could only surmise that for whatever reason, he didn't wish to sit with her over a meal.

She chose not to allow the twinge of wounded dejection that accompanied his absence deter her from indulging in the feast before her. The hotel was luxurious, their chef could have cooked for kings – and she savored each bite, chewing slowly and hoping at some point the Count would make an appearance and take a seat across the table from her.

When there was still no sign of him more than an hour later, long after she finished her supper, she rang for a maid to bring water for the bath, stunned to learn the water came piped and rushing out into the wide claw-footed basin with the turn of a porcelain handle, the water heated in tanks upon the roof. She took careful note of the maid's short list of instructions, the bath designed so that servants need never tend it and the experience could be enjoyed in utter solitude – wonder of wonders...most decidedly a marked improvement over the wooden washtub at the Opera House or the sheet-covered steel basin at Montmarte.

The maid provided additional towels and left with a polite nod. Christine found that one of the crystal-cut bottles contained a delightfully scented oil, a small amount of which she poured into the heated water.

She cast an anxious, curious glance toward the closed door, though no noise had heralded the Count's return, and hurriedly stripped down to nothing.

The water was heaven, and she closed her eyes, resting her head of pinned up curls against a rolled towel along the rim. Soaking up the scented steam, every taut and aching muscle of her body uncoiled and fully relaxed for the first time in days, in weeks, the memory of all trials she'd endured forgotten…

She felt immersed in a thick haze of drenched luxury… barely cognizant and part of this realm of existence …the music sweetly floating to her from the distance…

Her eyes flew open. The music! And at once, she recognized the skill of a master.

At the knowledge that her husband had at last returned, the film of languid ease dissipated like a gust of air to an evanescent bubble. Hurriedly she exited the tub, pulled the chain of the stopper that drained the water, and toweled dry, afterward unpinning her curls and pulling over her head the fresh bed gown that rippled in a brush of silk to her ankles. Hurriedly she slipped on the matching wrapper. With nary a thought of restraint to waylay her, Christine opened the door into the sitting room.

x

The moon-drenched sky provided a contrasting backdrop and dimly outlined in electric blue, as with the glimmer of lightning, the man who stood tall and faced the bay window, with its drapery hanging flush to each side. Shadows, deep and veiled, acted as his raiment; with fluid ease and natural grace he swept the bow against the strings of his violin, the evocative music streaming from his expert fingertips.

Christine stood immobile and breathless, having barely taken a step inside the room. She was reminded of the composer Tartini, who claimed to have been visited by the devil in a dream. The devil offered his tutelage and to be a servant for the price of his soul. Tartini then challenged him to play, whereby the devil commenced to exhibit his skill on the violin with a sonata of such brilliance to capture the musician's awe.

As she watched this mysterious man of shadows, who had likewise made a significant pact to become her instructor, his dark mastery and hidden depths she had yet to comprehend or explore, she could almost believe the dream to be real… moreso when from his hands Il trillo del diavolo, the Devil's Trill Sonata, came pouring into the room in melodious rapture that surely Tartini would proclaim as mesmerizing as his dream.

Christine gasped to so suddenly hear the sonata inspired by the vision and could almost believe some mystical connection existed between them that the Count could discern her unexpressed thought…though he had yet to acknowledge her presence in the room and perhaps did not even know she was there.

He continued to play as she clutched the door's lintel, unable to rely on her legs to support her. Minutes elapsed into escalating chords of dark splendor that brought her deep into their travels, when after a series of double stop trills, the music ceased. He brought his arms down to his sides, violin in one hand, bow clasped in the other.

"Do you intend to stand there all night?" he asked without turning.

Stunned that he had evidently known she was there, Christine only watched as he turned slowly to face her. The light of the moon glanced off his black mask for an instant before his face became shadow, and in its darkness golden eyes glowed.

"Please, take a seat if you so wish." He pointed with his bow toward the short sofa. She noticed then that red embers were all that remained of the hearth's fire. Other than the moonlight streaming in from the window, the room lay in darkness.

She did as suggested, grateful for the cushions that supported weary limbs, and tucking bare feet beneath her gown, turned her body to sit so that she could look at him over the back of the sofa.

"You play so beautifully," she said little above a whisper, as if the atmosphere had become hallowed. When he didn't reply, she tried again to engage him in conversation. "I missed you at supper."

"I trust that you did not wait for me?"

"I did. But I soon realized you weren't going to join me."

He offered neither apology nor reason for his absence.

"Perhaps tomorrow we might have supper together?" she softly broached the invitation.

He considered her a moment. "Tomorrow, we shall resume with your lessons."

Not a commitment to dine in her company, but at least it was a claim on her time. She had been surprised by just how much she had missed him, for having known the Count such a short few weeks and barely sharing more than a kiss…

At the reminder of that day by the forest edge, her eyes lowered to the suggestion of the curve of his lower lip beneath the mask, and her lips tingled with the passionate memory. The recollection of his hands holding and touching her body, stroking her sensitive skin with their chill, brought a flush of warmth to flesh that was bare beneath the voluminous bed gown.

"How do you know Madame Giry?" she exhaled in a rush of words, to divert her mind from that day. "Meg told me you were there," she explained, when the resulting silence grew intolerable.

One slow nod of acknowledgement was all he offered. "I trust that your shopping excursion met with success..."

Christine let out a soft, exasperated breath. So, he had no intention of satisfying her curiosity, but at least he had not shelved all communication and sent her to her room as was customary when he had no desire to talk. She supposed she should be grateful for that small blessing.

"The experience was tiring but pleasant, as was the opportunity I had to visit with Meg. Thank you for making that possible." He inclined his head in another nod, and she went on. "This boutique owner also insisted on more selections than what I felt was necessary. For that, I am sorry."

"Must you always feel the need to apologize!" It was hardly a question, stated with impatience, and turning, he tensely strode to the window. "You require clothing. I am here to grant your need. Accept it." He again looked her way. "You should be outfitted with the best, befitting a countess, and nothing less."

Christine had no idea when and where she would wear the many splendid gowns and said somewhat doubtfully, "Yes, well, I hope you will still approve when you receive the bill."

"Is that an addition to the accouterments of what to expect?"

His tone deepened to rich velvet, warm and totally unexpected, the shock absolute when, save for their short intimacy aboard the ferry, she received only cool, aloof distance from him.

In the shadowed darkness, his golden eyes seemed to melt her in their fire, dropping lower, as if the scrolled backrest that hid most of her from his keen observation did not exist. A silk nightgown of pale ivory with lace-edged neckline and pearl-button cuffs was what he alluded to, what at the time Christine thought an unnecessary extravagance when she could just as easily sleep in her chemise as she'd done all her adult life. With the manner in which his eyes now devoured her, even though his renewed interest did unnerve her, she knew that the purchase had not been a mistake.

"Yes," she responded, a shy waver to her voice. "The boutique owner sent a few things with me. The rest of my wardrobe should arrive in a week."

He nodded, unsurprised. But then, he had been there, ahead of her, and perhaps had already been informed...

"I missed you today," she blurted and wished she could retrieve her words when he abruptly turned aside. She forced down the twinge of hurt this caused. "It is only that – I'm not accustomed to spending more than a few hours of time by myself, and cannot even remember the last time I ate alone, before knowing you. Even at Montmarte, I was expected to join the family for meals."

He took his time carefully setting violin and bow atop the piano then took a seat on its bench, facing her.

"I presume you spent a great deal of time with that boy while you were at Montmarte."

That boy…

"Raoul?"

At his curt nod, she wondered if his sudden clipped tone could be construed as... jealousy? But no, that was absurd, and she mentally chided herself for entertaining the small vanity that he would care in the slightest about whatever beau she formerly entertained. She almost told him she'd never had a beau and certainly could never regard her cousin as one, but she refrained. It was rather nice to have his full and undivided attention, like in the first weeks of their association.

"Living under the same roof, we did speak to one another every day." She lightly shrugged. At his deepening frown, she added, "We've been friends since childhood, though it's been years since I've seen him – and I only just met Lucy this fall." She shifted so that she sat up a little straighter. "May I now ask a question?"

"It seems you have had no end to them since first we met. Why ask permission now?"

The thread of amusement in his voice encouraged her and she smiled.

"Meg mentioned that she thinks the Opera House has gained a new patron. Is that you?"

He hesitated with what to say though thankfully did not change the subject yet again.

"I have long held an interest in the arts, as you have come to know. To give financial aid to the establishment that helped to shape my wife's career in the theatre seems a worthy endeavor. Do you disagree?"

To hear him speak of her as his wife made her blood tingle with warmth. "No. I was only surprised."

"I must confess, I was not overly impressed with the reigning diva," he admitted, "and considered withdrawing my patronage then and there."

Her smile grew. "Few are - in the theatre at any rate; she does appear to draw the public. La Carlotta came to sing at the Opera House when I was twelve and has been with them ever since."

"You spent all your years there?" he asked softly.

"For the most part. Holidays and Sundays I spent with a guardian my parents had arranged for me…should, should anything happen to them. As it did." She blinked away the sudden moisture that welled to her eyes and distorted her vision.

"You never told me how they died..."

His words were low and gentle, a coveted reassurance to confide, and readily she did.

"An accident, I was told. Their carriage went over the side of a cliff. That's all I know."

"You were very young then, when it happened."

"I was six. Old enough to remember them, though the years have muddied what memories I have. They died a few months after I almost drowned at sea." She sighed. "After leaving the cemetery, Madame Giry took me to train as a student, and I lived in the ballet dormitories from that time until I left for Montmarte, also visiting Mama Valerius, until she died this spring…. When I was a child and newly orphaned, I called myself Lotte for a time, because I wanted to be anyone other than who I was – a made-up person, like the characters who lived in fairytales with happily ever after. I wanted to pretend. I wanted to forget…"

She despised the insecurity that crept into her voice, and closed her eyes against it.

"I promise you, Christine, I will never abandon you."

His quiet words held a tremor of emotion she couldn't name but helped to soothe away the unspoken fear that continually haunted – to be left all alone in the world – and she buried deep any lingering apprehension that stemmed from a marriage vow with a termination of one year.

"Will you play for me?"

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Erik never took his eyes from Christine as he granted her soft-spoken request.

She smiled so sweetly, her expression grateful, as she settled down to lay within moonlight's soft blanket. An illuminated angel in repose. The gown's inherent shimmer failed to surpass the lustrous sheen of her face, her throat, the delicate structure of her collarbone...the faint shadow of her cleavage a mere suggestion in the washed-white brilliance of the celestial glow to her skin. As she lay with eyes closed, her dark lashes feathered upon pale cheeks, his eyes feasted upon her beauty, never wishing to stray from the serene picture she made.

He should not allow such scrutiny but could not seem to prevent himself from meeting the need he struggled with daily: to look, to watch, to memorize...if never again to touch…

Upon his return to the suite, before he engaged in the devilish sonata of Tartini, he had spotted her journal on the floor near the sofa. He had suffered no remorse to delve within its yellowed pages, for on the train, she had begun the deception, her eyes twin betrayers to her words. And he had been right to suspect her from concealing the truth. Grimly and with haste he had scanned the spidery script of faded brown ink.

Thanks to a wretched ancestor, she had been apprised of her destiny to hunt out and destroy his kind, now aware that such monsters existed. The journal provided, no doubt, by the irksome boy at Montmarte who disrupted his plans with every breath. The Count's scowl had deepened as he read such pathetic accounts, at its end ready to throw the telltale book into what remained of the fire. With stalwart resolve, he had dropped it back to the floor where she left it, giving no heed to the fragility of such an ancient text - (why had it not disintegrated into crumbling ash decades ago?) - and picked up his violin, pouring out his angry frustration into difficult sonatas with intricate techniques. Though after a hundred years' practice, The Devil's Trill had passed with supreme ease through his fingertips and in guiding the bow.

He had played the sonata for her through the chapel wall, so long ago, when he told her the story of how it evolved. Any other child of such tender years might have been bored or not understood, but Christine, then Lotte, had always shown an intelligence that surpassed her peers. She was exquisite, in mind and form, and deserved so much more than a scarred monster for a husband; she deserved a normal life with a normal man.

But any hope of normality had long been stolen from her before he swept into her path, with the first Van Helsing to challenge the Voivode of Wallachia. Her ancestor's curse had destined her to be eternally different from all other mortals, as he was also different. Each of them from two extremes – she, belonging to the daylight, as the mark of the sun that branded her flesh testified; he, as a prince that ruled the darkness – but neither of them fitting into the simple caste of ordinary mankind, no matter how they would wish it.

And that made her nearly as cursed as he... nearly.

Perhaps it was fortunate that she had come to recognize her destiny. It would put her on her guard against those who might, even now, seek her death... would always seek her death...

Though they would have to come through him to attempt it!

She stirred in her slumber, her actions fretful, her delicate brows pulling together in distress. He glided the bow over the strings into a gentler melody, to ease her journey through dreamscape, but her apprehension did not dissolve.

"Angel!" she cried out as her eyes flew open in terror. She gasped in desperately, gulping for each shattered breath, and shot to sit halfway up, clutching the back of the sofa like a lifeline as if pulling herself out of a bog. Though her breathing settled as she became more aware, he could not refrain from moving around the sofa to crouch down before her. His hand lifted to touch her shoulder.

"Christine…"

She twisted to face him, her small hands grasping his arm and his wrist in desperation. In her eyes he glimpsed the shadow of the child he'd once known, the same fear he then glimpsed now clouding their midnight-dark orbs.

"I was in the chapel," she whimpered, still in the obvious throes of a nightmare. "I heard my angel call out to me, but I couldn't find him. Everywhere I went, I came across the devil, laughing at me and calling me his. I ran into a room filled with water. I fell in and was drowning, and I cried because I knew he was right – he'd caught me, and I was his…"

His hands moved to gently cup her head, his long fingers embedded in her soft messy curls, his thumbs brushing the delicate bones of her cheeks beneath anxious eyes.

"There is nothing to fear, Christine. Listen to me, it was no more than a dream, likely brought on by the sonata I played earlier; I saw the recognition of it in your eyes. And I regret giving you a moment's distress. Do not doubt that I will fight every demon that confronts you, to keep you safe. Do you believe me?"

Her lips trembled as she gave a slight, trusting nod, and he wanted nothing more than to taste of their sweetness, to cover her in a thousand kisses until she forgot every wisp of darkness that ever threatened.

What irony! – when he was the chief reason such darkness existed.

Her breath warmed his flesh, causing him to realize how near to her he'd drawn. Rather than taunt temptation, he swiftly brought his lips to her brow, pressing and holding them against the slight wrinkles of worry still creased there. His skin was perpetually chilled, but hers was much too warm, a singe to his cold, dead lips.

"You are flushed," he said in concern, drawing back. "Do you feel ill?"

"A little woozy. I think, because of the dream."

He frowned. He was impervious to the cold, but she was not, and the clothing she had come to him in was wretchedly deficient against the rain and wind that had preceded them into Paris. "I would not wish you to become ill. You must go to bed and try to rest."

Before he could fully withdraw from her, she grabbed his hand.

"Would you hold me? Please? Only until I feel a bit calmer. I wouldn't ask, only... I don't think I can go into that strange, dark room alone right now."

A far cry from the courageous crusader who braved a dark and dangerous forest to seek out his aid, and he realized just how much the dream must have unsettled her. She had been born a slayer, predestined to kill, but she was also a young, vulnerable woman, at times in need of comfort. His comfort. And as her husband, it was his place to provide all of what she needed, though he should not agree to this...

To accept such an invitation in the intimacy of private quarters under the cover of night was reckless and foolhardy. But whenever she reached out to him, he found he could not deny her... especially not now, when she looked up at him with her dark eyes so anxious and pleading.

Slowly he moved to sit on the cushion where she pulled her legs away to make room for him. Tentatively she shifted to rest against him, as though afraid he might order her away. Just as hesitant, he moved his arm around her, barely allowing sleeve and fingers to submit to touch, all the while trying not to notice how each soft curve pressed against his side with only thin silk to act as a barrier. He inhaled a trembling breath and felt her shiver.

"You're always so cold," she murmured against his lapel.

His muscles stiffened at the reminder of his curse. "Forgive me. I meant to cause no discomfort."

Hurriedly he pulled his arm from her, but before he could make his absence more permanent, she brought her own arm lightly to rest across his middle. "It's no discomfort."

His eyes fell shut at the jolt of bliss that shot through his veins to hear her quiet admission, to have her so willingly press close to him, accepting him as he was, even as the hopelessness of their situation sharpened his rationale.

This was... impossible. To allow such intimacy... inconceivable...

And still, he remained.

In the moon-drenched darkness, Erik hummed to her softly as he had on the ferry, with his cheek against her soft curls. Soon, her breathing grew even and he knew she again slept. With care, he withdrew his light hold from around her slender form, shifting her to lay against the cushions, not daring to trust himself to put his hands on her nearly naked body and carry her off to her bed. Not when the warmth of her was so addicting, so essential. Not when the need to become one with her and exult inside her warmth had never dissipated throughout these long, unendurable days and weeks but only increased with the passage of each new dawn.

And now... now, she was his wife, the devil within taunted, as the desire for her became difficult to surmount. In the eyes of the world and the law by which these mortals lived, she belonged to him alone. He could take her, as was his right. Within the shield of darkness, she need never know of the two most wicked afflictions that plagued him. A week in her constant presence, and she had not once guessed his true nature despite the illumination of the foul journal - her skills still green, perhaps not wholly discovered or pronounced enough to detect the truth of his ruin; while he had undergone centuries of practice to conceal and control...It could work...to make Christine fully his in the flesh, curbing any impulse to sink his fangs into her and keeping them well hidden...

But no! He had made her a promise, his blackened conscience dictated, and by that promise, he must abide.

Retrieving his cloak from a chair, Erik resolutely covered her neck to foot in plum satin and brushed wool, allowing one stroke of an errant curl from her eyes, before straightening to stand.

"My angelic Countess," he whispered, looking down at her, sleeping so sweetly, so trusting. "How can I tell you it is all true? That I am the monster you were warned to hunt out, to kill…That I am the devil you run from in your darkest of dreams, who once masqueraded as an angel to deceive you… I cannot. Forgive me. I am selfish, in that I cannot let you go. And in that knowledge, I damn us both."

One vile secret closely followed the next, like a wicked line of dominoes, each more damning than the last. And when one fell, the rest were sure to topple and corrupt, if not destroy …He was a scarred, disfigured freak; he was a demonic monster who fed on life blood…

And he was her erstwhile Angel of Music whom she had never forgotten.

The Count's eyes fell shut in the wretchedness of his despair. He should never have re-entered her life. Once he recognized that she was both his enemy and his angel, he should have left her alone and watched over her from afar, ensuring that no harm would come to her. He could have manipulated her great uncle into forgetfulness of the marriage pact arranged with the old lecher, had he truly wanted to. But some strain of yearning humanity that still existed within his dark, barren soul wanted a living bride…

Wanted his Christine.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter XX

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

The morning began like any other, nothing unique to set it off from the rest.

Christine woke to the dawn beaming through a crack between heavy, swagged curtains and slipped from her bed, having awakened in the dead of night to find herself alone in the sitting room and lying on the sofa, with his cloak to warm her. The terror of the nightmare behind her and barely a memory, she felt foolish for acting so infantile and had taken herself to bed, burrowing deep beneath the thick, down coverlet, Erik's gentle touch of hours ago her last thought before again surrendering to slumber.

She washed, she dressed, she combed out and pulled back her unruly curls with a black velvet ribbon. All routine tasks done with the start of each new dawn. Yet as she parted the damask drape and stared out the window at the waking city, she knew that something about this day was different, that nothing would ever be the same again.

Not one given to premonitions, she tried to shake off the troublesome feeling. She could not place the disquiet that stirred inside her soul, could find no apparent reason for its existence, but she sensed a pivotal change on the horizon… or perhaps, an event that had already transpired.

Gentle strains of music came from the adjoining room, from the piano this time, and she took a deep calming breath at the welcome interruption, before going to join her new husband and teacher.

He sat in profile to her, his posture as tall and elegant as ever, and though he faced the window, the heavy draperies had been closed against the dawning day. It made sense, she supposed, the large picture window facing east and the early morning sun blinding to the eyes. Twin candelabras had been lit so the room was not too dim, and the fire in the hearth crackled a merry greeting.

He turned his upper body on the bench to look at her, where she stood on the threshold of the sitting room.

"Good morning," she said, feeling somewhat awkward after last night's foolish lapse into fear – and over nothing more than an illogical dream.

"Let us hope so," he replied and turned back to the piano, recommencing to play. "I trust you are feeling well enough for a lesson?"

"Yes, I would like that." She brought her hands together, clasping them in her skirts. "About last night, I want to say that I'm sorry…"

His hand briefly went up in a motion to stop her. "Christine, never again apologize to me. Not for anything you have done or ever will do in the future. I assure you, I have much more cause to regret my actions and seek absolution, if that were possible, than you ever will merit for any minor infraction you may have committed."

Regret? Did he regret his marriage to her…? His voice came somber, though without impatience, and she ducked her head and submissively nodded though he couldn't see her.

"There is tea on the table if you wish it and breakfast pastries, though I do not recommend indulging until after the lesson."

"Yes, alright." As he resumed the gentle melody, she moved to pour tea into a teacup, adding a slice of lemon from those provided in a bowl. She took several sips, grateful for its warmth washing through her body, before moving to stand beside him.

"Shall we begin?" He motioned to the bow of the piano, where she obediently went to stand.

After he took her through scales and warm-ups, they barely made a dent into the lesson, when he abruptly ceased to play, his gaze remaining on his poised hands fixed to the keys.

"It is beyond my knowledge how you could have grown up at the Opera House, and yet no instructor there taught you the correct way to stand when you sing." He looked up at her then, his eyes golden points of accusation.

"In the chorus, we move as we sing – we dance," she said in her defense. "I cannot recall ever simply standing while I sang on stage, always as part of a group; so no, no one taught me."

"Such mediocrity is unacceptable," he told her, his words softer yet just as stern. "You must first learn the proper technique while standing immobile, and later incorporate that technique into the dance. I assume you have seen a marionette in use?"

At the odd question that came from nowhere, she nodded.

"Strings hold the head upright and arms in place. I want you to imagine that such strings run from the top of your head and shoulders, pulling ever upward…yes, exactly that. Now sing."

He played a little longer this time, carrying her through the stanza, but upon the held note, he again ceased to play. And she ceased to sing.

"No, that's not right," he said, rising from his bench. "Carry the note. Again."

She let the sound pour from her lips and watched in confusion as he advanced, only to slip behind her. A dizzying rush of warmth swept through her veins at his nearness, though his lean body never once made contact with any part of her form. He brought his hand forward with fingers extended a bare fraction from her skirts, slightly angling it as he slowly lifted his hand along the periphery of her form, following its shape, never once touching. And though he must have whispered near her ear, she heard the words as though they came from inside her head -

"Let the note come from your belly and flow upward, like a fountain…"

The air between his hand and her body felt charged, electric. She could feel his movement, a slight stir, a waft of pressure, with the gradual sweep of his ever-ascending hand, as though he touched her…

And she wished, how she wished that he would!

She continued to carry the high note, letting it soar and nearly swaying with need as his open hand smoothed a graceful arc over the scant bit of air that curved along the top of her breasts and collarbone, enough to feel the welcome trickle of cold emanate from his hand against her bare skin, the fine hairs unseen to the eye rising vainly to meet him.

Flesh meeting flesh – oh, how she wanted what he would no longer grant!

To nearly be touched was as riveting and evocative an experience as to feel the soft caress of his chill hands upon her, the hazy memory of what she once believed a dream burning clear in her mind like a brand.

Her limbs trembled, her very bones felt liquefied. Unable to remain steady as his fingers clenched into a euphoric fist, meeting and ascending near her throat and rising above her head, her sustained breath came near its end, and she rocked back on her heels, her shoulder blades brushing his chest. She felt his muscles jump and tighten against her back but he did not move away, and as she let the note die a soft death, she leaned her head back ever so slightly, until it rested against the breadth of his shoulder.

For a breathless measure of time, they stood like that, a living statue barely touching, the air thrumming in the silence around them.

And then the moment was shattered as he dropped his hand back down to his side and retreated a step, slowly, so that she would not fall and could regain her balance.

"Did you notice the difference?" he asked, his deep voice slightly hoarse, and she sensed he had likewise been affected. But whereas he had a voice, she could find no breath to answer.

As he returned to the bench and the keyboard, she longed to ask what had changed between them that he no longer took the initiative, as he had done in her bedchamber on the night that seemed as if it belonged to another era, after the ball. As he had done at the festival and in the forest. She wanted his touch, yearned for it with every beat of her floundering heart, and that stunned her into remaining silent and giving only a nod to his abrupt question when he again turned his eyes upon her in expectation.

Somehow she found a voice to sing and the lesson resumed, absent of any further contact, near-physical or otherwise. Once complete, she counted the tutorial short but successful. Before she could inquire what they might do next, perhaps suggest a carriage drive through the city, he made his excuses that he had business to attend and reached for his cloak and hat.

She watched, a bit stunned by his swift retreat, but before he could exit through the door, she called to him, "Will you be back in time to share supper with me?"

He halted, his shoulders stiffening, but did not turn to look at her. "If you wish it," he said after a brief hesitation and strode out the door before she could offer acknowledgement or gratitude.

Well then...

She puzzled over this new brand of taciturn behavior toward her but did not dwell on it, lest she drive herself to drink. And with three decanters of spirits in the suite, there was plenty to be had.

With an extensive amount of time on her hands and nothing to do to pass the hours but delve further into what was left of the dubious adventures of Heinrik Van Helsing, Christine grabbed an iced pastry with pecan filling and reluctantly picked up the journal from the floor where she had dropped it. Nibbling at the treat, she took up where she had left off, reading the small remainder of yellowed pages until its conclusion, but coming nowhere nearer to accepting Raoul's belief in otherworldly monstrosities of the night.

Did he truly think this would change her mind?

Rising from the sofa, she brushed tiny bits of icing from her hands and moved to the bay window, pulling aside the heavy drape. She looked out over the bustling city, the summit of the Opera House catching her eye, its golden statues there reflecting a brilliant flash of the sun's rays and seeming to beckon her return.

Recalling her promise to Meg to visit, she considered the present to be perfectly acceptable and hurried to fetch cloak, scarf and gloves. The weather had dipped in temperature overnight; she had felt the extreme chill through the damp pane. Snow did not usually fall until later in the season, but it wasn't entirely unheard of for it to happen this close to the Yuletide. Visions of sleigh rides bundled up next to Erik were perhaps a foolish fancy, too absurd to seriously consider. Still, she could scarce believe that the festive end of the year was almost upon them, a matter of a fortnight away, and she looked forward to decorating the castle...

And she could scarce believe that she had become another year older but more importantly, she hoped, a great deal wiser.

Intending to walk the few blocks in the crisp air of early afternoon, she presumed it was nearing the close of rehearsal and hoped to time her arrival to share luncheon with Meg.

After rattling down in the moving chamber to the lobby she gratefully escaped the metal conveyance, once the boy drew the cage door back, and approached the exit doors.

"My lady," she heard from behind but did not slow her pace.

"Countess cel Tradat, please, one moment!"

Realizing with a start that the concierge addressed her and wondering if she would ever grow accustomed to hearing herself called by that title, Christine turned and gave him an inquisitive smile.

A bespectacled man with a thick paunch and rather large waxed mustache that curled at the ends and extended past his cheeks, he gave her a polite nod of greeting.

"If you wish to visit the city, I will order a carriage for you."

"Thank you, but that's not necessary," she declined. "I'm only going to the Opera House."

"The Count specifically ordered that if you leave the hotel, I was to order a carriage to take you where you wished to go."

"But – that's silly," she tried again. "It's only a few blocks away and the sun is out."

"His note was very insistent," the man said, and she saw a hint of dread in his pale-colored eyes, as if nervous she might refuse the privilege. "Please, do reconsider."

Had the Count penned him a note containing a threat if he failed to carry out his instructions? It seemed farfetched, but she did not wish to cause the concierge to have heart palpitations, and she could see by his reddened face and altered breathing he was fast approaching the possibility.

"Oh, very well," she sighed. "Arrange for a carriage then."

"There is a carriage waiting outside," he assured with visible relief, opening the door for her and abruptly motioning to the driver who sat atop the nearby conveyance. To Christine's surprise she saw two additional horse and carriages standing alongside the wide street behind the one to which she was led, their drivers also at the ready, obviously in wait for whatever guest had need of transport. No doubt an amenity offered by the hotel.

The driver quickly jumped down from his high seat and offered Christine assistance into the carriage. Within minutes, he delivered her to the front of the Opera House, stating he would wait for her return. Uncertain how she felt about what she deemed unnecessary attention, she offered a tepid smile and entered what had been her home for over a decade.

The stalwart doorman recognized her by the lift of his brows, and though he did not ask why she'd not entered by way of the back entrance for thespians' use, he clearly thought it. Evidently, word of her change in status had not yet spread throughout the theatre, for which she was glad. She did not want to have to deal with curious stares or countless questions from every member of crew and chorus. Perhaps it would be different if the Count had married her for love; then she would delight in having news of her nuptials spread far and wide and wouldn't mind the attention so much. Yet, though he professed that he would never abandon her and had extended toward her the surety of his protection, Erik clearly wanted little to do with her as a companion. Besides the lessons, of course. At least she did have that.

She arrived earlier than planned had she walked the three blocks, and music from within the theatre told her that rehearsal was still underway. A peek inside the door that stood ajar showed her the chorus enacting a ballet from what she presumed by the costumes to be a repeated production of La nuit de Noël, ou L'anniversair, a comedic opera set on Christmas Eve. She spotted Meg immediately in the midst of a graceful pirouette followed by an effortless plié. Deciding to walk around to the rear of the building and stand in the wings to watch, rather than move through the auditorium door and take a seat in one of the darkened theatre's many rows, Christine took a corridor that twisted and led backstage.

As she walked by Madame Giry's office, she heard a man's raised voice beyond the closed door and stopped in curious shock.

That voice, she would know it anywhere. But - what on earth was the Count doing here? Not to mention it was quite unusual that Madame wasn't overseeing the rehearsal...

Christine recalled Erik's new and surprising patronage at the theatre and decided his presence must have something to do with that and her former ballet teacher was somehow involved. Before she could bring herself to walk away, she heard Madame Giry say her name.

They were discussing her?

Knowing she should not listen in, Christine couldn't help herself, puzzled as to why she would be their topic of conversation. She pressed her ear to the door near the crack, their voices now louder but still a bit muffled, though she could make out most of what was spoken.

"My reasons do not concern you," her husband said, ice frosting his words.

"Pardon, Monsieur, but they do. She is to me like a daughter. Why, after all this time, have you sought her out? Then, I said nothing. Your time with Christine changed her and helped her in her great time of sorrow. But you left without word and destroyed what little you had mended in her young heart."

Christine gasped, bringing fingers that slightly trembled to lips that had parted in shock.

"I repeat, Madame, I will not give account for my actions! You have been my aide in past years, and for that I am grateful. But I owe you no explanation..."

Their voices grew muffled again, softer, but Christine doubted she could make sense of them if they shouted the words in her face. Her mind was a fog of whirling uncertainty in the midst of such troubling revelations. Silently she questioned if what she'd heard truly meant what she thought, or if somehow she had misunderstood…

Not wishing to be caught lingering at the threshold, she turned aside, too upset to give any thought to a quiet escape. Her steps were swift, almost at a run, and thudded against the wooden floor. She sought familiar corridors to the quiet chamber where she had always gone to find respite…

To find an angel.

Slowly she paced the flagstones between each stand of memorial candelabrum, wringing gloved hands at her waist, now and then darting a troubled glance to the large window of stained glass and the angel frozen in hues of blue and green that looked down on her from above.

All along, in her womanhood, she had known her Angel of Music was no true celestial being as the child she had been once thought. He was only a man who engaged in a masquerade… a cruel and hurtful masquerade.

A step on the stones alerted her to a new presence. The air itself seemed to shift in nervous expectation, and before she turned, she knew who had joined her.

The Count's considerable height and breadth of shoulder filled the opening where he observed her. He stood, a cloaked black shadow, outlined in firelight that glowed from behind and rimmed the arched entryway. His demeanor detached, calm, silent. Yet the look in golden eyes that caught the flames of a nearby brazier and made them burn brighter was anything but nonchalant.

"I thought I would find you here," he said quietly.

"Why?" The hurt and confusion of her discovery propelled her words. "Why here. Of all the many chambers in this vast theatre, why did you think to find me here?"

"You spoke of fond memories in visiting this place, of how special it was to you…"

"Of finding my Angel inside?" she added with a determined lift of her chin.

He said nothing, and that only raised her vexation another notch.

"And have I, Erik?" She stepped close to him, glaring up into his eyes beyond the mask. "Have I found my Angel?" she gave a bitter twist to the words that he could not miss.

His eyes narrowed. "We should return to the hotel. This is not the time or the place for this discussion. Come."

He moved to grab her arm, but she wrested it from his grasp and took a step back the instant his fingers put pressure to her sleeve.

"I disagree. This is the perfect place to speak of such things – the place where it all began. Over there…" She jabbed a finger toward the memorial stand by the stained glass window. "A little girl knelt and prayed for an angel to come, and he did. And over there…" She brushed at her lashes and the wretched tears that had risen to film her eyes. "A little girl waited and waited and begged for that same angel to come – and he never did!"

"Christine, calm yourself," he said with rising impatience.

She was acting hysterical, she knew it, she hated it, but she couldn't help herself.

"Will you at least admit the truth? Will you admit that what I overheard you and Madame Giry discussing is what I believe it to be? Will you just say the wretched words – and then for God's sake, please explain to me why?"

"You should not have eavesdropped. Your curious nature could put you in peril one day. I have no wish to see that happen."

"Is that all you have to say to me?"

The silence thickened like a suffocating blanket as Christine waited in vain for him to respond and satisfy her need to know, her need to hear it. To her chagrin, the soft scuffle of footsteps approached, and Meg appeared through the archway in her shimmering, ice-blue bodice, tutu and slippers.

"Oh! Excusez-moi, I thought…" She looked visibly shaken to see the masked Count there, then quickly turned her eyes toward Christine. "Jammes said she saw you in the corridor and that you seemed upset. I thought you might have come here. Is everything alright?"

"I will give you ladies some privacy." The Count gave a quick, curt nod and slipped out the door, like a shadow escaping the sun.

Christine took an immediate step after him, but Meg grabbed her shoulder, causing Christine to turn impatiently in question.

"I don't know what's going on between you two, and maybe I have no right to stick my nose in where it's unwanted, but perhaps you should give yourselves both time to calm down, mon ami. Nothing that needs to be said cannot wait." Meg regarded her with an apologetic smile. "I have to get back on stage – Maman has me doing extra practice for the day I missed. I just wanted to make sure you were alright. But if you need to talk, I can stay," she amended, peering more closely at Christine's strained features.

Meg had been her sole confidant in their youth, on up through the time Christine left for Montmarte; and though it would certainly release a burden to speak of what she was now sure could be labeled as Erik's wretched deceit, some strain of undeserved loyalty held her back.

"I'm fine, Meg," she said more calmly. "We will talk again. Go. You don't want your mother to come searching for you. She might add on additional practices."

Meg scrunched her nose in agreement, and with a last squeeze to Christine's arm, she hurried away.

No more than a minute had elapsed since her devious bridegroom swept out of the chapel, and Christine braced her shoulders with every intention of catching up to him and finishing what was started.

x

Flummoxed, she stood in the end of the empty corridor, uncertain where to go next.

Christine had taken the steps that wound up from the chapel and searched the long corridor running alongside it, peeking into its chambers, but could find Erik nowhere. How could he just disappear seemingly into thin air? And yet, she thought with a wry twist of her lips, how often had he done just that!

Feeling she had nothing to lose in the attempt, she took a nearby exit outside near the back of the theatre. An alleyway stood between her and the street that led to their hotel, and her heart gave a triumphant leap when, in the shadowed distance, she spotted a cloaked figure in retreat.

"Erik!" she called out, but the man continued walking as if he did not hear her.

Or perhaps he did.

Recalling their altercation at the forest's edge and how he had tried to escape her then, she tamped down any residual temper and decided to go after him.

She brushed off the unrest that nipped at her heels once she left the minimal warmth of winter sunlight and hurried into the cold, dark alley. The sloping roofs overhung on opposite sides, almost touching, so that little daylight could slip through, the back walls of these close buildings high enough that the sun on its evening decline could not reach within.

She came within several feet of him. And in the instant when she realized she'd erred – this man wasn't tall enough to be her husband – he turned.

"Well, well, what have we here?"

His accent was similar to the Count's though certainly this man's voice couldn't hold a candle to the beauty that was Erik's. Like Erik, she presumed him to be in his late twenties or early thirties, with similar hair that shone black as a raven's wing. But rather than the mesmerizing gold of her husband's eyes, this stranger had orbs of soulless black.

"A mistake," she said, backing up a step. "Pardon. I thought you were someone else."

"I do not believe in mistakes," he countered, sizing her up and down like a feral wolf to a cornered lamb. "Now then, do not be afraid, my pretty mademoiselle…"

As he spoke, her gloved hand scrambled beneath her cloak for the dagger in her reticule.

"It will all be over soon," he continued, his voice lowering to a raspy growl, his piercing eyes intent on hers.

Another baited few seconds and he lunged. Immediately she sidestepped and twisted fully around so that she was behind him, a response she gave no thought to; but the astonishment at her swiftness and dexterity was mirrored in his dark eyes as he turned them her way. She withdrew the cloth-wrapped weapon from inside her cloak.

He barked out a laugh. "What do you intend to do with that? Will you shed tears of fright and beg for my mercy?"

"No," she said, willing her voice not to tremble. "I have something better in mind."

Whipping off the large napkin, she held aloft her blade as Raoul had taught, willing her hand not to shake. For once, she blessed his persistence to train her.

Her attacker appeared dissuaded for a brief few seconds, but the return of his lecherous grin made her stomach bunch in knots. He had a hungry look in those evil eyes that appalled her. She circled back to her original spot, hoping to flee to the Opera House at first opportunity. He followed her steps, circling toward her, each step bringing him a little closer.

"And you think to harm me with that toy?"

"If you attempt to touch me, I mean to try."

A scuff of a shoe sounded to her left. Backing up from the known danger another few steps, she hastily turned her head to survey the unknown threat. A boy stood near, having just stepped out from an open door, behind which the room lay in darkness. He was thin and gangly, perhaps thirteen, the look in his eyes one of despair and not harm.

"Boy," she said to him, "Go - run for help!"

Frozen in place, he glanced from her to the man in nervous terror, and Christine sensed a familiarity in that look. Did the child know this beast?

Out of the corner of her eye, a blur of shadow swiftly advanced. With no thought to hesitation, she swung her blade in an upward arc, making contact with his forearm he no doubt had raised to grab her. The fiend let out an unholy yell, grabbing his wounded appendage close and staring at it then her in befuddled anger.

"Who the devil are you?" he hissed.

Christine trembled and blinked the last errant tears from her eyes, sure their moisture was what made it appear as if tendrils of steam wafted up from where the blade had made contact with his sleeve. That or the freezing cold caused the vaporous smoke; there could be no other explanation.

Before she could form a response, a voice called out from behind.

"Let her go."

A strange thing to say, in light of the present scene, Christine the one holding the dagger aloft, with her attacker keeping distance between them and holding his wounded arm. Yet she was grateful to hear that dark velvet voice and know that Erik had arrived to put an end to this madness.

"Ah," the scoundrel said. "Good of you to join us."

She felt the Count brush up behind and rest a light hand against her shoulder. "Take the carriage that awaits and return to our temporary abode," he instructed, his voice low. "Go now. I will meet you there."

Christine wavered, wishing he would come with her, but when she turned to ask it, she caught the fire blazing in his eyes and felt assured that he could take care of himself.

"Oh, but don't send her away," the fiend hissed. "Let her join in the fun. Let us make it a - what is it you French call it? A ménage à trois?"

Christine hurriedly retraced her steps to the theatre. Once assured she was out of earshot, Erik turned eyes of pure hatred upon his nemesis.

"What the devil do you want?" he growled. "Why are you here?"

"You know what I want," Nicolae replied. "Your kingdom, your throne – which by all rights should be mine!"

The Count huffed out a breath of annoyance at the churl's claim, which had grown stale he'd heard it so often. Though both were the eldest of their kind and evenly matched in wit and skills, Erik had one advantage, and well his enemy knew it.

"Leave Paris, Nicolae. Never return. You are not welcome here."

"What is the woman to you?" the fool had the audacity to ponder. "A pet to warm the scarred carcass of the beast? I did not smell death on her and she wielded silver, so you have not yet turned the wench, though doubtless you will. And doubtless you will end her when she becomes of no use to you, as you did with Daria!"

Behind the mask, Erik winced at the reminder of the girl but outwardly maintained his rigid stance.

"Leave now, Nicolae!"

"I have no interest in sojourning in such a city. I have come only to tell you that this is not over between us, Erik son of Florin. I will take from you all that is yours, I will destroy all that you hold dear – and I, Nicolae Lupei, shall rule the darkness and come out the victor!"

He disappeared in the next breath, to whatever wretched home he had claimed, and Erik was hard-pressed not to take his ire out on the boy.

"Why are you still here?" he clipped, turning swiftly on his heel to confront him. "Did I not tell you to leave Paris with all haste and go to Berwickshire?"

Archer jumped up from where he had crouched and snatched something off the ground.

"I could not, Sire. The train that would take me there leaves only by day."

The Count cursed his rare forgetfulness. "Come to my suite at the Grand Hotel once it is dark. The top floor. Room 501. Do not tarry."

With that he turned on his heel and left the boy, anticipating the meeting with Christine, to see that she was safe and truly unharmed, while dreading what would come of it. Her damnable curiosity and penchant to uncover the truth was a bane to his existence at the moment, bringing him to an encounter he had hoped never to face.

Yet if questions must come, he would prefer them to be about what she eavesdropped to overhear and not about what they had just encountered.

There was no doubt in his mind that had she not been a slayer, he would have arrived to a far different scene minutes ago, one grotesque and deplorable. And though she did not yet understand the depth of her innate skills and he hoped she never would, this one time he was grateful for their existence.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Once Christine alighted from the carriage, she shunned the ascending chamber, having no desire to be entrapped in a cage at the moment, and hurriedly took the staircase of the hotel up to the top floor. She swept past Suite 502, the only other apparent room on this level, an oddity she previously never stopped to consider, for certainly the hotel contained more than two rooms per floor.

A shaky breath of relief escaped her lungs once the door was shut firmly behind her. She turned the lock and removed the brass key, aware Erik had a duplicate. Only when she dropped the key into her reticule did she withdraw the dagger from where she haphazardly stuffed it as she fled the alley, noting with dismay that it had sliced the fragile silk lining.

She stared with disgust at the blade of pure silver edged in dried reddish-brown matter. She had drawn blood, more than a little, and the knowledge still shook her. No matter that the fiend deserved it for his vicious attempt to despoil her – that she had actually cut into human flesh made her feel woozy, and she clutched the edge of the table, placing the dagger far from her on a tray.

She walked to the table that held libations and uncapped the brandy decanter, pouring out an unhealthy, much-needed dose, the tremble of her hand causing the lip of the bottle to clink against the glass repeatedly. She took a hard swallow, setting nose, tongue, and throat aflame, and pressed her fingers to her lips, barely managing to stifle a cough.

Her hand still unsteady, she capped the crystal bottle and took her drink with her to the sofa, perching on a cushion and staring at the door to await his return.

Her mind was her incessant torturer. By the time she heard the key scrape inside the lock and Erik entered the room, she was again a tightly wound bundle of coils ready to come unsprung at the faintest jolt to her senses.

He locked the door behind him and silently approached, eyeing her head to hem and what was left of the brandy she clasped tightly in both hands.

"Are you unharmed?" he inquired at last.

An odd choice of words when she felt her soul lay bleeding.

"That man – he seemed to know you," she said little above a whisper.

His response came with some hesitation. "We have met before." He looked her over again, arriving to the conclusion that she was unscathed, and sharpened his words in rebuke. "What I want to know is why you were walking in a dark alley, when a carriage was ready and waiting for you?"

"I was looking for you," she defended, "to finish our conversation. As I still wish."

"Must we go over this again," he said wearily, moving to the liquor table to pour his own glass.

"Why will you not just say it?"

Briefly, he closed his eyes in a vain attempt to block her out and took a swig of brandy.

"Very well, then I will say the words for you. Are you, in fact, the one who called himself my Angel of Music?"

He said nothing but turned his eyes to stare at her, the golden orbs holding a warning she would not heed.

"Tell me!"

"You have said it."

Christine fidgeted in dissatisfaction. But - what did that mean?! Were those curt words his confession? Or after all that had happened, was he only patronizing her in her near hysteria with what he thought she wanted to hear?

"Did you know, that for these last two months," she began, forcing syllables past the tremor of her lips, "ever since I met Lucy, I have wondered if perhaps I might have inherited the family madness – worried that I only dreamed up an Angel that didn't exist? And still you make me wonder..."

He frowned, his manner pensive, then set down his glass and strode to the piano with purpose to sit upon its bench, putting his back to her.

Her mouth dropped open to be so curtly dismissed and rudely ignored. In the next instant offense evaporated, leaving her bruised heart saturated in ripples of shock. She inhaled a trembling gasp as his agile fingers began to stroke keys in an old but familiar tune that rang from the grand piano's small metal hammers.

Médée … the obscure opera of a century past that only her Angel had known and taught her.

Her eyes fell shut with the knowledge, as the weight of his unspoken revelation truly soaked in.

When she felt that her legs would again support her, she set down her glass and rose from the sofa, slowly approaching to stand near the bow of the piano. She watched his skilled hands move in graceful sweeps to create beautiful chords, and when at last they came to a pause, she softly uttered one word.

"Why...?"

His hands froze in midair. He clenched then unclenched his fingers over the keys but did not press down to make further sound, at last closing them into fists one last time and drawing them to his lap.

"Did my voice disgust you so greatly?" she implored in a whisper.

"Had that been the case, I would never have taught you to sing."

Her heart thundered within her breast to hear his low admission, this, the first true vocal response that securely cast him into the role of her Angel.

"You left me without a word," she whispered, hating the persistent tears that rose up to clog her throat and make it difficult to speak.

"I had no choice. The decision to leave Paris was taken from me. It had nothing to do with you."

"Can you not tell me what –?"

"No."

She brushed away a tear before it could strike her cheek.

"Meg said you must be a disturbed soul to haunt a little girl."

His mouth twisted in a wry grin that was anything but humorous. Still, he did not look at her.

"Did you ever once think of me?" the empty spot in her heart that he had hollowed out wanted to know. "Did you ever once miss me or wonder what had happened to me?"

Her quiet, faltering words sounded more as if they came from the orphaned waif he had left behind, and his heart twisted at the plea there; an oddity for an organ long dead.

"You were but a child," he kept his tone mild and unaffected, a mask to the strange ache that formed inside his chest. Unfurling his fingers, he again brought them to rest on the keys and softly played the stanza of a lullaby, hoping to bring peace where he had cultivated unrest. "I reasoned that you would soon forget that time in your young life."

"Well, I didn't," she snapped, her tongue thick with tears.

Nor had he.

He tried, by the blood of his ancestors, he had tried. It was essential, given the monster he was. Immortality had its drawbacks. In order to exist and remain sane, he could not afford to dwell on fond attachments that had been necessary to abandon, while living year after year, century upon century on the earth. Though such attachments were rare and scant few had touched whatever soul he could yet claim, as his Little Lotte had done. He did not tell her that especially in those first years after they parted, when memories were still strong enough to inflict pain, how the recollection of her sweet, angel's voice had both aided and distressed him at the darkest of times, while he hid within his habitual pit of loneliness and despair.

No, he did not tell her that. Nor did he offer a reply to her tearful confession.

She sniffed, her actions jerky as she smoothed her hands down her skirt.

"If you will excuse me, my lord Count, I seem to have contracted a headache."

He did not miss the sarcastic bent to her quiet words, calling him by a title he told her never again to use, and sensed more than saw her hasten to her room and shut the door with a little more force than was necessary.

Only then did his fingers fall heavily to the keys in a staccato of strident chords, before he dropped his head into his hands in frustrated dismay.

He did not tell her any of it…

If only he could.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter XXI

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Christine shut the door, just short of slamming it. She pressed her back to the wood and slowly slid down its carved surface, unmindful of the shallow dips and curves that grazed her spine. The tears she had worked hard to suppress while in his presence now rained silently down her cheeks. She dropped to sit with bunched skirts on the floor, her hands lifting to cover her face. Beyond the closed chamber, a dissonant and wrathful string of chords attacked the air, proving the Count wasn't as unfazed by the situation as he had appeared.

A throbbing strain of silence followed the deluge of fitful notes, and she closed her eyes in bitter relief.

It eluded her if she was more angry about the past and his cold desertion of her as a small child or the here and now and his ongoing deceit toward her as the woman she'd become.

How could he treat her so abysmally? He had deceived her mind and betrayed her trust – twice. Once when he abandoned her and his promises to give her an angel's voice and once more when he kept the truth of his identity withheld in a cavern of silence that now roared inside her mind. Had she never confronted him, she might never have known the truth of his lies…

Was his act of proposing marriage when formerly he had been against their union due to some distorted sense of guilt? It must be! He did not seem to want her company or want her, as a husband desires a wife, his codicil to their arrangement proof of that. Perhaps his most pitiless act of all – to lure her to invite his closeness then snatch any hope of further intimacy away...

Was the sole reason he wished to instruct her now because of his abrupt cessation of their lessons together when she was a child? Did he wish to try to bolster her faltering confidence in her ability and thereby assuage his guilt?

The dervish of questions whirled inside her head and she wished to oust every last one of them, seeking only the blessing of quiet. Outwardly she was rewarded. Perhaps he had acted true to form and left the suite.

The stillness soon grew oppressive – the minutes passing into more minutes, hollow and heavy - abruptly shattered by an insistent knock on the distant door that blocked the sitting room from the hotel corridor. Startled out of her dismal deliberation, Christine turned her head, curiously pressing an ear to the wood and hearing the low murmur of voices.

There soon came the click of a door, before silence again filled the air.

In dissatisfaction, Christine tilted her head back against the carved panel, letting her eyes fall shut. Reason told her she was being foolish, even childish, but rationale had no place when pride was stung. Though perhaps it should. How many times had Papa, and later Mama Valerius warned her not to be prideful, that it could be her downfall if she let it. Still, she felt unable to conjure up the desire to leave her bedchamber and face him. Could she trust that he would be present when she did make that choice, as eventually she must? He had a history of making himself scarce. Perhaps when she left this room, she would find herself alone, in solitude once more… even forever abandoned…

Again.

Days ago he promised that he would never leave her. But could she trust him at his word?

A second knock rapped on the distant door, and she turned her head in surprise.

Two visitors in one evening? For a man who preferred his own company such popularity was astonishing. The maids and bellboys never came unless summoned by the bell pull. Perhaps it was Meg, though Christine rejected that idea as soon as she'd thought of it. Her dear friend would be all a-dither in preparation for tomorrow's performance, and Christine almost envied her friend, wishing again for those carefree days, when hard work in learning and later perfecting a new dance was the crux of her burdens.

A second time she pressed an ear to the crack between wall and door, futilely hoping to hear whatever discussion was going on in the adjoining room, only able to note the distant door again shut once the brief visit came to an end.

Her heart thudded to a stop then raced fit to leave her body when the wood beneath her ear shook as a firm knock came upon the door against which she rested.

Startled, Christine jerked away and stared at the ivory wood, thankful she had turned the key in the lock, not that she believed he would enter without her permission when avoidance of her company was so often his preference. She willed calm to return to her nerves.

"Christine, dinner has arrived." His tone came placid and deep, scattering heartbeats into another frenzied rush. When again she refused to answer, he added, "I acknowledge your displeasure with me and do not deny you your satisfaction. If you no longer wish us to dine together, I will leave you to your peace."

Satisfaction?! Where in this misery was satisfaction?

Christine inhaled sharply at the caustic little barb and the reminder that he'd at last agreed to share a meal with her, their first together. She supposed she could ignore him and stubbornly refrain from his company, presently undesired - she had every right to be cross with him, though she wouldn't say she was satisfied! But at the same time she realized that a second opportunity may never present itself. If she refused him tonight, there was no guarantee he would again agree to share a meal with her, and if that should happen, she knew she would be sorely disappointed...

No matter that she could barely stand the sight of him right now.

There was no sound outside the door attesting to his continued presence, but neither had she heard his approach. She never heard his approach. He always walked on cat's feet, so wretchedly silent.

Christine pushed herself to stand, as yet unwilling to face him. But stronger than her reluctance were the many questions that demanded resolution. He might obstinately refuse to fulfill her deep need to learn the truth, but she would lose nothing in the attempt. However, if she did not try, she would never know and come to regret that she had never made the first move toward reconciliation…

Why must life be so horribly difficult!

She sluiced the drying tears from her cheeks at the washstand and blotted her face dry, then tucked errant strands of limp, damp curls that framed her face back into their pins. Smoothing her dress, she inhaled a deep breath for fortitude and exited the bedchamber.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

He no longer stood at the door, having taken a seat on the bench before the piano, though he simply stared at its keys. Near him, before the window and at opposite sides of a small cloth-covered table sat two covered dishes. She remained standing in the doorway until he halfway turned on the bench to look at her.

"I am pleased that you decided to join me," he said, minus the previous sarcasm.

"It seemed a shame to let the meal go to waste," she replied as politely as she could manage.

He stood to his feet and approached the table. Pulling out a chair, he looked her way in invitation, his manner equally stiff and formal, though even in his aloof regard, his bearing was sublimely elegant.

Woodenly she covered the distance and took the chair he held and pushed in for her. She waited, frozen, when he did not immediately move away. She could feel his knuckles at her shoulder blades where they held to the top of the chair for an unnerving moment and deplored the expectant flutter of her pulse.

Once the Count moved to the other side of the table, Christine fixed her attention to the silver domes, watching as he lifted hers then his to reveal carefully arranged plates of the hotel's cuisine. He poured an open bottle of red wine into two glasses and took the chair opposite. The main course was braised beef tips in a wine sauce with a medley of vegetables whipped in cream and topped with toasted crumbs to the side. She did not grace him with a look, instead focusing her attention on cutting her meat into tidbits without bringing one of them to her mouth.

Once she thoroughly decimated her meal, she irritably laid fork and knife against her plate and took a sip of wine. Still, she did not speak, neither did he, and after a few minutes of unbearable silence, she at last lifted her eyes – more than a little daunted to see that he stared directly at her, not having taken a bite either.

Nervously she set down her glass.

"The meal," he said, "it is not to your liking?"

"No, it's lovely." She picked up her utensil and shoved another forkful of the nearly mashed meat in a small circle. "Perhaps though, you don't care for it?" she returned the query looking down at his untouched plate.

He huffed a half amused snort. "I took sustenance earlier."

She sighed. Of course he did. Why then did he agree to this, or better yet, why would he partake of a meal with the knowledge that they would soon be dining together? As much as she wanted to know, more important questions begged to be considered. Yet she couldn't find the right words to retrieve from the multitude of them she had struggled with earlier. As though he recognized her dilemma, he prompted their entry.

"You frown so strongly. May I know why?"

Surely he must be joking; certainly he wasn't stupid. She let out a vexed little breath.

"I find I am relieved that there is at last an explanation to the Angel of Music, spotty though it is, and that insanity hasn't visited me as I'd begun to fear it must. As it has toward other members of my family."

"Indeed." His response came quietly as he fingered the stem of his wine glass. "And yet that does not seem cause to provoke a frown."

"I suppose I had hoped another year would make me wiser, and I don't feel very wise at the moment."

She mulled the last bit, almost to herself, but his eyes caught and held hers across the table.

"Another year?"

A flush of warmth rose to her face; she had not intended to speak of it at all. "It is nothing. I was only being foolish…" His eyes were intent, unwilling to let her off so easily. "It's my birthday," she half whispered to their demand.

"The anniversary of your birth," he repeated softly, studying her face and form as if to seek change. "I did not realize."

"No, you wouldn't. You left two weeks before that day arrived."

She realized she sounded petulant, and by his narrowed eyes and thinned lips she wouldn't have a dinner companion for long if she didn't cease her attack and relax all appearance of an accusation...

No matter that it was.

She took a deep breath and averted her attention to her plate of food, as yet unable to raise a forkful to her lips while he watched her and took another drink of wine.

Another rotation of her fork through the vegetables, going through the motions of dinner without taking part…Her gaze went to her left and what she could see of lamp-lit buildings etched against a night sky. From this viewpoint, she could just see the edge of the Opera House…what seemed a lifetime away.

Christine laid her fork against her plate a second time. Taking up her glass she took a longer drink then set it down, unsurprised and unsettled when she looked up to see him still staring.

"If the food is not to your liking and you would prefer another course, you have only to tell me and I will arrange it."

"No, it's fine. It's only that I feel uneasy when you simply sit there and watch me. If you didn't intend to eat with me, why did you agree to this dinner?"

From the manner in which his mask shifted, he lifted his brow in surprise at her frank words then inclined his head in a decisive nod, as if answering a challenge. Taking his fork and knife in hand, he stabbed his meat, sawing a tidbit from the edge as he kept his focus on her and slipped the bite beneath his mask into his mouth. He chewed the morsel, still watching her.

"Does that satisfy?" he demanded quietly.

It was rather absurd that such a small act on his part, somehow boyish, would cause the unseen weight to lift from her shoulders, but it did, even tempted a smile. She likewise lifted a forkful of meat and gracefully inclined her head, as if meeting his challenge, then slipped it between her lips.

She couldn't be certain but thought she detected the flicker of a smile beneath the mask.

"May I ask a question about recent events?" she asked after a moment.

He narrowed his eyes, as if undecided, then gave a curt nod.

"How long have you known?" When he did not immediately answer, she gave her query more detail. "Did you know who I was the night we met at the festival?"

"No," he said, cutting another bite and slipping it to his mouth.

"Then your discovery of the truth was more recent?" Another long pause, and she added, "Did you know who I was when you asked me to marry you?"

"What does it matter, Christine?" he said somewhat irritably, taking a hasty drink of his wine.

"I don't know why, but it does."

"Yes," he clipped. "Through your words, I learned the truth on the night you came to seek my help for the priest."

That night, in the music room, when she had heard him play and called him her Angel…the night before the earl arrived to the castle with his evil wishes.

"So, you married me out of pity," she decided.

"Pity?"

"And perhaps to assuage your guilt."

"Guilt!"

She ignored his rising impatience and forged onward. "I know you didn't marry me for love, I have always known that, and thought your offer was only to save me from my great uncle's evil plans for me, but it was more than that, wasn't it. Tell me, Erik – would the offer have been extended had you not known my identity?"

He threw his napkin down on his plate of food and shot to his feet, startling her. "I think, perhaps, this was a mistake."

"Why will you not simply give me an answer?"

"It is unimportant."

"It's important to me!"

"No, Christine, I would not have offered," he growled. "I would have again forged distance between us and done my damnedest to maintain it!"

His words stung, in that his sole interest lay within the girl she'd been, a fresh, new voice to shape, and not in the young woman she'd become. He did not want her as she was now, but rather sought to make recompense for his transgression against her in her girlhood. She was no more than an obligation, a penance for his sin, and she despised the knowledge.

"You would have let my uncle take me?" she whispered, cursing her need to know.

He hesitated a little too long for her liking. "I would have found another way to save you from his trap."

"I see." Though she did not.

He exhaled a breath through clenched teeth. "If you wish to remain in Paris and resume your life at the theatre, I will return alone to Berwickshire and see to having the marriage annulled."

His somber words were like sharp stones hurled her way, and Christine gasped at the unexpected impact of them as they pierced through to her soul.

"Is that what you want?" she asked, feeling hot tears prick her eyes and willing them not to fall. "To break our alliance and separate?"

"I should think, from our conversation this evening, it is what you seek."

Not a true answer to his personal feelings, never that. But in that moment, to realize with one word she could cut him free from her presence this night, never to see him again, to go on with her life at the theatre as if the past two months never existed - she realized quite fiercely what she did not want.

"I have no wish to end our marriage." His golden eyes burned into her, and she sought for a valid explanation to her decision. "I fear that my great uncle might attempt once more to exert his guardianship over me and force me into a situation I have no wish to revisit, if he finds I am again unwed."

He nodded his agreement.

"But I am curious about the past and have questions to which I should like answers," she went on quietly. "Do you honestly believe such a desire is amiss, given that I have only just learned the truth of our former association?"

He stared at her a long moment. "As long as you realize that I will answer only that which I feel comfortable with, and the remainder of what I cannot give you mustn't seek to ferret out but will agree to let remain buried."

She had promised to respect his secrets, and while she dearly wished to know what elusive mysteries he concealed, she resolved to honor that vow.

"Agreed."

With wary grace, he sat back down. The tension alleviated somewhat, and Christine managed to eat a few bites before posing her next question.

"Why me?"

He eyed her over his wine glass from which he had just taken the final sip and set it down.

"Pardon?"

"Why did you choose me that day, in the chapel? Why not one of my peers? There were other girls I remember who could carry a tune well, better than I, and would have welcomed the prospect to be professionally taught. So why me?"

He leaned back in his chair, with no further intent to dine, and considered his words carefully.

"The night before I made myself known to you, I heard you inside the chapel, sobbing a fount of inconsolable tears for your father and begging him to return instead of sending the angel he promised you. You then stated that if it was truly impossible for your father to come down from heaven to rejoin you, that he should send the Angel of Music soon, because you felt terribly alone and afraid…" His words came pensive with the memory. "I understood that extreme level of loneliness, fear and loss; it kept me standing there, eavesdropping, when I should have walked away and left you to your solitude and misery. Once daybreak arrived, I decided to become the angel for which you sought."

She listened, a little stunned and relieved to hear his motive had been kind, that he was never the dangerous stalker Meg had half convinced her he must have been.

"Why did you always hide and never show yourself to me?"

"I feared the mask would frighten you away into warning others of my presence there. You would have seen I had no wings and was no angel."

She frowned at that. "You secured my promise from the start not to speak of our chapel meetings." And she had told no one, not then - not until after he disappeared. Then, she'd spoken of her Angel to the one person close to her, the only one she trusted, never realizing she'd been overheard and within that same day the entire chorus would know of her visitations.

"I could never be certain that in your shock and likely terror to see me in the flesh, as I am, that you wouldn't betray our secret in a panic. I couldn't take that risk."

He made a valid point. As a frightened and timid child in mourning, there was no telling what she might have done had she seen him approach, wingless, and wearing a black mask.

She stared at the concealment of leather in curiosity. "How long have you worn it?"

Erik tensed, studying Christine from across the table. Her shoulders were no longer rigid, her jaw no longer clenched. She appeared to have calmed. At least he no longer must deal with further histrionics, though he supposed she had every right to be upset by his necessary deception. Had the tables been turned, Erik the one betrayed, he would have been livid.

The subject of his mask and the atrocity beneath it was not a subject he wished to engage in for casual dinner conversation, for any time at all. Long he had learned to curb his violent impulses when mortals grew too curious, but never had he openly spoken of his facial imprisonment and the reason for it to anyone.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't wish to," she said when he remained silent, "but I would like to know."

"For what purpose?"

She started in surprise, drawing her brows together in careful consideration. "Well, we are married, and though we're not lovers... perhaps we could be friends?"

"You wish to be my friend?" he repeated, uncertain he'd heard correctly. Had she not only an hour ago refused his company, despising the very sight of him? Now she sat there, a blush to her cheeks with her forward yet shy question.

"Some marriages, I've been told, are based solely on companionship," she went on. "As you are to be my teacher – have always been my teacher – perhaps we can build on that. I have no wish to endure a year in mutual distance and silence and should like to know more about you. You have aided me time and again, which is what a friend does. It seems strange to consider you otherwise."

"You are certainly a woman to speak your mind," he said, not without a trace of admiration. He was accustomed to either being silently scorned for fear of his presence or anxiously revered due to fear of his title and found her gentle candidness refreshing.

"In the world of the theatre, there are no social guidelines to discourage frank talk when it comes to my gender. Madame Giry raised me, once I became an orphan. She's an instructor with the corps de ballet but has almost as much authority as the managers, often open with her views. Many look to her for the last word, including the managers. But then, I suppose you already knew that." She hesitated as if suddenly uncertain. "You have known Madame a long time, since those days you first came to me…"

It wasn't a question, but he answered.

"Yes."

"She never spoke of you." She glanced out the dark window, seeming lost in a memory before her eyes returned to his. "I never told her about our meetings, not until a member of the chorus overheard me with Meg and then everyone knew. Even then, Madame never told me you were a man and not an angel."

"I told her not to speak of it," he said, somewhat impatiently.

"So she knew about our meetings from the start?"

"She did."

It made sense, now that Christine remembered the multitude of nights she slipped away from her cot and was never once caught, either in her swift departure to the chapel nor in her stealthy arrival to the dormitory room. She had always counted herself fortunate to escape the stern ballet headmistress's keen notice, especially when tiptoeing past her closed door. But there had been no need. Christine had slipped furtively away to her lessons with Madame Giry's full knowledge. She wished she'd known the truth then. She would have been more relaxed in her nighttime journeys and never suffered the many anxious, heart-stopping moments of terror when she'd heard a nearby sound and feared she'd been caught.

Madame had said nothing and known all along and allowed it. Madame must trust the Count. How well did she know him? Did she know his story, his history…?

"Did you have an accident?"

Taken aback by her abrupt change of topic, Erik clenched his fist in his lap. Once again, she'd brought their discussion to his face. Clearly the wretched mystique of the mask intrigued. Yet perhaps this was a blessing as much as a curse...

To tell her the truth of his defect would fill her with disgust and work to his end. To create the distance that must exist between them, though it would surely carve a hollow deep inside his dead heart to witness her imminent revulsion. And any offer of companionship would certainly be revoked.

Was that not for the best?

Over a century he had worked to overcome men's vicious insults and cruel reactions, to cease to care and remain composed when faced with those fools encountered …

But with this woman, dread made an unanticipated comeback and he felt a sweat break across his brow beneath the leather casing. His mouth went dry and he poured another tall glass, taking a long drink of the rich red claret and forcing himself to answer the question with all honestly, so as to gain her certain hatred.

He looked at her across the table. Her eyes shone wide and curious, fixed upon his.

"I was born with a gross aberration – a freak of nature. Not a soul to be pitied, with a face once normal and scarred through fire or in battle or by other accidental means. That can be forgiven, even admired if the scars came through heroics... No. I was born onto this earth with the abominable face of a beast. Twisted. Inhuman." He took another drink; the words he'd repeatedly heard as a child, later a young man, falling from his lips. "From the moment I came into the world, my father snatched me from the midwife's hands and turned me over to one of the ladies in waiting, also his mistress, with the order to drown me in a nearby lake. She betrayed him and turned me over to a madwoman who lived in a cave, providing coin and keeping me hidden until the day she would gain revenge upon my father. My poor mother died through the sin of giving birth to me. Not through the childbed, but locked away and starved for her sin of bringing a monster into the world. "

Christine stared, aghast and speechless. A wet sheen had risen to glaze her dark eyes. The expressions he expected to see- fear, disgust, even panic- were all absent, and he waited for his self-condemning words to take hold.

"That is horrible," she said a tremor to her voice. "What was done to her, to you. No child should be made to suffer like that."

Did she cry for him?

Her tender comment weakened the bar that caged vulnerability, and he hardened his resolve to push her away.

"I do not seek your pity!"

"Then you shall not have it. But I can and do empathize with what you have suffered."

"You?" he scoffed a laugh. "With your ethereal beauty and those haunting brown eyes - you truly believe you know what it is to be an outcast in society?"

Her face flushed a most becoming shade of rose but her jaw became fixed, her eyes somber. "Lest you have forgotten, my lord, I too was lonely for much of my childhood and an object of ridicule. Not cast aside by family as you were, but orphaned just the same. Not scorned for my physical traits to the degree you suffered, though there were derogatory comments made about my appearance. But mainly I was ostracized for what resided in my mind – I was thought to be mad for my belief in a tutoring angel."

"And for that I am to blame, I know," he said through clenched teeth.

"Yes, you are. But I forgive you."

"What…?"

Her reply bewildered him and deflated his rising ire, one of two instinctive weapons used in his defense, the second being sarcasm.

"After what you've told me and what I overheard between you and Madame Giry, I am convinced that you never meant me harm. In these past two months, I have learned you are not a man accustomed to social niceties, such as polite greetings of "hello" and "goodbye". Given time to reflect on that knowledge, I have come to believe your failure to speak to me of your departure all those years ago wasn't meant to be cruel."

"Upon my word, Christine, it wasn't," he affirmed.

She nodded with a smile. "I believe you."

He looked at her, nonplussed. His bitter admission of his affliction had been presented to forge distance. Instead he felt the mystical and unnatural bond that tethered around them tighten even more.

"As we are striking out in this new companionship," she ventured tentatively, "I want you to know – that is...if it is difficult for you to eat with your mask, you need not wear it for my sake."

His eyes widened at her bold and naïve presumption stated with such quiet calm – that she would be different from others who once ridiculed him, spat upon him, fled from him – and he shook his head. "You are generous to offer, my dear. However, as I do not wish you to lose your supper, of which I worked so diligently to persuade you to ingest, I shall choose not to comply."

Once he'd been changed into a true monster he had only ever removed his mask before a mortal in the instant before a kill – to freeze his prey in terror before he fed – and then only if he willed it. And though to yield to her request would surely drive a wedge permanently between them, splitting apart any hope of companionship she fostered, he simply could not drive that final nail into his coffin. Could not bear to see her ridicule, worse yet, her horror should he surrender the mask…

It was weakness, but that he could not do.

Christine did not look at all pleased with his decision but said nothing and lifted her glass, holding it across the table. "A toast then. To a new understanding …"

Erik hesitated – this was hardly creating distance! – but found his hand lifting his own glass and bringing it to meet hers in a gentle clink of crystal.

"And to no further masquerades," she added solemnly.

His entire life was built on a masquerade, but of such dark things she could never know.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Christine woke with a much better outlook than the previous day.

In the course of their dinner conversation, her perspective had changed. Anger slowly diminished as curiosity, if not thoroughly quenched, had at least been satisfied. As he disclosed brief anecdotes of his past that were in retrospect huge, even disturbing, she could begin to understand. She was still upset over his deceit and abandonment in her childhood, but the more she pondered over the matter, the more she came to realize that she was thankful the man who had become to her a husband, the strange Count with whom she had always been intrigued, had also been her angel. Her Angel of Music.

She had forgiven him, not because he deserved it, but due to the undeniable conclusion of her heart – she wanted to know him more fully, and keen interest did not allow for silent dispute. She wanted to know every thought and deed and word – all of what he would allow. And, in time, she hoped to know him intimately, as a woman knows a man, and felt her body flush with such a blatant admission.

For whatever purpose, he ordained their union to be unfruitful and not to multiply. But she had noticed the glint in his fiery golden eyes when they sometimes studied her, as he had last night, and his was not a look of indifference. He seemed to covet more than her voice to shape and mold to his whim, and having sampled a taste of what he offered, she yearned for more. Yearned for him. There was nothing sinful or shameful in the thought, she assured herself; she was his wife and wanted only what was natural. His somber and vicious description of his distortion did not hamper her desire, only piqued her curiosity. From what she could see of his face, it wasn't monstrous at all, and the thought of birth scars did not deter her.

Her attention went to the lines of morning light that rimmed the curtains, proclaiming a new day. Dutiful to approach it, Christine rose from bed, washed and dressed.

She heard no music coming from the adjoining chamber and wondered if he was still abed, which was doubtful. She never caught him in slumber. Always when she opened her eyes, whether from a brief nap or a full night's rest, he was awake and about his business or entertaining himself somehow. At the castle, on the train, in their rooms...sometimes she wondered if he ever did sleep.

As she suspected, the sitting room was empty, a poached egg in a cup and sweet rolls with tea on the table ready and waiting for her, along with a folded piece of paper. She plucked it up and read its two paltry lines:

I have gone to take care of some urgent business. Remain at the hotel.

Well then. She comforted herself that at least he informed her this time, though she wasn't sure she appreciated his command to stay indoors. But after her narrow escape in the alley yesterday, she was none too eager to set off alone either.

Christine sat down to breakfast, her mind traveling to their dinner at this same table last night. After the toast she issued, he had answered more questions, but offered nothing more about himself, nothing personal at any rate, always vague in his response to such queries and bringing the discussion back to one of two areas: music and the past. They had spoken of her girlhood at the Opera House, and each recalled memorable anecdotes of their time together and apart, though again, he shared very little about his life there. However, when asked, he'd told her that he'd hidden behind the wall with the largest of painted angels, looking at her through a crack in the stone concealed within its robes. He had not confided his reason for leaving years ago, though once more he had stated in earnest that she was never the cause for his swift departure.

And she believed him. If she had been so terrible a student, surely he would never have issued the invitation to become her teacher again. He seemed to anticipate the challenge, and she would question his motives no further.

Adrift with ways to pass the time, Christine spent the first hour fingering the piano to try to piece together a song, then lifted her voice to sing a medley of them while she wandered about the spacious room. Often she stared out the large picture window at the bustling city. It was a shame she had no needlework to put her hands to, though she sorely lacked in such skills, her stitches rarely tiny and precise but usually awkward and never uniform. Her God-given talents lay within her voice and her dance, though the latter was arguable. Good enough for a chorus girl, no more than that.

She had read the entirety of her ancestor's chronicles and wished now she had not left her mother's journal behind at the castle, thinking, perhaps, she was ready to forage through its pages and confront the truth of her mother's madness. If indeed it was as Raoul said, and her mother also believed in creatures that never existed...

A knock on the door startled her. She hurried toward it, eager for something to do and happy for the disturbance into her forced solitude.

Two errand boys stood on the threshold, holding stacked boxes tied with ribbons that towered almost to their eyes. Dress boxes, unless she missed her guess.

"Please, put them on the sofa," she directed.

Again, she had nothing to give but an apology for the oversight, and with polite nods at her assurance that her husband would give them coin when he returned, they left her to unveil the mystery.

Upon opening one of the largest rectangular containers, she saw within the interior the white fur wrap she had selected at the boutique. Of course! A portion of her new winter wardrobe had arrived!

Eager to see what before had been a chore to decide upon, she unfastened the satin ribbons of each and pulled away lids to reveal lacy underthings; a satin corset and stockings; elbow length gloves; red velvet, low-heeled slippers with black glass beading; and within the final box - an evening dress of velvet in a lustrous crimson red, bearing wide strips that acted as sleeves and would rest beneath shoulders completely bared. The tucks and graceful drapes of the gown were likewise artistically rendered with small ebony and gold glass beading gracefully scattered here and there in long, thin swirls, the overall effect stunning to behold. She had chosen it with a rebellious nod of her head, the sight of its bold lines stirring something hidden and wild that lay dormant inside her, though the matron of the boutique assured that for a married woman the daring dress was perfectly acceptable for Paris society.

Christine gaped at its beauty as an errant ray of the sun caressed soft material, causing the jewel-like nap to shimmer a lighter ruby red between its rich folds. Never had she owned so exquisite a gown, and she noticed that all of what arrived comprised an evening's wardrobe. Curious as to the boutique's choice not to send at least one of the day dresses first, she took her booty to the bedchamber, making three trips, and laid each item carefully next to the other on the bed.

Once she was able to tear herself away from admiring her new ensemble, she decided to revel in a leisurely bath and washed her long mane of hair. The fragrant rose and lavender oil soothed her senses. Once again she found herself awakening in the midst of a heavenly soak, slightly disappointed when no music had arrived to tease her ears, only the empty quiet she had endured all day.

His errands must be extensive to be absent for hours. They had parted on good terms last night; surely he could not be avoiding her…

Christine exited the tub, dried off and dressed. Luncheon soon came, wheeled in by one of the bellboys, who proceeded to transfer all dishes from his cart to the table. Again remorseful for leaving a member of the staff empty-handed, she resolved to ask Erik for coin if he again intended to leave her on her own in the future.

With little to do, she tried to lengthen the time, eating her meal nibble by slow nibble, while observing what she could see outside the window. The building across from the hotel also had a window with drapes that hung open. Christine idly watched a woman feed her children gathered around a table and felt a sudden pang in her heart. Would she one day have a child to love and care for?

When a third time a knock came to the door, she pushed away her plate and hastened from her chair to answer, finding a small boy of perhaps seven standing in the corridor.

"Are you the Countess cel Tradat?" he asked.

Shivers tingled along her spine to hear her new form of address. "I am."

"I was told to give this to you." He held up a note to her.

She took it with thanks, noting his disheveled appearance and patched trousers and told him to wait. Hurrying back to the table, she plucked up the last apple pastry, wrapped it in the cloth napkin and returned to the door.

"I have no coin, but I found these to be quite delicious."

"Merci, Madame."

He gave a wide, gap-toothed grin, tugged on his cap in farewell, and scampered away while gulping down his treat.

Christine closed the door and regarded the blank front of the note rimmed in thin lines of black. She turned it over. A mold of red wax sealed its folds, resembling a rose.

Curious she broke the seal and unfolded the letter:

My dear Countess,

Please do me the honor of attending the opera with me this evening at seven o'clock.

I remain, cordially yours –

~Erik cel Tradat

Christine blinked in shock as she read the artistic scrawl. Her reclusive husband wished to take her for a night at the opera?!

A smile bloomed across her face at his unexpected invitation of a social outing. The opera house and its productions were as routine to her as the daily act of washing and dressing, but never had she attended the performance as a guest!

And the idea greatly appealed…

With much to do, Christine had little time to prepare, and the day was half gone! She willed her pounding heart to steady its erratic beats and hurried to her room to prepare herself for an evening with the mystifying Count.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

XXII

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Christine sent a fretful glance toward the mantel clock that showed only twenty-seven minutes remained until the overture would begin. She tugged on silk gloves that reached past her elbows, a perfect match in color to her evening attire. With the most modest of bustles gathered elegantly at the back and the shortest train allowed – (she had no wish for a careless foot to trod upon her skirts) – the lush crimson velvet boasted a deep neckline, leaving her shoulders bared. Perhaps a bizarre choice to have made for the season, now that the weather had taken a drastic nosedive toward glacial, but her fur wrap would keep her warm.

With nothing more to accomplish until the moment came to depart, she stared at the door and dismally wondered if perhaps the elusive Count had changed his mind. He should have returned by now, to change into evening attire befitting of the opening night of the holiday opera. Yet, as often was the case, he had not made an appearance all day.

Each forward movement of the long, scrolled hand on the clock's face caused Christine's heart to sink a little lower. When a knock came at the door, she jumped in mild alarm, so fixated on time's advance she had paid little attention to all else.

A dignified looking man stood outside in a gray frock coat that boasted two rows of brass buttons. He doffed his tall polished hat and gave her a nod of polite deference.

"Good evening, my lady. My name is Jarvis. I was instructed to drive you to the Opera House, if you would be so kind as to accompany me to the carriage."

"Oh, but…" Just short of stating that she awaited her husband, Christine realized Erik must have sent this driver. Yet reminded of her frightful altercation with the well-dressed hooligan who accosted her in the alley, she raised a doubtful brow. "The Count arranged this?"

"Oui, Madame. He said I was to give you this note." He withdrew a sealed missive from within his coat and handed it over to her.

The red circle of sealing wax had been stamped with what she recognized as Erik's family coat of arms, bearing the dragon with roses entwined around it. Curious, she broke the seal and unfolded the note, recognizing her husband's looping script:

"My dear Countess,

It is with regret that I must inform you a matter of some import has prevented me from accompanying you to tonight's opera. I have arranged for a carriage to take you there, the driver of which will bear this note and goes by the name of Jarvis. Enclosed you will find a ticket to the box I have purchased for your viewing pleasure.

I remain, sincerely yours,

Erik cel Tradat

What matter of importance must he tend to this late in the evening? The only business she knew that he had in Paris related to the Opera House. She looked at the ticket enfolded within. A trickle of confusion – in trying to place something she should know – briefly supplanted the disappointment not to have him with her at tonight's performance…

Box 5

Why should that spark a distant flame of recognition?

"My lady, I would suggest that we leave soon, so I may deliver you to the theatre before the opera begins."

"What…?" Steeped in trying to resurrect forgotten memories, she shook her head slightly to clear it. "Oh. Yes, yes of course. Thank you, Jarvis."

Reassured that this man meant her no harm, Christine gathered her white fur wrap around her shoulders and slipped her ticket inside the glass-beaded reticule she wore dangling from her wrist, then followed the coachman outdoors to the waiting carriage.

Once seated, she almost changed her mind about going. It was unheard of to attend the opera by oneself, and surely would set tongues to wagging, not that she cared so much about the gossip. She was accustomed to whispers not meant for her ears and haughty glances intended for her notice. Rather it was the thought of sitting all alone that made her despondent. Yet if she must endure an evening of solitude, she would prefer it to be with an audience at the opera than to sit one more hour with her own company in the hotel suite.

With only three blocks to travel, the drive was short, Jarvis attentive in his assistance as he bid her a pleasant evening.

Lingering behind an elderly couple and their two daughters, Christine hoped to be counted as one of their party. She walked up the wide terrace of outside stairs and past two doormen stationed one on each side of the open double doors. Neither employee, both of whom she knew by name, paid her any heed, and she wondered if in her evening regalia she truly looked so changed as to go unrecognized.

The foyer had been gaily lit by gas lamps with no expense spared to illuminate the massive area with golden warmth to rival the daylight, strategically placed mirrors doubling their reflection. Small groups of elegantly dressed theatre-goers, the women bedecked in gowns of pastels and glorious jewel-tones, the men in dignified black tails and white tie, flocked together in polite conversation, greeting one another with smiles and nods.

Once she checked in her cape at the cloak room, Christine took the middle staircase, at the top of which two more sets of stairs ascended upward, one to the east balcony and one to the west, where the wealthiest of the opera attendees had secured private boxes for the season. Stationed at the foot of each set of stairs, an usher in a resplendent red uniform with gold buttons and epaulets stood ready to answer questions and be of whatever help was required. As Christine came abreast of the usher stationed near the eastern staircase, a white-haired man of some advanced years, he finished issuing directions to a couple inquiring about their seats.

"Mademoiselle Daaé?"

Inwardly she winced before turning a smile of greeting his way as the couple moved past her and up the stairs.

"Hello, Monsieur Roget."

"It is you!" He narrowed curious eyes at her elegant attire. "I heard you left Paris several weeks ago."

"Yes, well, I'm only here visiting." She recalled what Erik told her, that the name cel Tradat which she now owned would move barriers, but she was not yet ready to share news of her wedded state with those who rarely treated her with civility. The absence of a new bridegroom could only invite speculation she had no wish to encounter. Added to that, this man was an acquaintance of La Carlotta, who in this past year had suddenly noticed Christine and turned on her with waspish little barbs to trouble her days.

"And attending the opera, so I see," he inserted with a hint of gruff disbelief, his pale blue eyes suspicious. "It is odd to find you on this side of the stage, mademoiselle." His manner became disapproving, as if scolding an errant child. "You know as well as I that these stairs lead exclusively to the box seats. I cannot allow anyone to pass who has no ticket."

She sighed, wishing she could have slipped by his notice as she had with the doormen.

"The managers would applaud your diligence, monsieur, but I assure you, I do have a ticket."

She held it up, but to her dismay, he snatched it from her gloved hand before she could lower her arm.

His brows rose to his hairline as he glanced down at the small rectangle of paper. "Box Five?"

"Yes," she said, wary of his surprise.

"Ha – and I suppose you're to be a guest of the Ghost!"

"Pardon?"

At her evident confusion, he shook his head distantly as if at a bad memory. "It was many years ago, long before you came to live here. Long before you were born. I was a strapping young lad who ran errands for the managers. We had a ghost in the theatre – the Opera Ghost, some called him. Others called him a demon and a troublemaker, though a Phantom is what he was."

He chuckled, his words sparking in Christine a memory of her own youth. Madame Giry did her best to keep little ears from hearing what they oughtn't and spreading tales, but couldn't curb the theatre children's morbid glee for sharing ghostly legends among their peers. One story that the boys especially liked to frighten the little girls with was the murderous exploits of the terrible Phantom of the Opera, who roamed the theatre over half a century ago. She had assumed it was only a ghost story, as all the rest were, but Monsieur Roget's account seemed to mark it as true. If he could be believed and wasn't only trying to unnerve her. In all likelihood, he was also once a boy who delighted in frightening the girls with fictional tales of horror.

"I really don't recall…" she started, wishing to snatch her ticket back and locate her seat.

"He issued demands to the managers. If they didn't obey, he created havoc at the rehearsals. Falling props, ghostly bellows from above, candles blowing out for no apparent reason – and when the weeks-old corpse of a chorus member was found in the third cellar, he received the blame for that too."

She could not repress a little shiver.

"I don't see what this has to do with my ticket."

"Ah, but mademoiselle – Box Five was his private box, at least that was his command. And woe to them that didn't follow his every direction."

"Box Five?" Now she understood why upon first glancing at the ticket it had seemed familiar, being part of the once-forgotten ghost tale of her childhood. "I see…what happened to him?" she asked, uncertain she wanted to know.

"Disappeared back into Hades, some said, or whatever resting ground ghosts inhabit. Others say it was one of the disgruntled workers, unhappy with his pay and extorting the managers for more. Makes sense, as several of them were dismissed not long before the Phantom disappeared. The manager of that time was a miserly sort and often refused the Phantom's demands, much to the regret of all those involved, since they're the ones who suffered..."

From behind the near wall, a brief and disharmonic cacophony of musicians simultaneously readying their instruments could be heard above the melee of muffled discussions in the foyer.

"Well, I wouldn't let it concern you overly much. It all happened a long time ago," he concluded, though Christine sensed it was Monsieur Roget's wish to cause nothing but mischief. He handed her back her ticket, yet when she tried to take it, he did not let go, keeping a firm grip on it. "But should you see a shadow looming near, beware mademoiselle, for ghosts, well, they never die, do they?"

Oh, really! A haunted box? She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. "I wasn't aware a ghost could cast a shadow."

He gave a little shrug. "Who's to tell? No one's ever seen the Phantom."

She tugged hard on her ticket, snatching it from his grip, having had enough. As she ascended the marble stairs, she heard him say mockingly after her, "Have a pleasant evening, mademoiselle."

She was almost grateful that Erik wasn't present to hear the absurdity of the staff; he might rethink his decision to become patron to this establishment. Of course, had he been with her, Monsieur Roget might not have been quite so informative with his presumed experience.

Did the gentlemen of her acquaintance think her so gullible as to believe such farfetched nonsense? She had come no closer to believing in the existence of vampyres; she certainly didn't believe in ghosts!

Once she did believe in the presence of an angel, and he was no more than a man. There must be a logical explanation for the shenanigans that took place decades ago inside this theatre. An ex member of the crew seemed more likely than a vaporous bit of substance floating around the rafters…

She almost giggled at the image her mind conjured and hesitated only briefly before pulling aside the red velvet drape that concealed the private box selected for her use. The gas lamp on the back of the flocked wall had been dimmed to its lowest flame, but the gas lamps in the main part of the theatre below and the chandelier above brightened the box adequately enough that she could see to move to one of three chairs in the front row, upholstered in red velvet, a shade lighter than her gown.

She inhaled a shocked breath before taking the middle chair, astounded to see on the seat next to it a red rose in half bloom and wrapped around its stem, a ribbon of black silk. Beneath it sat a long black velvet box...

Not the ghost of the opera… no, of course not.

Pushing such a foolish notion aside, her real concern was that she had been so immersed in thoughts of phantoms that she somehow found her way into the wrong box. It was quickly relieved when she hurried to look at the small gold plaque affixed near the curtain that proclaimed this was indeed Box Five…and in that knowledge, she knew the gift must be for her and who it was from.

She returned to her seat and curiously picked up the rose, inhaling its sweet aroma and fingering its petals of velvet a moment before laying it aside to open the box.

Gasping softly to see the shimmer of rubies and diamonds, with fingers that trembled Christine lifted a necklace by its festooned double chains of gold and admired its exquisite composition. Round rubies and diamonds formed graceful bows and flowers on each chain, identical to either side, at five points connecting the two chains together and forming four elegant loops. The largest ruby, in the shape of a teardrop, was surrounded by tiny diamonds and dangled from the center. Undoubtedly of great expense, it was stunning, and she could scarcely believe this luxury was meant for her.

Certainly they could not be made of paste – the jewels were too vivid, too clear – and she doubted the Count would accept anything less than authenticity in anything he possessed.

But why? Why had he given her such a gift when he desired only polite companionship? Nor did the lovely red rose suggest any form of distance…

"The jewels would look even lovelier cascading around your neck than they do dangling from your fingertips."

At the first syllables of that dark velvet voice, Christine broke from her puzzled inspection and spun around in her seat in stunned surprise. He stood in shadow, the light that edged his tall silhouette from behind doused as he moved further into the box and let the curtain drop back into place.

"Erik!"

His name left her lips, as natural as breath, and by the slight inclination of his head toward her he was pleased to hear it.

"You did expect me?" he said in mild amusement. "That was the arrangement, to attend the opera together."

"But your note – you wrote that you couldn't come."

"I wrote that I couldn't accompany you," he corrected, "not that I wouldn't endeavor to make an appearance once my business was concluded."

Whatever reply she might have given stuck in her throat as he moved out of the shadows and into the pale yellow light that illumined the front of their box. He still wore his cloak, and he shed it once he drew near, tossing it to one of the chairs in the row behind.

Dressed to the nines in black tails and white tie, he wore a black waistcoat, the cut of his clothes tailored to perfection and complementing his tall, lean form, with his ebony hair pulled back in its usual short queue. A pair of black kidskin gloves snugly clad his hands as they often did. But what so abruptly seized her attention was the mask he had chosen to wear this night.

Of gleaming white porcelain, it had been fashioned to cover a little over a fourth of his face, curving from the right side of his brow to inches below the cheekbone, leaving his jaw and the other half of his face completely exposed. And though it was rude, Christine could not help but take her first good look at this man who was now her husband. He took the seat to her right, closest to the stage, giving her an uninterrupted view of his left side.

This part of his face was without defect of any kind. Above his lean jaw that held the barest hint of shadow, his cheekbone was set high and his nose straight to the bridge where it met the edge of the mask. His forehead was gently sloped, not too high or too wide, his brow a thick black line over his darkly lashed golden eye. His skin was so pale as to be almost white.

He fairly robbed her of breath…

"You are staring," he said, not looking in her direction, his attention on the closed stage curtain.

"Oh," she said softly, "Pardon. But under the circumstances, can you blame me?"

"That depends. Do you approve of the alteration?"

"Oh, yes, most definitely."

Her enthused response earned her the twist of a half smile and his full attention. He glanced down at the jewels still draped from her hands.

"The necklace does not please you?"

"Oh - but it does! It is quite lovely, as is the rose."

He nodded once in satisfied acknowledgement. "Is it not customary to wear such a piece around one's neck?" he teased lightly.

"Oh, yes – if you would, please." Before she could lose courage, Christine pushed the jewels into his hand and turned away from him, presenting him with her back, her long curls, which she usually wore down, swept up and pinned atop her head.

His hesitation was unnerving and she filled the thick silence with words. "It is very kind of you to present me with so beautiful a gift, and I am grateful. But why did you?"

"Why?" His question came so soft, as almost not to be heard. "Did you not tell me that yesterday marked the anniversary of your birth?"

"Yes, but – you have given me so much already."

The trickle of the cool stones set in gold cascaded across her skin from collarbone to just above her bosom as he brought the necklace over her head and around her neck to fasten it.

"As my Countess, that is something to which you must grow accustomed. I do not lack for wealth; it is my privilege to spend it on you."

His leather-clad fingertips moved from the clasp to brush against the side of her neck, making her shiver at the sudden wave of warmth his action provoked. Faintly she felt his breath at her nape, reminding her of that mystical night in the fog - when suddenly the orchestra blazed to life and the globes of the gas lamps all around were dimmed.

He drew back and she pivoted around in her seat, half in regret at the interruption and wondering if he might have extended the moment beyond a touch.

Did he truly wish only for simple friendship, when his actions frequently contradicted such resolve? Or perhaps that is what he believed she wanted.

The idea bore consideration and she thought back to the morning of his proposal…

A light overture began as below their box tardy attendees hastened to their seats. Soon the curtains opened, whisking one to each side and revealing the players onstage as the first of three acts began. The opéra-comique was designed as a light bit of nonsense for the holiday season, to generate laughter through clever lines and bawdy actions and not entice awe through music and singing, with more recitatives than arias. The tale told of a quarrelsome pair, a gamekeeper and his young wife, and the wealthy baron who took continual advantage of their frequent sparring to come between them with his little intrigues that soon put the whole village in an uproar.

Throughout the first act, though she never looked away from the stage and he never once moved to touch her, Christine felt Erik with every fiber of her soul. Sitting so close, though no part of their bodies touched save for her skirts against his trouser leg, she felt expectant for what he would not allow and flustered for the same reason.

Once the intermission arrived, she spoke the first thing that came to mind, hoping to break the wretched tension, hoping he could not read into her thoughts as he so often did…

"Meg did well. She does so love to dance."

She looked toward her somber companion who had not once uttered a laugh throughout the performance. Almost brooding, he rapidly tapped his fingers against the scrolled armrest in a unique beat, as if composing his own production.

"The woman who plays the wife…"

"La Carlotta."

"Ah, yes. You spoke of her to me once. She is too old for the role of a young wife, and her voice does not carry well on the high notes."

Christine silently agreed but explained, "She is the lead diva and plays only the star roles."

"Indeed," he mulled to himself. "Perhaps it is time for a change."

A change? She supposed he had some influence over the managers, being as he was a new patron, but who in this theatre was good enough to step into the lead diva's shoes?

He turned to regard her where she sat with gloved hands clasped in her lap.

"Would you care for some refreshment?"

"Thank you, but…" She watched the mass exodus toward the doors. "I don't suppose you would care to join the other guests in the foyer?"

It was foolish to ask, of course, since from all she knew of the Count, he rarely socialized, if at all, and she hoped he would decline.

"No, but if you should wish to stretch your legs…"

She had no idea what he would propose, but piped up before he could finish the thought.

"Yes, I would. And I know precisely where I would like you to take me."

"Oh?" he said warily, perhaps having thought he would remain in his chair while she went off alone.

Christine had given the matter a great deal of reflection since she learned that he was her Angel of Music. There were still questions that begged to be resolved.

"I want to stand where you stood, when you gave me lessons in the chapel. I want to see the place where you hid."

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

It was a moment before Erik responded.

"I cannot see the point of such a venture. Perhaps you would rather visit your friend?"

"Meg will be much too busy with costume changes, and I would only be in the way. Please don't refuse me."

He sighed. "The way will be littered with cobwebs, the path dusty even damp. Certainly not befitting to traipse about in that evening gown and mar your lovely appearance."

It was the first he had mentioned her endeavor to look the part of his Countess, and a little coyly she asked, "You think me beautiful?"

"You know you are."

His words held a trace of warmth tempered with resignation, as if it were a bad thing. She gave him a faint smile of confusion.

"Then I am pleased I meet with your approval. This is my first opera to attend as a member of the audience and not a chorus girl peeking from the wings or behind the curtains backstage. This life of yours, it is all so new to me." She shook her head as if a bit dazed. "But I do vow to be careful with the gown. While we are here, I should really like to see this place where you met with me, as this may be my only chance."

At her childlike promise, the Count studied her curiously. What an odd girl she was, and what a stunning beauty! She seemed unaware of her admirable traits – the graceful, womanly curves adorned by the blood-red velvet gown, her eyes shining as dark as a night sky and as bright as the stars that filled it, her rosy smile and the gleaming ringlets that whispered against flushed cheeks – but he was all too aware and had been since he first sat down beside her.

Her request was simple, the gown hers to do with as she pleased; he had no true reason to refuse… and to his benefit, the damp, musty environs would surely help inhibit passions that could not be given vent to stir.

Swiftly he stood, offering his hand to assist her to her feet. "Then let us depart. We should not tarry, lest we miss the beginning of the second act, though I sense it would be no great loss."

"You do not like tonight's performance?"

"I prefer the more dramatic works."

"Yes, I remember. But then, why did you wish to come here tonight?"

"I recalled from a previous conversation that you favor these bits of comedic gibberish."

She smiled at his wry description and taking his hand, rose to stand before him. His betraying eyes were drawn to the abundant view of cleavage and her long, slender waist – lifting forcefully to the necklace at her throat that adorned flawless, creamy skin, and still higher to the vein that gently throbbed in the graceful column of her neck...

Earlier his lips almost brushed that spot, though he possessed enough control not to bite her. Not here…not now…

Never.

Christine gasped as the Count firmly pulled her by the hand he still held and set off at a rapid pace to parts unknown, grabbing his cloak as he swept by it. She clutched one hand to her skirts to lift them, hurrying her steps to keep up with his long, relentless strides. Her slippers were low-heeled, but the pinch of the new and tightly laced corset served as a reminder that she was hardly dressed for a trot through the corridors.

"Erik – please…"

At her breathless appeal, he slowed his pace but did not look back. She wondered at his mercurial shift of mood from cordial companion to dour stranger, much as he'd behaved when she'd been lost in the fog and he practically dragged her back to Montmarte.

"Erik –"

"Silence." He turned his head aside. "I have no wish to be detected," he explained softly. She nodded and resigned herself to wait.

They stopped for no apparent reason at the gold-flocked wall, and he looked over his shoulder before running his fingertips along one edge. To her shock, there was a click and the wall became a door, swinging inward.

She peered into absolute darkness, holding back. Noting her hesitation, he grabbed a candle from a five-pronged candlestick on a nearby table and lit the wick with one of the gas lamps bracketed above it. The flame fluttered madly in its struggle to remain stable but at last weakly held fast. He handed the candle over to her, and she cupped one hand around its meager light, thankful to see it grow a little stronger and brighter. With his hand to her back, he gave her a gentle push, hurrying her inside and closing the door behind them.

The corridor behind walls was much too narrow for them to walk side by side comfortably, and he edged past her and led the way, keeping a steady pace, as she followed. Christine wondered, since she held the candle, how Erik could even see to know where he was going and not falter or stumble. The light barely glanced off his back and to the sides of each wall of stone.

She had only ever heard of these concealed corridors, but he had not been exaggerating about the wretched condition of the path, though thankfully the ground was dry. Cobwebs hung a short distance above their heads, and any that hung lower, he swatted aside before leading her further. They took a turn, the corridor widening marginally and slowly descending until it leveled out again, then walked for some time before he came to a stop and turned. He glanced at her face before opening a small trap door fastened to the wall. Even with her low heels, it was too high to see and she stood on the tips of her toes in vain to reach it. He stood very tall and the holes in the wall reached the level of his eyes.

In disappointment she scanned what she could see of their surroundings.

"I don't suppose there's something for me to stand on?"

"You will not find furnishings here," he said dryly.

"No, I didn't mean a chair…" She turned to the wall to look at the ground. "Perhaps a flat rock? After coming all this way, I do so wish to see -"

Her words were cut off as the short train of her gown was kicked aside and his large hands clamped about her waist, lifting her without effort as if they were in a ballet. In her surprise, she dropped the candle, the flame whisking out as it hit the ground and cast them into utter darkness.

"Oh," she whimpered, lowering her head and planting her palms to the wall, trying not to let old girlhood fears overtake her.

"Christine?" he urged softly when she remained frozen. "Are you alright? Did I hurt you?"

"No, I…" She pressed her fingertips harder to the stone, not wishing to relay yet another bit of childish foolishness – he already knew her fear of violent, deep water – but she saw no way around it. "The darkness... it frightens me."

At the waver of her words, she felt him draw closer, bringing his arms back slightly while stepping forward. Felt the chill of his hard body that was no match to the chill of this chamber, but somehow felt warmed by it.

"Look through the opening, Christine, so that we may return to watch the opera."

His voice was fluid silk, reassuring in its calmness, and she lifted her head and craned slightly forward, gasping to see.

Moonlight streamed in through the large stained glass window and washed the chapel in an ethereal blue-white glow, dimmer splashes of crimson, green and gold coming from those panes and pooling on the bench seat and floor. From this vantage point she could see the memorial stand of candles a short distance away, before which she once stood, sat, and knelt while her Angel told her stories and taught her…her Angel…this man who had stood here once, looking through the same holes that she did...

Before this moment, all of what she learned, all of what he admitted had been astounding words of revelation, but no more than words that had spun about in her mind, sending her emotions into upheaval - but had failed to truly take deep root. Now, faced with the irrefutable proof of his disclosure, she was dumbfounded to realize that her Angel of Music held her within his strong grasp -

Her breathing quickened with a sense of awed awareness that surely must be felt beneath his hands.

Years apart - over a decade - and she had accidentally found him in another country while wandering lost at a pagan festival. Made his acquaintance... had become his wife...!

As if their destinies were linked and fate always decreed it so.

"Have you satisfied your curiosity?" he asked quietly.

"What…," she whispered, lightheaded, and trying to give words meaning. "…oh. Yes, I ...I have."

He lowered her feet to the ground, and Christine braced her hands against the wall, using it as a guide to turn and face him. It hardly mattered. Everywhere she looked was no more than pitch darkness, the peephole too small to allow for moonlight to filter into the forgotten corridor.

"You must think me foolish to want to come here," she began and nervously laughed, more as a vain effort to plod through her recurrence of shock and quell the fear of darkness than to make conversation. "And now we have no light to lead the way, and for that I am to blame. I tend to act impulsively, even rashly, but you already know that –"

They had not even a scrap of light to see, and she gasped the last word out as with unerring precision, he laid the pads of two of his fingers gently against her lips to halt her pathetic attempt at an apology, if that was even what it was. She shivered at the touch of cool leather against her skin.

"Enough," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. She heard his coat rustle and in the next moment, the candle was placed into her hand. "Hold it upright."

"But – why? Do you carry a matchbox?"

"Always so full of questions," he said in wry amusement, a trace of affection in his tone.

In the next instant, a small blaze of fire fizzed and lit the area above her fisted hand, igniting the wick. She gasped to see his fingers wave in the end of a flourish across the top of the flame – empty of a match.

"B-but how?"

"I am many things, Christine. A musician is only one of them."

"You are a magician then? Is that how you made your voice come from all around the room when I was a child?"

His lips twisted in a smile, the lower part of his face illumined by the candle, the upper half lost in shadow, though his eyes glowed as if lit from within.

"You are a curious creature."

"I did warn you on the train."

His gaze lowered to her bare shoulders and he frowned. "You are trembling. Are you still frightened?"

"No. Only a bit cold."

He whisked his cloak from over his shoulder where he had draped it and brought it around her body, fastening the clasp at her throat. She shivered anew from the accidental brush of his gloved fingers against her bare skin. Flustered and at a loss with these feelings that surged through her and had ever since they arrived to this place, ever since he touched her tonight, since he first touched her what seemed ages ago, she stared at the flame of the candle and sought for something intelligent to say.

"I wish you would have somehow let me know you were a man then. I think, perhaps, I was more afraid that you were not. As the angel I thought you, I was often anxious that I would make a mistake and anger you."

"I can see no disadvantage in that," he countered. "I had your eternal compliance."

Her eyes snapped up to his, not amused.

"It was wicked to deceive me."

"And as you have seen by now, wicked is the composition of all that I am."

She shook her head, uncertain why he would think such a false thing when he had been to her a savior more than once. Certainly he could be cruel and act aloof and be too stubborn at times, but wicked he was not.

This merry-go-round would get them nowhere.

"I suppose I should be grateful that at least you weren't the Phantom."

"What?" He went completely motionless, though his eyes burned, alive with the question.

"The Phantom of the Opera. I was told that he haunted this theatre long before either of us was born, more than half a century ago. Ghostly tales were shared among the crew and cast about his exploits, though none have ever seen him, and he left quite suddenly as he came..." She paused in her pensive account. "Strange, but you and he share some of the same characteristics. Staying well hidden, issuing demands to be met, your preference for Box Five, not to mention arriving and leaving without warning…" She huffed a dry chuckle. "If he should have been the one to come out of the woodwork when I implored my Angel to allow me to see him, I would have been frightened indeed. His acts were truly wicked."

He gave no response, only staring at her with those intense eyes of his, once more muddling her thoughts so that she lost control of her tongue -

"Of course, I don't really believe in ghosts, any more than I believe in vampyres."

His eyes again flared in shock, their glow impossibly growing brighter - and she reasoned it must be a trick of the light, or in this case, the darkness - then realized the words that had slipped out.

"Oh heavens – did I really just say that?" She giggled nervously. "I don't know what I was thinking to say something so bizarre. I don't read literature of that sort." She thought of her ancestor's journal, and blushed with the unintentional lie, rushing to add, "Meg does, but to me, such dreadful stories never appealed."

He continued to stare at her a moment more. "Come," his order was soft. "We must return. The second act will soon commence."

As was often his wont, he chose not to address her words but swiftly changed topic, and for once she was grateful for that irksome habit.

Whatever had made her say such a foolish thing! She certainly had not been thinking of Raoul's fabled creatures of the night at any point this evening. Indeed, since she finished her ancestor's journal, she had scarce given his tiresome ramblings another thought.

By the tiny flame of her candle, Christine followed the towering silhouette of her husband back to the door in the wall covered with thick stone on their side, the long trek helping her to again gather her wits about her as the shock of discovery slowly faded though did not disappear entirely. She wondered if it ever would...

He halted, putting his hand up for her to stop, and when she got no further than opening her mouth to ask the reason, he abruptly turned, putting his finger to his lips as if sensing she would speak.

When at last he opened the door, she silently welcomed the lit corridor with its clean air and the patterned rug, soft beneath her slippers.

"Why did you wait?" she asked as he took her candle, blew it out and returned it to the table. With the faintest of touches to her elbow he turned her back toward their box.

"Footsteps."

"Footsteps?"

On the corridor's carpet? And he had heard that through a door of rock?

He had told her once that his hearing was acute, as apparently was his eyesight, but this seemed almost otherworldly…

Instantly Christine chided her active imagination, besotted with talk of ghosts and creatures undead, and resolved to concentrate fully on the light opera.

The second act proved as absurd and enjoyable as the first. Erik remained solemn, though at times when the soft laughter bubbled from her lips, she felt his stare turn upon her. Once when that occurred, she flicked her eyes his way, but he did not return her smile, and hastily she looked back to the stage.

Something obviously troubled him.

Before she could inquire at the next intermission, he stood to his feet. "You must be thirsty. I will obtain refreshment. What is your preference?"

She sensed he contrived the errand to put distance between them, but she was thirsty and still felt a chill from their trek within the walls, though she'd kept his cloak around her. "I don't suppose they have mulled wine?"

He lifted his brow in mild surprise at her answer. "You don't wish for champagne or one of the more traditional wines?"

"I would prefer something hot. But I don't suppose they serve such a common drink to distinguished guests? Backstage, it was often made available to the chorus during this time of year. Oh, well, no matter. I'll just take whatever you bring me."

Once he left, she pulled the folds of his cloak further around her and buried herself in his scent, his cologne a heady spice, exotic in nature, along with the lingering traces of candle smoke and ink. The aroma was deliciously warm… whereas he, himself, was always physically so cold. She pondered if it would be rude to ask him the reason for that as well, if he even knew it, but he was clearly still agitated and she did not wish to introduce what might be a sensitive topic.

He did not seem upset when she recalled his time as her Angel. Not until she spoke of the mythical Phantom did he appear disturbed…

But what about ancient ghosts could possibly trouble him?

So absorbed was she in the quandary of the Count, her gaze fixed upon the massive chandelier around which tiers of light chased all shadow away, that she never heard his return. She jumped a little when he suddenly appeared at her elbow.

"Again, I have frightened you." His words were matter-of-fact, neither remorseful nor satisfied. He handed her a wooden mug, and she looked at it with some confusion.

She didn't think the opera would serve liquid refreshment in anything but fine glass. As she took it, she noticed the warmth of the wood and the sweet smell of cinnamon and cloves, and gasped. "Mulled wine! But – how?" Two words she had seemed to ask endlessly, in her mind and aloud, since he first arrived.

"I had business with Madame Giry and happened across this once our meeting concluded."

She took a sip and smiled. The spiced hot wine delighted her tastebuds and warmed her inside. "Thank you," she said softly, once again touched by this thoughtfulness.

He reclaimed his seat and, much to her surprise, began an interesting discourse on the positive and negative views he had gained of the theatre, the latter often bearing one single name – Carlotta. He posed several questions based on Christine's experience there. Relieved that his earlier vexation appeared to have dissipated, she replied with all honesty, holding nothing back.

It was almost with regret that she noticed the lights again dim and the final act begin, having enjoyed their conversation so. As they watched the conclusion of the performance, she found herself sending brief glances Erik's way while his focus remained on the stage.

She had been cross with him for his deceit in masquerading as her Angel and leaving her adrift all those years ago. And yet, because he was no stranger, she felt closer to him than at any time since they met during the night of the pagan festival.

When he had fastened the necklace around her throat, his fingers lingering, her heart had beat out a strong cadence at the heated memory of the night of the ball, the edges of what she'd once thought a dream still murky… yet her body remembered…

Friendship she had extended; he had accepted.

But oh, how she yearned for more.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

XXIII

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

The conclusion of the final act gave Christine pause. She failed to understand why the contrived message of a comedic operetta should bother her so… but it did.

Once the mass exodus of theatre-goers vacated the building, she and Erik left Box 5 and took the stairs that led downward. Bringing up her quiet introspection, he questioned if she did not enjoy the show.

"Oh no, I did," she was quick to assure him, her fingers tingling where they rested against the sleeve of his proffered arm that she used as an assist, while lifting the gown's hem with her other hand to clear the stairs. "I have not laughed so much in ages. And though I realize the story isn't meant to be taken seriously, I cannot help but wonder…" She paused as they reached the landing and turned to descend the last flight of stairs. "The woodcutter and his wife were each tricked to appear on the chapel steps Christmas Eve night, the priest hoping to resolve their differences with that silly superstition, and they did reconcile, which was a pleasant enough ending, I suppose. But, well, it just seemed so… empty. And foolish."

She was no wise oracle on the subject, but surely love should never need to be forced if it truly existed. If only the threat of death brought about resolution – what kind of union was that?

"Foolish would be an apt word to describe tonight's entire operetta, though there are additional terms that apply, none of them complimentary. I shall soon need to speak to the managers on several matters."

"I'm sorry you didn't enjoy the performance, but I'm grateful you were here with me."

"Indeed." His eyes glowed softer as he gently slipped her gloved hand from his arm. "I will go and collect our things, my dear. I shall return shortly."

As he walked to the cloak room, Christine angrily noted the shocked stares toward his masked face, some curious, some appalled, and silently applauded his seeming unawareness. They had waited for the crowd to disperse and vacate the premises before leaving their box, but several couples still inhabited the foyer, and she despised their narrow-minded observation.

For his sake, once he returned to her side she also acted unaware. She sent him a bright smile as he settled her ermine cape around her shoulders, and she fastened the clasp. Then setting his top hat on his head, his cloak already in place, a gold-topped walking stick in his other gloved hand, he strode with her to the door. Christine walked with him proudly, pleased to have the Count as her companion. She had never seen him dressed for a night at the opera, and he cut a dashing figure.

She came to a sudden halt on the broad outside steps, surprised to see light flakes of white swirl down from a pale night sky.

"Oh," she breathed, squeezing his arm as she stared upward, her mood changed from determined to gleeful. "It's snowing! Do let us walk a while."

"If it is snow you want, you will receive an abundance of it in Berwickshire in the coming months."

"But it's the first snow of the season – that makes it special, you see."

Erik looked with curious awe at his intriguing bride, her face aglow with childlike wonder. At times, like now, he could see traces of his Lotte and pondered yet again what bizarre twist of fate had brought her back into his life.

He did not see a disadvantage in granting her simple request. Under his vigilant watch, no harm would come to her from the dark alleyways or high rooftops they passed, and later, once she slept, he would track down his foul prey and ensure that no harm would come to her ever again…

Once they took the stairs downward, Erik instructed the coachman to follow and stiffened only slightly when Christine again took hold of his arm as they promenaded along the wide paved street illumined with golden lamplight.

Tilting her face to the sky a second time, she opened her mouth delicately, almost tentatively sticking her tongue into the air. He drew a sharp hiss of breath at the sight of that little pink tongue curling upward to seek out white specks of melting ice, and something painful clutched his immobile heart to hear her triumphant giggle.

She gave him an abashed grin, her delight in no way lessened by his subdued expression.

"Catching the first snowflakes on your tongue will bring good fortune throughout the winter months, or so Meg and I believed as children. Try it," she challenged.

"I have no desire to taste icy bits of bland fluff."

Her smile grew wider. "Perhaps if they were whisky-flavored?" she teased.

"Should I wish to imbibe, I would seek out more palatable amounts instead of minuscule droppings."

"Oh, well then," she dismissed, her good mood intact despite his stubbornness to engage in a silly bit of fun. "About that ending…"

He chuckled at that, the low rumble of it felt to her toes. Intrigued to hear him laugh, it came so seldom, she desired to know its source.

"You found the end amusing?"

Her hand holding to his arm gently throbbed with sensation as he clapped his other gloved hand over hers. "As a child, you would often probe me with questions after I told a story, facets of which escaped your young mind. You were quite restless and dissatisfied until you gained the knowledge you sought. You have not changed in that regard."

She nodded fondly, recalling how absorbed she had been in his stories of far-off lands, real and imagined. Even when she had not understood all of what he told her, she had loved to hear his dulcet voice spinning tales so vivid as to capture her fascination. He had painted pictures with words in her mind, bringing phoenixes and dragons and nightingales to life.

"But do you not agree?" she insisted. "If the couple felt true love for each other, superstition should not have been the driving force to bring it into existence."

"A wise assessment, my dear. Superstition acts adversely, creating division. However, the woodcutter and his wife feared that the grim reaper was fast closing in. When faced with imminent death, a person will say or do anything in the attempt to avoid it."

"Even pretend love?"

"Is life little more than a pretense?"

Christine mulled over his dry words, and a pensive silence settled between them. She wished she could glimpse his face, to catch at least a glimmer of his thoughts, but he walked on her left, between her and the street where the carriages slowly rumbled past, and she could see only the expressionless curve of white porcelain.

His was a strange and unsettling viewpoint to have, but then, he had masqueraded as her angel for more than three seasons and wore a covering over his face every day of his life. She supposed that to him, disguise was a necessary existence. And yet, she could not help but wish he would allow her entrance into those shadowed areas where he continued to hide. Secrets he held, he had said as much, but she hoped one day soon he would overlook that part of their agreement and share them with her. She was his wife…

In name only, the ponderous words echoed dully in her mind, finishing the wretched statement she wished also to forget.

The hotel rose into view as they rounded the corner, and Christine noted in surprise they had walked the entire distance. She had been so absorbed in thought she had not needed the carriage that trailed behind.

Once they entered their suite, Erik lit the lamp near the door and discarded hat, stick, and gloves to a small table. He then twirled his cape from around his shoulders with nonchalant grace to land upon the sofa, his movements as mesmerizing as a dark ballet and rendering her a little breathless as they often did.

He approached the table of decanters and poured himself a drink then turned to regard her as she slid her cape from her shoulders and laid it next to his.

"Would you care for a brandy before you retire?"

"A small one," she agreed, the evening air having sent a biting chill through her bones, the silk against her arms cold and slightly damp from the snow. She removed her intricate wedding ring so as to peel off her long gloves and place them next to her cape, then slipped the ring back onto her bare finger, admiring it a moment before moving to join him.

He poured a dram of the rich golden liquid into a second glass and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed in the exchange, and she felt a jolt of something powerful rush through her blood. He, too, must have been affected as fast as he drew his hand back to his side.

"I apologize for the chill. My gloves -"

"No, it's alright -"

A peculiar awkwardness rose between them, laced with a pronounced tension that wafted like tendrils of unseen smoke around where they stood, now that they were absent from the audience and other city-dwellers and truly alone in their private rooms. It became difficult to breathe as she stared at the exposed part of his face, and when his eyes of flame lifted and latched onto her, she found herself wishing to express a dozen things she dare not say…

"Would you mind if I played?" he asked, striding across the room and taking a long swig of his brandy before she could give an answer.

"Please do." She was grateful for the brief reprieve, able to breathe again without his penetrant stare delving into her soul.

"Any preference of instrument?"

He was a virtuoso of both. If she chose the violin, he would stand at a distance or perhaps wander the room as he performed, and that would surely help to ease this turmoil of unexpressed feeling that had once again so swiftly come over her. Whereas he must sit and stay in place to play the piano… on a bench that could hold two.

"The piano, I think."

At the soft catch in her voice, he sent her a mildly suspicious glance, but moved toward the grand instrument and flipped his coat tails upward to take a seat. Soon melodies beautiful and alluring poured from his fingertips in a sonata she did not recognize.

She stared at his broad back and shoulders that slowly rocked from side to side as he became caught up in the music... and watched his arms spread wide to embrace distant octaves while his skilled hands caressed keys with an adoration she was almost jealous to behold.

Noting the amount of space left on the long bench and that he was not precisely centered, she upended the contents of her glass to a throat suddenly dry and drank every bit of her brandy for courage.

The moment she slid onto the smooth bench, inadvertently bumping against him, his closed eyes sprang open, his hands wrenching from the high keys where they had wandered. He snapped his head around to glare.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"I want to watch you play."

"Can you not do so from a distance?"

She refused to allow his clipped response to injure her feelings.

"I cannot see well from over there and am too weary to remain standing."

"If you are weary, then you should go to bed."

Before she could refuse his suggestion that sounded more like a command, he slid off the bench and stood to his feet.

"Goodnight, Christine." With those words, he strode with purpose to the window, grasping one wrist held behind him, and looked down through the pane as if he awaited important company.

Taken aback by his abrupt dismissal to what had been such a pleasant evening, she struggled not to take offense, though was hard-pressed not to feel the stab of his rejection. She supposed she should be grateful that of late he had amended his obdurate nature to include some form of salutation, even if it was no more than a form of farewell.

Shakily, she stood to her feet. "Goodnight, Erik," she replied to his stiff back and hurriedly retreated to her bedchamber.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Cursing the tears that had risen, Christine whisked them away with impatient fingers and turned up the lamp, catching her reflection in the dressing table mirror. It was her first time to see the ruby and diamond necklace against her skin, and she gasped at the full effect, certainly chosen with care to so beautifully complement her features and the cut and color of the gown. So often he gave more than compulsory attention to ensure her comfort and happiness…

It made no sense.

Why would he behave with such tender regard if he had no wish for her to become more than an in-name only bride? Why at times, since they were wed, did he treat her with more than simple courtesy and in the next breath cast her aside? Why would he care at all to recognize the anniversary of her birth the day after it had passed?

Did he care…?

On occasion, he seemed genuinely to welcome her presence, and Christine delighted in those congenial moments, soaking up his approval like a flower that needed rain to thrive. But absent of those times, the majority of the time, she felt he would rather she did not exist.

With a sigh, she toed off her heeled slippers then carefully removed the exquisite gems and laid them on the dressing table, having nowhere else to put them. She had left the box they came in at the opera…

And another thing had escaped her knowledge until this very moment.

Her eyes widened at the awareness then flicked to the closed door in nervous deliberation. He might become even more upset... in his present dour mood, he would no doubt refuse …

Yet what choice did she have but to make the attempt?

Girding her shoulders with what besieged courage she could muster, she opened the door and again approached him. At her first step, he turned and watched her walk the distance to where he still stood glowering by the window.

"What do you want, Christine?" he said in clear irritation when she came to a stop a short distance from him.

A great many things, but one matter precluded all else at the moment.

"My gown. I need your help… to unfasten it."

His eyes widened with shock at the brazen remark she barely managed to utter.

"A maid helped with the buttons," she explained when he made no response or move toward her. "There are many I cannot reach."

"Do you wish me to ring for a maid?"

"No."

Before he could curtly question further, she turned her back to him a second time that night and waited apprehensively… waited for what seemed a small eternity… waited until she thought she might collapse from standing so stiffly erect and slight of breath…

To ring for a maid this late in the evening would be an embarrassment when her husband was readily available to accomplish the task. Besides which… she did not want to.

The first touch came so feather-light Christine wasn't sure she hadn't imagined it until she felt the slight give of material high between her shoulder blades as the first of many tiny buttons that trailed down her spine was softly popped. She raised her palm to hold the bodice in place as more buttons followed, the gap ever-widening as he progressed, slow and steady...

She had thought he might make rapid work of them to be done with her, and again felt the air saturate with a warm headiness that made it difficult to think, especially to breathe. The soft brush of a cold knuckle as he unfastened the last of the buttons at her lower back, beneath her corset, had her quiver and clutch her bodice more tightly to her bosom as she felt the downward drag of the heavy yards of material.

Before he could move away, she made one last plea, the rasp of her voice barely recognizable. "The ties too. If you would loosen them. I can manage the rest."

This time there was only a slight hesitation before she felt the tugs at her back and the halves of boning expand, so that her breathing could come unrestricted…

That is, if she could breathe.

Or move.

She found she could not, and to her intense awareness, neither did he.

The sudden brush of his fingers against her shoulder blade near the corset's edge caused her lashes to flutter, her eyes falling shut in want.

Oh, to feel his touch again…

As if he heard her silent appeal, his chill fingertips lifted to tickle along one side of the base of her neck and down the slope of her shoulder to its curve. Her heart pulsed in her ears when he moved in, closer still, until she could feel his heated breath at her nape. He spread his touch so that the flats of his fingers of both hands ran a slow course against her skin and the bits of fluff and lace that composed the straps of sleeve, bringing both downward to rest above each elbow.

"I am not the angel, Christine," he whispered against her neck, near her ear, causing her heart to beat wildly.

"What?" She struggled through the haze he created to understand.

"I am far removed from the celestial creature your mind has painted me to be." Suddenly, and with a swiftness that made her gasp, he took firm hold of her upper arms and spun her around to face him, grabbing hold again and giving her a little shake as pins tumbled and a thick lock of hair fell to bounce against her shoulder. "You would do well to remember that!"

His eyes were living flame, his shoulders so broad, his chest rising and falling as his breath came in short, soft pants with his heated declaration. Thin strands of his hair had fallen loose of his queue and hung about his masked face. He was altogether frightening to behold. Mystifying and beguiling… a dark force she should not push too far... and yet she knew no fear.

Oddly entranced, she could not conjure the desire to break away from him, even though she should. He wore a mask to conceal, but the white porcelain failed to disguise the hunger in his stare, and it kept her fixed in place.

"I have long known you were a man, Erik, long before we met at the festival. I called you 'Angel' in my recollections, because I knew no other name for you. And now, you are my husband -"

"I am not the angel," he repeated firmly as though she'd not spoken, dropping his hands away from her and back down to his sides, clenching and unclenching them. "But angel or devil, I made you a promise."

"A promise I never asked for."

Bold words for as uncertain as she felt, as shy and as nervous, but by the sudden flare of shock in his flame-bright eyes, she pushed even further.

"You promised never to ask anything of me that I would not wish to give."

"You cannot want this," he said resolutely.

"Will you now decide for me what I do or don't want?" She lifted her chin. "I know my own mind, Erik. I don't need my decisions made for me."

She lifted her free hand to press against the flawless part of his features, from temple to jaw, his skin as cold here as the rest of him. He flinched at the contact, immediately lifting a wary hand to encircle her wrist, but didn't push her away. And she gathered a new rush of confidence with that knowledge.

"You told me once that there exists between us a strong pull, 'fathomless' you called it. And you were right. It has never waned, growing stronger with each day that passes into the next."

"You were to forget that night." His soft, tight words came almost as an accusation.

"How can I, when it has become a part of my every dream, my very existence? I don't know what this is between us… but I wish to find out."

She moved her fingertips gently against the pallid stretch of skin across temple and cheekbone, eager to touch this part of him that had always been concealed beneath his fuller masks.

"Christine," he said on a groan that seemed ripped from him. "You think you know what you invite into your embrace, but you cannot even begin to imagine the horror. I would not wish that upon you. Once it is realized, it can never be undone. Nothing can be the same."

"You told me of your face, of the deformity you hide beneath the mask, and I am still here, standing before you now," she contradicted in soft assurance.

"Yes, yes, you have proven your courage many times over. But I am no more than a monster in the truest sense of the word, a wild beast, Christine, and that will never alter."

At his harsh and impatient words spoken with such underlying sadness, she shook her head, bemused that he should have such a low opinion of himself.

"You have taken such excellent care of me and helped me every time I needed it, even when you had no desire to. You are not a monster, nor are you a beast."

"You cannot know that. You have no idea - "

"If you would let me see, to reassure you -"

"No." His word cut her off sharply.

"Alright," she said on a sigh. "I won't press the matter, but it changes nothing of how I feel toward you."

Thankfully he did not ask her to elaborate; she was uncertain she could shape the confusion of her feelings into words. She knew only that she wanted to be close to him and to have him want to be close to her, to be a true wife, and to the devil with in-name only –

Yet just as her physical appearance had unraveled - her dress open wide at the back and falling down around her save for the hand she kept fiercely pressed to her bodice, with a few locks of her hair tumbled in disarray from fallen pins - her burst of newfound confidence also began to disintegrate under his unending glare.

"But perhaps I presumed incorrectly," she said, little above a whisper, "and you truly don't want me as you once did." His face blurred from the sudden wretched tears that swam to her eyes, and she pulled her hand from his face, snapping her wrist from his grasp. She had tried; she had failed. "I-I never thought – I'm sorry –" She staggered back, with the intent to whirl around and escape to her bedchamber, locking herself inside.

She got no further as with a growl and swiftness that had her reeling, he stepped forward, hooking an arm hard around her waist and hauling her close. Planting a hand to the back of her skull, he brought his lips down to collide mercilessly with hers.

The sting of impact swiftly faded as a strong wave of heat rushed up to electrify her blood, and his mouth began to pleasure hers into a restless, hungered captivity - in punishment, in passion - she wasn't sure which and sensed it was both and hoped to endure it forever. Pins rained from her hair at the firm urging of his hand and her locks fell in a thick waterfall down her back. With his lips never straying from hers, his urgent tongue traced the seam of her lips. She brought her own tongue forward to meet with his. In that instant he wrenched away, his hands at her waist and his eyes still closed as if to summon some inner force of strength.

"Christine…" His voice came husky on a moan, almost sharp, but no less beautiful. When he opened his eyes again the fire in them scorched her. "Not want you? If only that were true! Then this would be made so simple…"

He stepped back, dropping his hands from around her, and shook his head as if to stall unwanted thoughts or perhaps argue with them as long as he held silent. Suddenly he sobered, drawing himself up to stand even taller.

The swift change in his manner unnerved her, but she waited for what more he would say.

"You truly wish for this?" His voice came dark and soft as velvet.

"Yes," she whispered, any further deliberation unnecessary.

"Then listen well. If we continue along this course, then you must abide by my terms. I cannot have it any other way. If you choose not to agree, we will say goodnight now."

She slowly blinked, trying to find reason in a mind still adrift with the sensations he aroused. His proposal of marriage had been much the same in his demands laid out for her, but he had thus far shown himself to be a man worthy of her trust. Though the mystery of unspoken terms made her a bit apprehensive, as did the conjugal secrets of what would transpire, the desire to have him continue to its conclusion what he'd begun that long ago night in her bedchamber - what he again started this night - made her softly nod in response.

"I agree."

"Do not be so quick to speak," he insisted quietly. "You have not yet heard my terms."

She did not need to, she had already decided long before this moment, but she urged, "Go on then."

He stared breathless seconds then broke eye contact, focusing on some mysterious object to her left. He seemed to be at war with himself, as if he weighed whether or not to continue with this bizarre conversation. She had never seen him so undecided; he always seemed so sure.

"You are not to question either condition. If you have reservations and do not agree, let that be the end of it."

"Fine," she said a bit unsteadily.

His golden eyes swung to her, pinning her where she stood. "At no time are you to make any attempt to remove my mask."

Given what she knew about his sensitivity to the subject and his reason for wearing one, this first stipulation did not surprise her.

"May I touch it?" she asked softly.

He seemed taken aback by her request. "You would wish to?"

"If I cannot touch your face there, then yes."

He looked at her curiously. "I will allow it, but no more than that."

"I agree."

He gave a swift nod and again grew hesitant then blew out a resigned breath and shook his head.

"This fails to matter. You will not agree to my final condition."

"You are so sure?"

"It goes against your very nature."

She shuddered at the implication of wickedness, but wished to prove him wrong.

"Try me."

"Very well. I require absolute darkness. Not even the glow of a candle or the moon for light. In this I will not relent."

His quiet and unexpected words shot fear like an arrow down to the pit of her soul. Her eyes widened at the thought of being unable to see in a chamber black as pitch, her hand tightly fisting the velvet of the gown she held to her. At her anxious reaction he frowned.

"I would never harm you, you have my word. But the only way that I can lie with you is to do so in the manner I have presented. There can be no other option."

"I - I understand."

"Do you, Christine?" He approached her slowly and brushed his knuckles lightly against her flushed cheek. "Do you really? And do you agree?"

She feared absolute darkness more than she did the idea mentioned earlier that night, of ghosts and of vampyres - but the darkness was real. To think of enclosing herself in its tomb made her weak with dread, the terror going back to a time she could not remember...

It had always been there.

At night, even to this day, she had some form of light to reassure. If there was no flame, no candle, no lamp, then she cracked the curtain to allow the moon's pale glow to soothe away the unknown terrors and allow her to sleep.

Why he should make such a wretched demand of her, as a stipulation to their union, she could not comprehend. She did not think he wished for darkness as a form of intimidation, not as gentle as he was with her now, and grew certain his denial of light must have to do with his scars. Perhaps there were more than the hidden ones on his face.

She could refuse his final condition and allow this timeless dread to triumph and that would be the end of it.

But she would forever wonder what might have been...

As if to tempt such thought, this evening's memory of their moment together in the forgotten corridor eased into her mind, of his hands upon her in that small space of never-ending darkness, of his body so close, his steadfast reassurance and the comfort of his voice to calm her...

She stepped forward from the brink of childhood lost to enter with him into a moment that, as a woman, she chose not to fear.

"Yes, Erik. I agree."

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

XXIV

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Despite her ready surrender to his terms, Erik held back, having one more thing he must say. One more thing she must know, what he, himself, must hear…

"Know this, Christine. After what transpires between us this night, I will not hold you to the vows we have made together..."

Unable to refrain from touching her, even while he delivered so contrary a statement, he brought the back of his knuckles to trace the slender line of her jaw, the tips of his fingers to brush down her neck to the shallow dip in her throat and the pulse that beat so rapidly there.

"I have said I will never again leave you and will honor those words. But at the appointed time agreed upon, should you wish to end this marriage and return to Paris alone, I'll not prevent it. I vowed never to ask anything of you that would give a moment's regret, and I fear, dear one, that you will come to regret this."

"No, Erik. I won't."

Her words came soft with conviction, but her eyes reminded him of a doe's eyes, big and vulnerable and shining bright with nervous uncertainty.

When first he entertained the idea of finding pleasure with her in the darkness, he had not known then her level of fear with regard to it, not until tonight at the opera. After witnessing her terrified response to the hidden corridor when absent of all light, he had resigned himself then that such a plan would never work. That to coexist in wedlock they must remain physically distant, to prevent the continual threat of discovery…

But she had agreed.

To realize that all he had coveted since he encountered this remarkable woman on the night of Samhain could actually be his to possess sent a vehement rush of energy coursing through his veins. Over half a century ago he had renounced the primitive act, no longer finding pleasure in coitus when linked with the necessary shield of compulsion. But this night would be different. This night he would have a woman in his arms who chose of her own freewill to give herself over to him... this woman. His living bride.

Within the cover of darkness, upon which he insisted, he could explore every provocative curve and hollow she possessed. She would never see him to know what held her. Within the darkness – that which he needed – she would never discover the truth that she lay with a monster, one of the undead.

He had tried to tell her without exposing the odious revelation, to give her every opportunity to withdraw. She would not hear and refused to heed his repeated warning. She had crossed the dark boundaries into his tortured life and hollow heart –

And now she was his.

Christine's heart skipped a nervous beat as Erik's hand lowered to her fist that clutched the bodice self-consciously to her breasts.

"If I may?" His low words inquired while his eyes issued a demand.

She barely nodded as his fingertips stroked the back of her hand to tight knuckles until his touch spread to cover them and slowly but firmly loosed her numb grip. The gown fell with a rustle of velvet around her ankles and she gave a little indrawn hiss of breath at the shock of it.

Eyes of gold mesmerized and held her rapt in his gaze which then lowered to take her in. His exposed brow lifted slightly in bemused interest to see the trappings that society dictated essential. Christine also considered various modes of high fashion preposterous. Yet any embarrassment to be seen in such a state melted away in the blaze of the look he gave.

With intent, his hands went to the satin ribbons at her waist that held the lobster bustle against her and deftly undid the tight knot. The tiers of ruffled padding that covered her derriere to ankles fell to join with the gown on the floor. As he watched his progress, his lips twisted in a satisfied half smile that could only be deemed as wicked. She struggled to breathe as slowly he walked around to stand behind her and untied both petticoats in two swift tugs. They too fell around her ankles...

With each item cast aside, Christine shivered to be so scantily clad. The one lamp he'd lit was distant, but to her mind, unbearably bright to reveal her womanly secrets to his unwavering gaze.

He came back around and as if sensing her discomfiture, held out his hand to her. She hesitated only slightly and placed her palm in his, stepping over the pool of discarded garments as he led, walking backwards, and she followed to the shadowed area near his bedchamber. Her eyes flicked to the closed door.

"Do you fear me, Christine," he asked quietly.

"No."

How many times had he asked her that since she'd known him? So many…

He pressed a hand beneath her collarbone, and she trembled at its chill.

"Your heart races in fear."

"Not because of you. Not in fear. Not really."

At her muddled response, she briefly closed her eyes and took in a breath to seek composure. In truth, she was both relieved and nervous that he'd taken the initiative to continue with what she'd asked of him earlier. She didn't think she had the temerity to cast off so many layers with those hypnotic eyes so intensely fixed upon her.

They lowered from her face to burn a path to the front of her satin corset, his hands again moving, to the first hook. As it released, her pulse beat a little more swiftly, at war with the ease that each give of the stiff boning produced.

As he had done with the buttons of her gown, his progress was seductively slow, each hook as it popped free pushing a breath from her lungs while the need that drove her to be with him pulsed heavier with each snap. The corset fell away and he tossed it aside, his eyes never leaving her.

Now clad only in her knee-length drawers, white stockings and chemise, the straps of the thinnest lace which fell down her shoulders, she struggled not to cross her arms over her breasts and hips, all too aware the dim shadow of her true form could be seen through the lightweight material.

He stared, motionless, without expression. If not for the fire in his eyes and the marked elevation to his breathing, apparent by the swift rise and fall of his chest, she might think him turned to porcelain, like his mask.

Feeling awkward to stand before him in dishabille and so vulnerable while he yet stood fully clothed, Christine lifted trembling hands to the lapels of his tail coat and pulled it from his broad shoulders. He stiffened, his hands flying up to firmly grasp her by the elbows, and she lifted her eyes to glimpse wariness in his. When he made no further move to stop her, she slowly brought the coat down his upper arms, unwilling to be denied. He released her, and she gave one last tug, letting it fall to the floor.

Her hands lifted to his cravat, loosening it, when suddenly his hands wrapped around her wrists. He pulled them slightly away, bending his head to brush his lips into the curve of her palm, then in a rapid move that seized what little breath she had left, he released his hold and swept her up into his strong arms.

With her mind in a chaotic whirl, she was vaguely aware that he strode with her into his bedchamber and toward the large four-poster that stood there – when the door slammed shut as suddenly as it had blown open and the blackness fell all around.

x

Every muscle in her body tensed and froze as for the second time that night absolute darkness threatened. Only this darkness was not soon to be relieved by a candle's reassuring flame. This darkness would continue on and on...

Christine struggled to fight the encroaching fear that had been a part of her for so very long, lurking deep within crevices of childhood memories she'd been too young to later recall. But the unseen dread overshadowed the attempt made, and she could think of nothing else but the darkness and the terrors it concealed.

Though she tried, desperately she tried...

Erik stood at the edge of the bed, feeling how she'd begun to tremble in his arms. He could hear the beats of her heart escalate as the blood rushed through her veins and sensed her horror. He might think his show of impatience to blame for her sudden lapse into fear and for magically controlling the door - had he not earlier that night heard from her lips the truth of the matter.

"Christine," he said softly, "the darkness cannot hurt you."

"No," she whimpered barely above a whisper, shaking her head against his shoulder. "There is danger there. And death."

Death...

Sensing that this phobia stemmed from more than a common fear visited in childhood - though he did not believe her able to sense what he was and still cling to him with such blind trust - Erik held her close a moment, touching his lips to the curls at her crown, then laid her carefully on the bed.

"There is no danger in this darkness," he reassured. "There is only you and I."

Her hands reached for him as he drew back, a desperate clutch of his shirt to keep him with her. She was immune to his control, he could not manipulate her mind into obedience to his command as with all other mortals, and thereby convince her to let go of this senseless terror, but in recalling her girlhood reaction to the angel's song, he used its familiar method to soothe her.

"Christine, Christine…"

His hands cupped her face as he brought his lips near hers.

"Chriiiiiistine…"

The stirring sound of his tenor voice singing her true name and not the false one she had once given her Angel, caused her to go limp beneath him, the beats of her heart easing into a more temperate rhythm. At the gentle press of his cool lips against hers, she relaxed her hold on his shirt, sliding her hands up to clasp the top of his shoulders.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"There is no need." His fingertips traced her jaw. "Let this darkness we inhabit be to you a haven. I am with you and will let no harm come to you. Let me show you the beauty to be found here, the beauty in the night..."

It was disconcerting to stare wide-eyed and not be able to see him, only the pervasive blackness all around. She opened her mouth to protest that darkness could be anything but a terror but no sound came forth, save for the whimpered little gasp that escaped her lips as his hands fell away, one of them covering her breast. All thought fled as she knew only the touch of that hand…

Through thin material, his skin was a shock, like ice. His fingers gently kneaded, his thumb brushing over her nipple, pinching softly, and she gave a sharp intake of breath as what felt like the tiniest of bubbles fizzed warmly inside her.

Instantly, he pulled away.

"My touch, does it displease you?"

"No," she said in swift reply, bemoaning the loss. "Please... don't stop."

In such a thick sea of darkness never before allowed, Christine felt lost. His desired touch and silken voice became the grounding point to keep her fixed and the anchor to prevent her from going adrift into waters unknown and terrifying.

His hand resumed its light exploration against her clothing, fingers smoothing over rib cage and belly, down to the top of her thigh, his chill touch creating a steady fire that began to build inside her. When suddenly his mouth covered the chemise over her breast and gave a faint suckle, sending a jolt through her that made her softly cry out and clutch the back of his skull. Her hand tangled in the ribbon holding the queue at his nape and pulled it away, wishing to feel the silken strands of his hair between her fingers.

She felt the top of her chemise dragged downward and cried out a second time when the heat of his mouth made direct contact with her breast, the change startling to her senses. Fire flamed low to her belly, a pleasant warmth seeping between her legs, as his lips teased with slow measure and his tongue laved her. His hand stroked a tantalizing path from inside her knee up to her thigh. Her eyes suddenly shot wide open as his fingers edged into the slit of her drawers, and a wayward burst of shocked modesty made her grasp his wrist to stop him.

"Does this displease you?" His voice rasped low, softer than before.

"No," she breathed.

Given permission, his fingers rubbed the slickness there. This time, it was he who drew a sharp intake of breath, to find her so warm and so wet…

Erik had never lain in actual repose with a woman, his exploits of past centuries taking place standing or seated, often brief encounters in shadowed back alleyways, and never with a strumpet who wasn't under his spell, silent and malleable, a puppet to his whim. Thus, he felt at a loss when he pulled away to stand and Christine's supple body immediately stiffened and followed before he could do more than sit up, her arms reaching out for him in anxious demand.

"Erik!"

"I am not going anywhere, dear one." He had thought to put on his gloves and make the experience more tolerable for her, but she found and grasped his icy hand with both of hers, bringing it back to hold between her breasts, trapping him there.

Few women of his past had been unclothed, and of those few, none appealed as much as the white-clad beauty before him. He desired to see the entire span of her creamy skin and ached to tear the remainder of undergarments away, but he understood by her desperate reach for him that her pronounced dread of the darkness had not yet been fully subdued.

"Christine, listen to the voice…" he began, wrapping her in its silken cocoon, "…of the Angel who dwelled in the darkness to be to you a companion. It has long been a domain I have inhabited, and I swear I'll not let it harm you."

Her fierce grip on his hand loosened, and as he pulled away he began to hum.

Christine lay down again, her soul finding ease as she listened to the familiar beauty of his voice...

It was foolish to act so infantile. She did not want to be like this! If she could only curb her involuntary reactions to such utter darkness, she would not hesitate to do so. She despised the control it had assumed over her life and did not want him to think less of her for it... did not want him to think her a child and lose interest... did not want this moment to end.

Simply put, she wanted. Deeply. And she would not let the fear rob her of this night.

His hands returned, reaching beneath the wide leg of her silky drawers and up her clothed thigh to untie the ribbon that fastened her stocking. She trembled anew as he drew it down over her ankle and did the same with its twin, her reaction not so much due to his cold flesh brushing hers with the motion, but arising out of the fire he kindled with every breath.

She felt the give of the mattress as he sat near her hip. All the while he hummed, his hands going beneath her shoulders and gently lifting her to rise. She sat up again, heart racing for what he would do next, then felt him take hold of her chemise and pull it slowly up over her head, and lifting her arms, she aided him.

The room was dark as a moonless night, darker, but by his precise movements and certain touch, Christine sensed he could see what she could not and modestly lifted her hands to cover bare breasts. He continued to hum an aria she remembered from childhood, and by that sweet sound, she could tell where he was at all times as he moved around the foot of the bed and she heard the whispered rustle of covers pulled down on the opposite side. She did not trust herself to crawl toward the sound, for surely that is what he intended, but she feared misjudging distance and falling to the hard floor. His voice floated to her left as he returned to where she sat on the made-up part of the coverlet and again lifted her in his arms.

In shy relief, she tucked her head beneath his chin as he carried her to the other side of the wide mattress and laid her down again, then heard the thunks of his shoes hitting the rug. His hand went to her hip and she felt him draw near. She pressed her palm to his chest to stop him. The humming abruptly ceased.

x

"Are you not going to remove your clothes also?"

There was a pause of tense silence.

"You cannot want that," he refused.

"And if I do?"

His skin was a shock to her senses, especially when he caressed sensitive areas never having known an intimate touch, and at first contact the experience, with no layers of material between to alleviate the chill, did make her shiver in slight discomfort. In the next instant her body adapted to the feel of his uniqueness and wanted to know more. She had no intention to lie here half naked while he remained fully clothed.

She smoothed the hand held pressed to him up to his shoulder. "Please, Erik…"

"No, Christine. I have seen how my affliction causes you distress."

His affliction. His clipped response answered her unspoken question of why, but did nothing to change her resolve to fully know him as a wife would know her husband.

His lips brushed hers, and as they kissed, her hand trailed to tug the tie she had earlier loosened from around his neck. He tensed, but did not stop her as she found and unbuttoned the top two buttons and slipped her fingers inside his shirt against bare skin.

Cold, yes, he was cold, deathly so, but she preferred this to the press of impersonal rough linens against her flesh. The shield of his trousers and shirt did nothing to prevent the chill felt, so she did not see that their presence even mattered.

"Give me the chance," she whispered, tugging at his shirt.

"You could not bear it," he argued, drawing back.

In the darkness, with Erik, she found her confidence again, the wretchedness of earlier having dissolved with his beautiful voice and intimate presence to chase the ghosts away.

"These are my terms," she stated in quiet determination. "I want you to lie with me, as I am."

Erik moved to sit up slowly, one foot planted on the floor. He stared down at his determined little bride, bewildered by her sudden burst of daring, though she had always proven to possess abundant courage in the midst of her fear. But never, never had he bared more of himself than was necessary to a woman, any woman, living or undead, and he struggled with so foreign a concept.

"Erik...?"

The temptation to press his icy flesh to every inch of her silken warmth beckoned to him, the need so great, it overwhelmed. And when she sat up, tentatively scooting toward him, her hands reaching and finding his waistcoat buttons, he did nothing to stop her.

Once unfastened, he wrenched the article of clothing away as she immediately set to work on the buttons of his shirtsleeves and pulled the hem from his trousers. He never took his eyes off her face, noting the flush that had come over it, and heard the beats of her heart heighten along with her breathing. The urgent need to hold her bare against him, the desire to know if she could truly stand to be held, had him suddenly grasp her around the waist and bring her close, his arms wrapping fiercely around her.

She let out a startled little cry but did not push away, her unsteady hands instead reaching around to press against the ridges of his back, inside his parted shirt.

"Christine… sweet, sweet Christine…"

Four hundred years in the absence of all warmth, experiencing only trace amounts that failed to satisfy, had been the scope of his existence. Nothing could have prepared him for this! She was so incredibly warm, her soft curves crushed to his bared chest, and he reveled in the exquisite feel of her. He felt sudden pressure as she leaned away and moved her leg between them. His hands instinctively tightened against her back to keep her close. A second time she astonished as she struggled, only to bring her calf to rest against his hip near the mattress edge and slide over so that she sat straddled in his lap, with more of her skin pressed to his, her knees bent on either side.

"Can you truly bear it?" he asked in soft disbelief. "As I am."

"Yes," she whispered without hesitation.

His palms smoothed up her shoulder blades, and he ducked his head to press his lips to the side of her throat and the artery that wildly pulsed there. He allowed himself only the slightest pull with his mortal teeth, not trusting himself to explore with his mouth further, feeling the swell of his fangs as they began to extend. He fought their unwanted arrival and fiercely willed them back into concealment. His passions darkly aroused, sight grew even sharper, and he knew that his eyes had strengthened in their glow. Not wishing her to see their preternatural flame in the darkness, he closed them as his mouth sought hers.

Christine held fast to him, his hard and lean muscled body much like a block of ice, with lines of scars felt along his back. And though she trembled to feel him flush against her, unlike ice, his body did not painfully scald when held long to her skin. She absorbed his chill, hoping in turn to soak him with her warmth, the inner heat flowing through her and building with each intimacy shared, and when unexpectedly he released her and gently pushed back, holding her by the arms, she let out a small sound of dismay to lose the connection.

"Christine," he crooned softly, "My brave girl. I have no wish to prolong your discomfort."

"And I will have you no other way," she insisted, her hands clutching the edges of his shirt and pulling it from his shoulders and down his arms. He posed no further argument and whisked it from him then brought her to lie back against the mattress.

Her hands lifted and sought, going to his face, one on each side, and he flinched in instinctive alarm when her palm pressed to his mask. But she honored her word and went no further, and Erik relaxed, for the first time experiencing the non-threatening pressure of a hand not his own against that part of his face… and he marveled at this beauty who lay beneath him…

With chill fingers he caressed, pinching and gently rolling the sensitive tips of her breasts, his mouth soon following to cover her in damp heat. She gave a little cry of want, the two extremes of ice and fire so incredibly exhilarating to the senses, first awakening her flesh with the shock of the sweet invasion, then melting her inside and further stimulating her desire to be his. This time, she arched her hips against his hand when his fingers again slipped to the slit of her drawers, eager and wanting...

The darkness was no longer a consideration, the pleasurable sensations he aroused in Christine all on which she could focus. Her heightened senses were alert to his every chill stroke and kiss, his every heated suckle, but at the same time she felt dazed, as if she lay within a pulsating mist, not of cold but of warmth almost impossible to bear. And she welcomed the chill he gave.

He untied the ribbon to her drawers, pulling them swiftly down her hips. She became certain upon hearing his soft intake of breath that he could see her, whereas she was still blind in the darkness that was so absolute her vision had never adjusted to find gradients of gray in its shapes. And again she closed her eyes...

Erik took a stunned moment to admire the flawless porcelain of each graceful curve of breast, the narrow slope of waist and gentle flare of hip between which peeked a thatch of soft, dark curls. He knew from the abundant dampness he'd found there that she was ready to receive him and made quick work with the remainder of his clothing. At last, he moved to cover her with his body that craved to know every soft, warm inch of her. With his outstretched hand, he clutched the coverlet and brought it up with him to give her some small method to help alleviate the damnable chill if it were even possible.

He settled between her thighs, nudging them further aside. She shuddered violently and exhaled a fragmented breath at the first contact of his icy flesh pressed entirely to hers. Somberly he feared it was too much.

"Christine…?"

She responded to his unspoken query of concern by slipping her hands around his back and shoulders to wrap him firmly in her embrace. Drawing up her knees slightly, she opened herself up to him at the same time she endeavored to enclose him in her warmth. He could refrain no longer and pushed deep inside, at once feeling the barrier of her innocence give way.

Never had he taken a virgin and had overlooked and forgotten what he'd long ago overheard of this moment.

x

Christine's entire body tensed with the shock of the invasion as she muffled a cry of pain into his shoulder. His heightened vampyric senses immediately honed onto the scent of fresh blood with the tearing away of her maidenhead. His fangs abruptly distended, contrary to his iron will, the desire overwhelming him to bring his mouth down to the source.

He fought the despicable urge to benefit from her misery (though she would never know in this well of darkness, the beast within challenged), and balled his hands into fists, fighting the monstrous voice in his head that begged for the taste of warm blood. For her blood…

Clutching the sheets on either side, he held himself rigid and motionless inside her.

"Erik…?" she whispered in confusion, oblivious to his dark struggle.

His vision flamed red and he shut his eyes, lest she see and understand what she could never know.

He struggled against it, but almost of its own volition one hand snaked between them. With slow and fierce resolve he moved back enough to bury two fingers within the folds of her wetness, near the juncture where their bodies met, stroking there. She gasped and gave a little moan of pleasure.

The beast strained hard at the leash.

Her life essence, so untainted, filled his senses. Once, in the fog, he had seized the most minute of tastes when his fang had lightly scraped her neck, breaking delicate skin, and he recalled her delectable flavor in that one beaded drop he had lapped. At the memory, he brought his fingers coated with the blend of her warm desire and virgin blood to press against his parted lips, pushing the flat of his tongue slightly forward to taste.

A feral growl rumbled low in his throat at the richness of her combined fluids, the sweet tang of her cream, the coppery wine of her blood, so pure and unlike anything he had ever known. Hungry to taste more of her, he slipped his fingers into his mouth, drawing her juices from them and savoring her flavor.

"Erik…?"

Above the heavy pulse of her heartbeats in his ears, he heard the thread of renewed fear, her voice coming distant, calling to him…

Christine...

His bride...

His wife...

His own...

Calling to him...

He forced his hand away from his mouth, fisting it again in the sheets. Warring with his bestial nature that ordered him to sink his fangs into the pulsing vein of her neck and take more of her sweet, warm blood, he focused on calming the monster inside and sought to rein in his vicious instincts.

It was only this one night when a virgin's blood spilled over that he must fight his way through these wretched urges. Passion brought his fangs out, but blood enticed him to use them. Centuries of living with the curse of the beast had taught him restraint, to distance the ravening voice and seek calm, though he had never encountered as rare and appealing a creature as his Christine… his living, breathing bride... her slayer blood so sweet, so pure, like a rich, red claret on his tongue…

No, damn it! - NO.

Relentless to break free from the profane hold that worked again to ensnare him, he forced concentration away from the blood and focused on the heat of her – God, such heat! Her flesh was warm, but inside her core she radiated with heat. Heat and wet… and he held her down by the wrists that lay either side of her head, lest she reach up to touch his face and this time discover the fiendish truth of the root of his affliction.

He moved then, pulling away to thrust deep, burrowing himself within her hot velvet walls for long moments before retreating to descend again. Giving the beast a different kind of fulfillment... And though passion never receded, at last he was able to retract his fangs to hide back within his gums… and at last he could give his all into the pleasure and comfort of his young bride…

Christine trembled violently, her reaction having little to do with cold.

The ghost of his touch had rendered her breathless. To feel so much of him all at once, within and without, was an agony and an ecstasy never once conceived…

She was unsurprised by the burn, having known it would exist. The breathless cold she had willingly resigned herself to endure so that she could know him as fully as he would allow. And though for a moment in this blind darkness he had seemed wretchedly lost to her, the whisper of his kisses against her face and neck reassured her that he had returned…

The ache had dulled with the cold that soothed, the harsh sting receding into a strange, heavy pressure. A pressure that was him, her dazed mind told her, his hardness that fashioned him into a man filling her utterly. His hips moved in a steady rhythm, burying himself to the hilt for breathless moments – and she gasped to feel him so deeply seated. He pulled back, but brief, to glide swift and deep again, holding there, as if he did not wish to leave her even for the scantest amount of time to plunge again, and hoped to meld her flesh entirely with his. And in the depths of the haze that enveloped her, Christine recognized a startling truth -

The endless chill dissolved as he began to take on her heat, tracing new fire and heaviness deep to her bones…

She arched her hips to match his movements, twining legs around him and pulling him to her with each staggered thrust... and she shuddered in delight to hear his deep, guttural moan, eclipsed by a low growl, which made her even wetter where they were joined. He plunged once more, this time without retreating, and rocked intensely within, each forward motion pushing her into the mattress and nudging a hidden part of her that shot sparks...

Her body reached urgently for something unobtainable. Wound tightly inside where they were joined, the need coiled so fierce that she felt she would scream from the intensity and it might break her. It swelled and spread - at last to burst in a shower of warm radiance that washed over her and through her, bringing faint lights flashing behind closed eyelids.

Feeling her seize and throb around him as she cried out in climax, her heart racing, so alive, Erik was thunderstruck to realize that no part of his body felt the eternal chill any longer, his flesh impossibly warm again. In the moment before he, too, was spent, he wondered how long such blissful reprieve would last, having never had that happen before. Pinpricks danced along his spine, and he groaned as his seed poured into her... a remnant of the mortality seized from him yet absent of all life for which it was designed.

He forced harsh thought away from what could not be changed, wanting no more than to remain saturated within her intimate embrace for as long as his nature permitted or she would allow. She had given him warmth, true warmth, and for a time he felt almost alive again, though hope had seized far too much from him through the centuries to trust that it would last.

He did not withdraw but pressed his hand between her and the mattress, clutching her bottom and keeping her tightly to him, rolling with her until she lay draped over him. At the abrupt motion, she let out a gasp followed by a wordless, soft mumble, then adjusted her limbs to drowsily nestle against his body. He dragged the coverlet up from her hips to her neck and held her in his strong embrace.

His mortal angel…

His.

She lay with her head turned against his shoulder, tucked beneath his chin. Within moments, he heard her soft and steady breathing as she slept. Neither winded nor weakened, he had no need for slumber and exulted in her novel warmth until the black hour arrived when he must depart. He had no wish to leave her, never again, but it was imperative…

To safeguard Christine, tonight Nicolae must die.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

   ~~~⊱⊱~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~⊰⊰~~~ 

PART TWO – Bond

 ~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

 XXV

 ~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

The soft particles of snow turned to icy drizzle by the time the Count forced himself to leave the comfort of his wife's arms, dress, and silently make his way into the dark underbelly of Paris. The warmth she instilled to his body had faded, as he presumed it must, the cold no stranger to him, but still he did not relish walking within its damp curtain.

Here, within a maze of narrow alleyways and close buildings, the scourge of the city lived and worked and breathed. Here, members of the echelon of upper society would visit in the dead of night, secretly to indulge in their perverse appetites. And here, he had learned through his covert investigation, was where he would find Nicolae.

Nicolae… the first of three elaborate mistakes made in a rare attempt to extend the hand of mercy, though the compassion for mercy rarely had been Erik's to receive.

And never would he make the mistake of being merciful toward that despicable fiend again...

He had been new to his role as a prince of the darkness, not yet knowledgeable with regard to the extent of power that was his to wield, having no one to teach him. At dusk, he had come upon a man, not much younger than he, leg broken and lying at the bottom of a ravine. A stranger to Erik, one of many who littered the field after battle, only later would he learn his name… which would become to him a blight in his existence.

Absent of the necessity to feed, having glutted his veins on the blood of the wounded for whom all hope was lost, Erik approached without evil intent and with rare empathy. But when he knelt to give into the hoarse plea for water from the canteen of leather lying near, the man had seized his arm and plunged his dagger to the hilt, just missing Erik's cold, dead heart... A dagger with a blade not crafted of silver.

Pain had lanced through his chest like the brand of fire, but to his surprise as well as his attacker's, Erik had not fallen. Nor had he even staggered, instead taking the hilt and slowly pulling the bloodied blade from its intended mortal wound. With a wide, horrified stare, his attacker had watched as the crimson slit of skin immediately began to close, and he looked up into Erik's eyes of flame that burned down at him through the mask.

"You are one of them," the fiend had uttered in shock. "Like my father!"

The fool then brought his hand wet with Erik's blood to his mouth and desperately sucked at the dark crimson matter as if he, himself, had been plagued with the curse of the vampyre, rapidly cleaning his hand of the stain. Certain the simpleton must be mad and disgusted to have wasted his time with him, Erik promptly brought his gloved hands to the idiot's skull and with a swift snap of the neck, put an end to his wretched life.

Had he only known then that life anew originated from the blood, an irony to one dead –

Had he only known then the vile identity of the fiend to whom he had foolishly tried to lend aid –

He would have left him to die an eventual death, as all mortals must one day face.

Now he chased him through the darkness of the city to protect the life of the only mortal who mattered to him. The only mortal for whom he would put his own life at risk, no matter that her kind's solitary goal was to destroy him….

No matter that she, herself, might one day wield the blade of silver against him that she carried, if she was to learn the truth of what he was.

His Mortal Angel… For her, he would bend or break the ancient rules of the secret order if he must, to keep Christine safe.

The Count had exchanged his white mask for the black, better to blend into the night. Becoming as a shadow among the shadows he ruled, he darted through narrow alleys, paying no heed to the strumpet who called out to him as he passed by her open window, nor to those who coaxed potential customers through lamp-lit doorways, away from the drizzle that fell.

He ignored the raucous noise that tried to pass itself off as music from some of the more sordid establishments he strode past - and from beneath the wide brim of his fedora, eyed those seedy men who approached with nefarious intent, silently daring them to try and rob him. One look into his eyes behind the mask and they quickly averted their own gaze, swiftly walking away.

At last he arrived at the haunt the barmaid told him that Nicolae frequented late at night.

The Count slipped inside the door, immediately scanning the dimly lit premises. Men sat at tables, many of them deep into their cups, a few with ladies of the establishment on their laps or hovering near. Smoke from fine cigars and tobacco pipes clouded the area but did not hinder his sharp vision. Along one wall, a bartender stood busy, filling a row of glasses with wine. And on a small center stage, a bevy of young women clad in heavy face paint and sparse costume danced a burlesque to the questionable talents of the pianist who accompanied them, spurring the cheers and hoots of the crowd who watched.

Before anyone could break from their riveted attention to catch sight of him, Erik swiftly made his way to the back of the building, beyond the stage, having not sighted his prey among the clientele. A dimly lit corridor took him past an open door and a few dancers who were in various stages of undress, but he saw no sign of Nicolae. He almost made it to the end of the passage and a door there, when he heard his name –

"Count cel Tradat."

He turned to see one of the dancers approach. Taking a look into her glassy eyes, their pupils dilated, along with her lack of expression, he could see that she had been compelled. Warily he waited for what she would say.

"Nicolae wants you to meet him at the café-chantant on the Champs-Élysées. He is waiting for you…"

Vexed that Nicolae knew Erik was hunting him and had expected him all along – perhaps the barmaid a cohort to the fiend – he snapped, "Is that all the message you have for me?"

"He said you best come quickly if you don't want to lose all that you think you have gained." She blinked suddenly, coming out from under the compulsion now that the message was delivered, and eyed him, clearly at a loss.

"Oh, hello love…" She smiled in invitation. "Did you come t' see me?"

Erik turned swiftly on his heel and exited the establishment through the back door, again covering the dark streets on foot, again arriving to a cabaret to find a woman compelled with yet another cryptic message that Nicolae could not wait, chiding Erik that he was taking too long, and to meet him at yet another cabaret, Mouton Blanc, in another part of the city.

Incensed with the detestable cat and mouse game and on his guard that his adversary was aware of the chase Erik now wished only to end, he decided as he arrived to the next musical establishment that this would be the last. He had neither the time nor the patience to endure a carousel of futile hunts through a labyrinth of cabarets in the entire damned city! Grimly, he scanned the area of merrymakers for Nicolae's face, doubting he would find his snide grin among them.

A third time he was approached backstage by yet another young costumed dancer asking if he was the Count cel Tradat, her eyes also glassy and dilated. Ready to surrender his fruitless search and return to the hotel, later to devise a new plan to find the rogue vampyre, Erik turned away without answering.

Her hand to his sleeve stopped him.

"I know you are the Count," she said in a dead monotone. "You wear a mask."

Steadily she lifted her arm from her side and cut her wrist with a knife she had concealed, which then clattered to the floor. The blood streamed fast from the severed vein with each pump of her heart and ran in rivulets to her elbow as she lifted her hand up to him.

"You must be thirsty."

Erik's fangs snapped down from his gums the moment the blade sliced through skin, his eyes clouding into a haze of red, the vile disposition to feed strong after he had so nearly given into the beast's thirst for Christine. He had not fed in days, a mistake. One he would never make again… But in this woman's blood he picked up the faint scent of Verbena Officinalis, the herb of the cross that was purported to cleanse Christ's wounds… the same herb that if ingested made a vampyre intensely weak, even violently ill…

Damn Nicolae to the furthest reaches of hell!

Resisting the powerful impulse to drink, he tore off his glove and grabbed Nicolae's victim by the hand. Tearing into the flesh of his own hand with his fangs, Erik then squeezed his fingers in a tight fist, dripping his blood over her torn wrist, the edges of skin instantly closing together.

"Where is Nicolae?" he demanded, grabbing and giving her shoulders a harsh shake. "Tell me, damn you!"

Still under the dark power of the compulsion, she stared through him, unseeing. "You are to go to The Grand Hotel. Suite 502. He said to tell you that Christine would soon be his pet to control."

A violent wind blew through the corridor as the dancer suddenly came to and blinked in confusion to find herself alone, her arm liberally stained with wet blood that came from no source and with no memory of how it had gotten there.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Christine roused from a deep sleep into gradual layers of awareness that coaxed her into embracing the new dawn. As her mind stirred to memory, she smiled to realize it was exactly that. A new dawn. They had reached a turning point at long last…

She stretched within the cool sheets before opening her eyes to darkness. A darkness that was no longer absolute, dim yellow light streaming onto the bedding from behind, and she turned over to see that the chamber door had been left wide open, a lamp lit in the distance there to provide a reassuring glow.

She lay au naturel and pleasantly drowsy, a dull ache never before felt in the place that made her a woman, and she blushed profusely to recall the darkest hours of the evening, a shy and satisfied smile coming to her lips. It faded to realize her bridegroom was nowhere in sight.

Her bridegroom…

At last it felt real to think those words, to acknowledge him as 'husband', and her heart gave an eager beat in her desire to see him, wondering where he could have gone. There was no music to greet her and she didn't think he would have left the comforts of this bed to visit the next room and sit alone.

Or would he…

She recalled his keen amazement to experience physical warmth and doubted he would so readily exchange such bliss for a cold and empty shell of a room. And yet, there was still so much about her Count that she did not know.

It astonished her that less than a fortnight ago, she had planned her escape from Berwickshire, resigned never to see his masked face again. Now the shire was her home as well, or any place that he wished to lay down roots, and the days and nights hers to learn all about Erik she wished to know. All that he would allow, and she hoped as time went on and they learned more about each other, he would extend those boundaries…

She frowned slightly to recall his disheartening words that he would not hold her to their vow at year's end, but concern had led to relief when he then promised never again to leave her…

She had guessed correctly; last night had proven it: his oath stemmed from a desire to please, not from a preference to let her go.

He could be dogged in his views and demands, often distant and cloaked in his mystique, even at times unpleasant in his mood, which could swing rapidly from genial to forbidding – but each day there were hidden depths she glimpsed that intrigued... his voice so rich, his song so glorious… his chill touch that made her forget the darkness and all else existed in her desperate need to be his.

How could she not want to be with him?! No, she could not conceive a time would ever arise when she would choose to walk away from the Count and all he had become to her. Such a time simply did not exist.

Christine shifted so that she reclined on her back, propped up by pillows, and glanced toward the draped window swathed in thick folds of black velvet with not one chink of outside light showing; whether it be the moon or the sun barricaded without, she couldn't tell. Perhaps if it was still night, he would soon return to bed and join her…

Her attention traveled the room, landing at the foot of the bed and the heavy armoire against the wall, near which hung a family crest she was startled to recognize.

These were his rooms – not rented for their stay but owned by the Count.

She failed to understand why that should even surprise her. The grand piano certainly pointed toward that fact – she doubted many, if any of the guest chambers contained musical instruments – and he owned his own rail car for heaven's sake. But more than that, her unasked question of the Angel of Music appeared now to be answered.

This must have been where he once lived when he adopted the role and visited the forgotten corridor to teach her…

Hearing the outside door open and just as swiftly close, Christine clutched the coverlet to her breasts and sat up from the pillows with nervous expectation.

The shadow of a cloaked man suddenly loomed in the doorway, the light behind making it impossible to see his face. He exhaled a long, heavy breath….

"Erik?" she asked, barely more than a whisper.

"Get dressed. We must leave Paris at once. Leave everything behind. Take only what you can carry. There is no time to pack."

She forgot to be embarrassed about her nakedness at the hint of repressed alarm in his voice, though she heard relief there as well.

"But my wardrobe hasn't yet arrived." Flustered in the face of his alarming words spoken with such calm, she spoke the first thing that came to mind, the reason for them coming to Paris in the first place.

"I will arrange for the remainder of your clothing to be sent to Berwickshire."

"Erik, what's wrong? Why must we go?"

"We haven't time to speak of this now. Hurry, Christine!"

At a loss, but resigned that any questions would have to wait – more than that, grateful to note whatever conflict had arisen he did not appear harmed – she held the coverlet to herself, struggling as she awkwardly scooted to the edge of the bed. He disappeared, soon reappearing with her wrapper, which he tossed to her lap.

"Take time to do no more than dress," he softly ordered. "Should a knock come to the door, do not answer. Understand, Christine – do not answer. Remain in these rooms. I will return for you shortly."

With that, the Count was gone, and she hurried to dress for their departure, slipping the wrapper around herself as she hastened to her bedchamber. The panic he had tried in vain not to express spurred her every movement, and she forced her mind to think on the preliminaries of what must be done – retrieve fresh undergarments, petticoats, wool stockings, locate new day dress, boots and buttonhook - and she pushed away the nameless dread of what might occur. Yet the question of why was ever prevalent in her thoughts.

Once dressed, she grabbed the jeweled necklace Erik had given her and slipped it into her beaded reticule she used the evening before. The dagger, she hilted and strapped to her stocking-thigh beneath her skirts with a wide length of sturdy velvet ribbon. As she finished tying the knot, the door to their suite opened, and startled, she turned her head to look.

Erik hurriedly strode inside and shut the door behind him. His focus immediately settled on the length of her exposed leg, her booted foot propped against the edge of the piano bench. Tension sizzled between them, an awareness newly discovered rebellious to the unknown danger, before he tore his attention away and moved to collect his violin and bow, setting both inside their wooden case.

Christine dropped her skirts, where they again fell to her ankles, and hurried to slip on her cloak and fasten it. She sensed him come up behind, surprised to feel the ermine cape intended for formal evening wear slip around her shoulders, above the cloak she had just donned, and turned to him in question as he fastened its clasp.

"The cloak you wore to travel here is insufficient to protect you from the inclement weather soon to come. I have sent a messenger to Madame Giry with instructions. She will see to it that the rest of our belongings are packed in trunks and sent to Berwickshire." He brought the woolen hood of her regular cloak up over her head of messy curls and gathered its edges beneath her chin. "Now come, my dear. The train will be leaving soon."

Erik picked up his violin case from the wall table where he'd set it and grasped her by the arm above her elbow, his fingers firm but not bruising. He guided her from the hotel into an icy drizzle and the subtle grey light that came before dawn. They went directly to a carriage that waited at the bottom of the stairs.

Once en route to the train depot and seated on the seat opposite him, Christine studied his face, dissatisfied that the black mask he again chose to wear shielded most of his expression. Questions collided against one another in their need to be aired.

"Erik, what –"

She got no further.

"I have many enemies, Christine, and one fool in particular has vowed to take from me all that I possess."

She tightened her gloved hands in her skirts. "You received word that the castle is in danger then?"

"The castle," he repeated softly, staring at her in disbelief. "A pile of mortar and stones can be replaced. It is not the castle for which I am concerned."

"Are you then in danger?"

The Count struggled with how much to tell her, noting her dark eyes wide and fixed, and the manner in which she worried the thumbs of her clasped hands.

They should never have remained in Paris once Nicolae emerged from whatever foul domicile he'd kept himself hidden within this past decade. For himself, Erik did not fear. The fiend knew that to terminate his unnatural existence would be to finish his own pathetic life; his desire was to destroy Erik, as he lived, not put an end to his immortality. But if Nicolae should learn that Christine was a slayer, there would be no hope for her. His kind would flock in droves for the first taste of her blood. For her, there could be only death…

And he could not bear the thought of a world without Christine in it.

As it stood, Nicolae thought only that Christine was Erik's pet human, a dangerous misassumption but not one that could lead to her demise; and the fiend had investigated to learn her name which was just as unnerving.

The instant Erik heard the dancer's words that seared fear into his dark soul, he had employed the unnatural speed of the vampyre and raced from the opposite end of Paris to the hotel, a shadowed blur in the dark night, no more than a brisk gust of wind all that could be observed by anyone in the vicinity. It had drained him of necessary energy that he would need to feed to replenish, but he did not stop until the lights of the hotel could be seen. Only then did he slow to a mortal run, faster than that of most men but garnering reactions of shock from those in the lobby who turned to watch him lope up the winding stairs –

Yet unwanted attention had been the least of his concerns.

The hotel was a public building, one of his kind needed no invitation to enter, and he feared what he would find on the top floor. Bypassing suite 502, he raced for his own rooms, his relief palpable to find a drowsy Christine newly awakened in his bed and not having been tricked into the outside corridor.

Once he gave the order for her to dress and remain in the suite of rooms owned by him, a border of possession no lesser vampyre could breach, he wasted no time in silently entering the locked room next door, ready to rip out Nicolae's vile throat... only to find the chamber gallingly empty. Nicolae either having already left or never having been there, the location yet another dead end in his damnable game.

As the closed carriage rolled down the street, Erik barely suppressed a growl, his irritation directed to the unending hours of frustration and panic and not toward his silent wife, who watched him with clear concern. He needed to feed, to replenish what was lost, the weakness beginning to make his hands tremble, but he did not dare leave her side to locate what was required. An entire fortnight he could go without fresh blood before his body began to wither into a corpse-like state, and this was the third day. Yet without the supernatural energy on which he relied, much of it expended in his mad dash across the city, that time was shortened by half.

"Christine, you have nothing to fear," he said grimly. "I will do whatever I must to keep you safe. Always."

She nodded and turned to look out the dust-flecked window. Not a direct answer to the question she had posed but in keeping with his nature, and by the hard set to his jaw, all the answer Christine would receive.

x

Once they arrived at the station, Erik took her by the hand and hurried with her to his private car. She found it quite fortunate that it lay in wait for him, to her knowledge he hadn't had time to make preparations, but kept such thoughts to herself.

He kept his head down, his wide-brimmed fedora shielding his face as they hurried past other passengers, with his cloak whipping about his legs as he strode the length of the train, pulling Christine along behind him. The dawn had come shortly after their swift exodus from the hotel, the drizzle dissipated and the morning sun now beating down upon their heads and into their eyes, any traces of snow from the previous evening puddles beneath their feet.

Erik released her hand to take the few steps up to his car and push open the door then turned to give her assistance. He swayed on his feet suddenly, the gloved hand that had moved to reach for her sweeping back to grab the edge of the car.

"Erik!"

"I… need to…"

He did not finish the sentence but ducked inside. Terribly worried, Christine lifted her skirts and grabbed the handrail, hurrying in after him. He had sunk to his chair, his long legs splayed out before him, his fingers gripping the armrests. Before she could speak, he lifted a hand to stop her.

"I am merely winded," he forestalled her question. "It was a long night."

Not sure that she believed him, she went to kneel beside his chair and laid her hand over his glove, dismayed to note the chill had returned. With their frenzied departure from the hotel, she had not realized it until now.

"Are you certain you're alright?"

The lines at the corners of his mouth attested to his weariness though his golden eyes still glowed with power, the look in them gentle as they studied her face.

"It seems, perhaps, after the evening we shared I should inquire the same of you."

She felt the bloom of warmth color her face. He had been quite fervent in his passion, she still felt the trace of an ache within, but he had made the evening into all she could have desired.

"I have no regrets."

At the familiar words, his lips turned up in a twist, almost a smile. "Let us hope that does not change…"

At a sudden loud thump from behind the carved set of mahogany doors at the other end of the car, Erik stood so fast Christine was knocked slightly off balance. She blinked to see him rush in that direction, swifter than she'd ever seen him move. To her shock, her own hand had flicked back her skirts and grabbed the dagger without her being aware, until suddenly she felt the smooth ivory of its hilt in her hand.

Her pulse raced and their eyes met before he swung open both doors.

A bundle of arms and legs tumbled out and hit the cabin floor in the form of a scrawny boy. The intruder awkwardly scrambled to his feet and faced Erik. Her husband marginally relaxed his menacing stance, though he did not look at all pleased to see the lad, his mouth beneath the mask pulled down into a frown. At a glance, Christine noticed the area from which the boy had fallen contained no more than a long bed on a thick shelf, no more than a mattress really, closed up in a hutch.

"Archer, what the devil…"

"Sire! I didn't know you was here…"

As if suddenly aware of her presence, both man and boy turned their heads to look at Christine, where she had just risen to stand to her feet. Erik's lingering scowl seemed wary, the boy's expression curious. She sensed her husband had much more he intended to say to the lad but forced awkward silence because he had no wish for her to overhear, not that she had anywhere to go to give them privacy. Was this, then, one of his secrets? The boy certainly didn't look dangerous enough to be the unknown nemesis…

Recognition taunted the fringes of Christine's mind, and she suddenly realized where she'd last seen him.

"You are the boy who was in the alley!"

Gone were the scruffy clothes and dirty face, and in their place he looked almost clean, with new trousers and shirt, but his widespread ears and gamin grin gave his identity away.

"G'day, mistress. You sure gave Nicolae what for –"

"Archer is coming to work at the castle," Erik swiftly and smoothly put in. "He will be traveling with us." His tone made clear his irritation. "You must be weary," he told the boy, an edge to his voice, "Do not let us disrupt your slumber."

"Oh… er, aye. Thank you, sire."

Sire? It was the second time the boy addressed Erik as such, and he glanced Christine's way as if catching onto her wide-eyed curiosity.

"The boy is not knowledgeable on the matter of proper titles." He cast his scowl upon Archer a second time. "Well? Go on then."

The boy hastened to obey and climbed back inside the small, dark space. Erik hurriedly closed the doors after him. He hesitated momentarily before turning to look at Christine. She only stood and stared, uncertain what to begin to say into the resulting silence.

"I suggest you take a seat and settle in, my dear," he said at last. "The train will soon depart."

He took his own advice, grabbing a book that sat on a nearby table on his way to his chair. He took a seat, seeming almost himself again. Christine stared, watching as he thumbed through a few pages with gloved fingers and settled back for a long read, as if this day thus far experienced was quite normal and not utterly bizarre.

She sensed his sudden interest in the written word a ploy to prevent the dozen or so questions that burned on her lips. Yet he need not have worried. With no more than a thin door to shield private discussion from unexpected company, she felt she had no choice but to keep her curiosity simmering inside.

How well she knew that a closed door did nothing to keep exclusive conversations from being overheard! Though she could never regret her own experience, as difficult as it had been at first, not with the eventual results it awarded her. She had found her lost Angel, and in so doing, had bonded more closely with her elusive husband. She could never regret that…

And at some point, make no mistake, she would learn the unexplained details of this day.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

XXVI

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

They arrived to the last ferry near sunset the following day, the boy having stayed on the train, indeed, never having left the dark, enclosed cubicle. At Christine's clear puzzlement of such a peculiar arrangement, Erik unbent enough to explain that Archer had a task to perform for him, needed much rest, and would be arriving at the castle at a later date.

When Christine asked how he had come to meet the lad, Erik gave an ambiguous response involving a chance encounter in an alley, where he learned Archer was without family. Having found the need to acquire more servants for the castle, Erik offered the boy work there.

It seemed feasible. Odd, yes, but no more bizarre than this entire journey had been.

Thankfully, the water was not rough, the skies not stormy, and Christine weathered the ferry crossing well. She still did not like being so close to deep water – on top of it – with no more than a flimsy rail and a layer of planking to separate her from falling to its unseen depths, but she congratulated herself that she did not outwardly display any fear of the dark waves. Her true fear lay with Erik's well-being and the mysterious adversary who sought to destroy him.

Once on a train again, Christine barely slept but did not believe Erik slept at all. Each time she woke on the sofa she had chosen for a bed (she had no desire to be closed up in the dark behind mahogany doors), she spotted him sitting near, keeping watch…watching her. To waken and find his somber golden eyes on her unnerved Christine, only in that he clearly was more troubled than he disclosed. She attempted to persuade him to let her be his confidante, but he quietly refused to speak of such matters, telling her she mustn't worry herself over them.

He was undeniably weary, even ill, a new slump to his shoulders she had never before seen, and not once did he pick up his violin to play. She practically begged him to sleep, to no avail. Often she would catch his hands tremble when he turned the page of a book or lifted a glass to lips that had achieved an alarming bluish tinge toward the end of their journey. He never looked as if he received much sun, what skin he allowed her to see the pale color of parchment, but the portion beneath the full mask now appeared almost grey. Though with the one gas lamp dimly lit behind him and his shadow of a beard, it made it difficult to discern true color. He only pecked at meals a porter brought when, close to tears, she pleaded with him to eat, but Erik waved aside the rest of her concerns, assuring her that he had managed far worse and would seek the respite needed once they reached the castle.

At times she caught him distantly stare beneath her chin, at her throat. As soon as he became aware of her notice he looked back to the book he seemed always to hold. And she wondered if during those occasions he recalled their evening at the opera, from the moment he slipped the precious jewels around her neck… and all that came afterward. For her, the seemingly endless journey, when not doused in anxious thought and brutal imagining was tempered with pleasant memories of that entire night.

She helped to fill the bleak hours with writing to Meg and Madame Giry, both letters which she gave to a porter to send upon their arrival to the station. One long carriage ride later, and they were home, at last, at Castle Dragan.

Home…

What had given Christine a sense of disquiet two weeks ago now filled her with a measure of contentment, to regard Erik's home as her own. She felt his powerful relief as they passed through the iron-studded castle doors and for the first time in days also began to relax.

Once inside the foyer, Erik called out for his manservant. A short time later, Gregor appeared, a stout young woman with black braids and light grey eyes following, and behind her, a tall young man with dark hair and a faint mustache. Both appeared to be near Christine's age, possibly older. Upon seeing the Count, the girl curtsied and the boy bowed to him.

"It is an honor to serve you, Master," the young man said.

"Anton," he acknowledged. "Mihaela. This is my wife, the mistress of Castle Dragan. You will serve her and attend to what needs she may have. Gregor, I require immediate assistance." He turned to Christine. "I must attend to personal matters, my dear. I will join you later this evening."

"Please rest."

"I will."

He lifted her hand and kissed it, much as he did on the day they were wed, but this time a message seemed to pass between them. One that excluded all others in the room, touching her heart with its tenderness, and she smiled and nodded.

Once Erik disappeared up the stairs and into the shadows of the fortress, with both of his menservants following, the girl, Mihaela approached Christine. "You must be famished after your long journey, my lady. We did not expect you for another week. I haven't yet had a chance to go to the village and fill the larder, but I could make you a soup of vegetables, if you would care for it?"

"Yes, please, that sounds lovely. Later. I think what I would prefer at this moment, however, is to lie down for an hour." Or perhaps five. The journey had been wearisome, what sleep she managed on the train more exhausting than reviving.

The girl followed her up the two sets of wide stairs that led to her room. "I shall need to put fresh linens on the bed, mistress. I laundered them yesterday, but it won't take a moment."

"Yes, alright."

However, once Christine stood inside the room at the far end of the corridor where she previously slept, a different idea came to mind.

"Mihaela, do you know where the Count's bedchamber is?"

"Yes, mistress. I have already changed the linens there."

"I see… Will you take me to it?"

Christine could not fault the girl for her wide-eyed, curious astonishment. After all, what wife did not know where her husband slept?

"As you wish," the girl said, ducking her head in a quick nod and leading the way.

She followed Mihaela down the lengthy corridor and to the opposite staircase that led to another wing of yet another endless corridor that bore high walls of torch-lit stone. At its end, the maidservant halted at a tall, closed door.

"This is the Master's bedchamber."

Christine glanced at the carved oak door, tempted to make her presence known. After all that had transpired between them, a visit to ensure his comfort might not be unwelcome and all that she felt confident to undertake. There were still so many uncertainties, so much she did not know about Erik and his life here. Such things would be learned in time, surely, now that they had come to a close understanding.

No one stirred inside, not that she could hear from outside the door. Perhaps he already lay sleeping. She hesitated, having no wish to disturb him, possibly wake him with her clumsy entrance. Besides which, a potential visit was not the reason she had walked such a great distance, from wing to wing, when she, too, was bone weary.

To stay at the opposite end of the castle held no appeal, not after Paris, and with that reminder, she walked over to the room next to his, pushing wide the door that stood ajar and noting it contained a four-poster bed.

It was enough.

"Please put fresh linens on the bed in here, Mihaela. I would like to make this my room."

Mihaela beamed a smile of approval and nodded, hurrying to obey.

He had told Christine she could have any chamber in the castle as her own, and though this wasn't her first choice, it was the best selection for this time. Since their magical night together, he was not as aloof and treated her with more tenderness, despite his fatigued state or perhaps because of it. But she felt uncertain that he would appreciate her unannounced invasion into his private bedchamber; nor was she sure she was ready for such a bold and brazen move as to make his room her own.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

After a refreshing nap, Christine bathed in the chamber to which Mihaela showed her upon request. It was wonderful to soak in steaming lavender-scented water of the claw-footed tub there, the experience melting days' worth of tension from her body. She only wished she had fresh clothing to change into afterward.

She shook her head in wry amusement at the irony that once again she was left with only whatever bodice and skirt she arrived to the castle in, with no idea when her trunks of clothing should arrive from Paris. It seemed as if she must go to Montmarte to collect her things after all! Yet this time, she had the advantage; she was now Erik's wife, the Countess cel Tradat and as such held a power over her great uncle that she never once dreamed to possess. If they should cross paths, he would not dare treat her with his trademark cruelty or even speak an unkind word. And she would like to visit with her cousin again, even if Lucy wasn't exactly a sparking conversationalist, that is if she deigned to speak to Christine at all.

The girl concerned her. If Christine felt any remorse for leaving the manor, it was in abandoning Lucy to the questionable care of her father and to servants who ridiculed her behavior. Of course, her cousin managed well enough before Christine's arrival to Berwickshire. Yet the night in the maze still troubled her thoughts..

Once downstairs, she indulged in a bowl of hot soup with freshly baked bread, finding the cuisine, even a dish so simple, much improved. She sat at the long table alone, not expecting Erik any time soon, and was surprised when the glow from the corridor's torch abruptly disappeared across the surface of the table. She looked up to see his tall silhouette fill the doorway.

"Christine," he greeted, and just the velvety brush of her name from his lips felt like a caress to her soul. "Once you have finished with your supper, I would like a word with you."

"I am finished now," she said, setting down her gold-plated spoon and pushing the remainder away, eager to see him after the long hours apart and not wishing to postpone time spent together.

"Then come." He waited for her to join him at the door.

He appeared hale and strong, again standing tall with no sign of former weakness, his inherent power a subtle force that emanated from his trim frame. She smiled wide in her relief to see him so improved, and his lips twisted in a slight smile in return.

Leading her past the throne room and the massive stairway, he entered a room a short distance beyond that, one she had not yet seen.

Of long length and great height, this chamber possessed a heavy wooden table twice the size of a bed, half of which held stacks of papers and books. The other half contained what looked like a miniature village, with colored clay sculpted to depict lakes and mountains and forest. She stared in intrigue, before lifting her gaze to the towering bookcases along two walls packed with bindings of leather covers and large tomes, the tallest shelves accessible by a rolling ladder against each wall. A hearth of black marble stood beyond the table, half the size of the enormous one in the throne room. Above that, a much more elaborate coat of arms crafted in gold and bronze with red and black stone bore the three-headed dragon entwined in roses and held a place of esteem on the wall.

He moved toward one end of the table and picked up a black velvet pouch from atop a stack of books, turning to hand it to her.

"For you, my dear."

"Another gift?" she said with some surprise. "Erik, you must stop giving me things."

"I will do as I please when it comes to awarding you what little luxuries this world has to offer. However, when you see what the pouch contains, you might not be so enthused."

Pulling her brows together at his odd words and grave tone, Christine opened the drawstring and withdrew a thick silver chain from which hung a most unusual piece of craftsmanship. A notched silver coin approximately two inches in circumference had been embedded into a flat oval stone of dark green and red a little larger than a hen's egg. She looked up at him, the confusion apparent in her eyes.

"It is from my country, a protective medallion that has been in my family for generations. It will keep you safe." At her raised brows of doubt, Erik went on, "The stone is heliotrope, also known as the bloodstone; it is used for protection, as is the coin it surrounds."

She blinked in astonishment then looked down at what she held. "The man on the coin, he doesn't look like a saint."

A saint. Little wonder that his pure, gentle bride would immediately draw such a conclusion, being a denizen of light that she was. Yet the fiend on that particular medallion was far removed from any such holy designation, and the Count worked to keep his voice calm and controlled.

"He was known as Vlad III and lived in the fifteenth century. He held great power and many feared him."

And well they should, since he had begun the scourge that Erik was forever plagued with. The son of Vlad Dracul had been a ruthless tyrant even before a gypsy witch forever cursed him in vengeance for his bloodshed against her kin. Should any of his kind with ill intent see the mystical medallion, they would understand its meaning and the threat behind it. Christine would be safe. Nicolae might think himself above their ancient laws, but the silver alone would repel a vampyre's bite. The added protection of the stone and the coin would safeguard her, even against the old ones…

Like himself.

The struggle not to bite her on the night they made their marriage real still haunted him – it should not have been as difficult as it was, not after the control he learned through the ages. Erik had not fed when he had lain with her, it was true, but on past occasions had endured longer than three days without feeling the visceral need rise up. No, there had been no true hunger – it was the sweet aroma and her rich taste that had stirred the beast inside. He had already been consumed with passion, nearly driven to the edge beyond reason.

And yet, he had held back and protected her from himself, no matter that he ached for her in body, soul, and blood...

The true danger lay outside these doors, not within them.

"I would have you wear this," he said, making the grim decision. "As long as you do, it will protect you from harm."

"I never took you for the superstitious sort," she said curiously, and he heard a trace of apprehension in her tone.

He waved a hand in feigned carelessness. "We all have our idiosyncrasies. You know I am a magician and rely on various forms of magic. Is it so strange that I would ask this of you?'

"So, it's magical then?"

"It is a protective amulet, yes." With the added inducement of a witch's spell. Again, something he did not tell her, thinking she might then reject it.

She refrained from giving an answer, her expression uncertain as she looked at the medallion.

"I am aware it is ugly; it is unfortunate that things of this nature rarely are created for beauty. But I ask that you accommodate me in this matter, Christine." Patience was never his strong suit when he demanded obedience thinly veiled as a choice, and his persuasion grew more intense. "Three things I insisted of you before we were wed, one being that you would obey me, to take my word as final. Will you do this? Will you honor my wishes?"

"Must I wear it at all times?" she asked in clear reluctance. "Even to bed?"

He drew in a breath sharply through his nose, knowing he should say yes... though he did wish for complete intimacy with her again, if she would allow it. Knowing also that his true struggle had come only at the scent of her blood. Until the moment she lost her innocence, he had been successful in exerting control. He felt assured in that.

"No." His word came as a soft rasp, "You need not wear it then."

She smiled in surrender and extended her palm with the medallion inside it.

"Put it on me."

He drew back slightly, not enough for her to notice. When changing into fresh attire upon his return, he had removed his leather gloves. Not only did they shield the intense cold that returned to his flesh days ago, within the hour of leaving her naked embrace, but they also protected him from such incidents, like the inadvertent brush of silver. He stared hard at the thick chain dangling innocuously from her soft fingers that would sear deeply into his flesh, tendon and bone.

If he ordered her not to wear the medallion inside the castle, after he had just made such an issue over yielding to his demand, his slayer wife might become suspicious and inundate him with her ceaseless questions. Even if she had not yet fully come into her power or was aware of it, she might sense something amiss.

"There is no need. The chain is long; you need not unfasten the clasp. You have only to slip it over your head."

She looked at him a little oddly but did as directed. The bloodstone settled against her bodice, between the valley of her breasts.

"Thank you, Erik, for your care of my welfare..."

She stepped forward and immediately he felt the mystical power of the medallion in the mild surge of weakness that swept over him. After seven days of such helplessness, it was all he could do to remain immobile and not recoil as she laid her hand gently against his mask. The closer she came, the stronger the force that repelled him grew. Much as the cross did, which did not kill or maim, but also made the darkness of which he consisted weaken.

She pressed her lips against his jaw, and he closed his eyes, deeming such a sacrifice for the token of her affection worthy.

"Will you tell me more about this danger we face?" she asked once she pulled away.

"There is little more to say other than what I have already told you. But know this - you are safe at the castle. Nothing can hurt you here, Christine. Nothing will. Only when you leave its boundaries must you exercise caution and wear the medallion. If you prefer not to wear it within the castle walls, you need not do so." He could not resist adding the last, hoping she would agree.

She nodded, and he stepped away from her and the medallion's destructive power, walking around his desk and putting his attention to the missives there.

x

Christine watched him go, his mind clearly having traveled to some distant plateau where she was unwelcome. Not wishing to end their evening together just yet and sensing he was about to dismiss her, she hurriedly posed another subject.

"I was astonished to arrive and find new servants had been hired. Mihaela is a good cook, judging from what little I have tasted of her skill. I feel quite certain you will no longer find a need to take your meals in the village."

He gave her a tepid smile. "I am pleased that you approve the addition to staff."

"And curious when you found the time," she said lightly, approaching the table. "Since we left for Paris the very next morning, after having had that conversation."

"And what have I said about curiosity?" he commented just as casually with a slight cautionary edge, but he yielded to her wish to know. "Before leaving, I asked Gregor to make arrangements for his niece and nephew to join our staff."

"Gregor is their uncle?"

"You sound surprised."

"They are just so… different."

Mihaela was sunny, often smiling, with a bright disposition, and Gregor was so forbidding and dour.

"Gregor can be vexing," he said, as if reading her thoughts, "but he and his family have been loyal to the cel Tradat name for generations. You will not find any more willing to serve."

"So Mihaela and Anton are siblings," she mused. "I assume they come from your homeland? All of you bear the same accent."

He studied her a moment in indecision, then walked alongside the table to the diorama of the scenic landscape crafted in clay, wood, and stone. She followed him from the opposite side. Great attention to detail had been given to the artistic exhibit, from the careful crafting of each forest tree down to the realistic crest of waves atop a large blue field of clay.

"Despicat în Umbre," he said, waving a hand along the replica of mountain, land and water. "In your tongue, it means, 'Cleft in Shadows'.

"Cleft in Shadows," she repeated in fascination, reaching to touch with an inquisitive fingertip the tiny carved castle of smooth stone with turrets and spires situated atop a mountain. Before Christine could make contact, she recognized her audacity and moved her hand back down to her side.

She opened her mouth to apologize, but he shook his head to forestall her. "Your gentle touch could do no harm."

A wave of warmth flushed her face and she smiled. "Does such a castle really exist so high in the clouds?"

"You see clouds?" he asked in amusement. "I did not craft any."

"Well, there must be clouds, mustn't there? I imagine you can see all the land from up so high."

"You can."

She looked up from the miniature fortress with interest. "Have you been there?"

"My dear, it is my home."

"Your home," she breathed. Of course it was. How could she have believed otherwise?

"Perhaps one day I shall take you there and you may look out of its turret windows to see the landscape and the clouds that do, on occasion, touch its walls."

"Oh, yes please. I should like that. I should like very much to see the country in which you were born, and to learn more about you."

She sensed the immediate barrier of distance he erected though he did not move or look away from her. "It is late, my dear, and I must deal with some correspondence before I retire. You should go upstairs and rest after our long journey. We will resume with your lessons tomorrow evening."

Feeling summarily dismissed, though the manner in which he delivered his words was not unkind, Christine studied him a moment. "Alright then. Goodnight, Erik." Her tone came softer. "I am glad to see that you have recovered."

He inclined his head in a nod, his eyes gentle. "Goodnight, Christine."

Halfway out of the chamber, she had a change of heart and turned to address him. "May I take a book with me?"

"If you like. You will find novels that might be of interest on the shelves to your left."

She moved in that direction and surveyed the possibilities: Mary Shelley's Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus… Fantasmagoriana - anthology of stories of apparitions of spectres, revenants, phantoms, etc.; and beneath that, the lines – 'translated from the German by an amateur'...

She lifted her brow as she perused the title of the third book: The Vampyre: A Tale. by John William Polidori.

Oh, really. She scoffed a little chuckle beneath her breath as she pushed it back in its space. Apparently her husband enjoyed fantastical tales of horror as Meg did, to include them in his library.

"You might find something more to your taste to the right, on the third and fourth shelves," Erik's voice came to her, and looking over her shoulder, she saw that his eyes were fixed on her across the room.

Had he heard her disparaging chuckle from such a distance? He must have. He had the hearing of a bat and the eyes of an owl, and idly she wondered if those traits had come from living in a cave during his youth as he once told her.

She moved to the shelf suggested. One row of books by Alexandre Dumas seemed an author of which her husband must approve, to have so many of his novels. Feeling his eyes still watching her, as if waiting for her to leave, she selected a volume at random and turned.

"Well, goodnight then," she said again, for want of anything intelligent to add.

He nodded, and she left the chamber to take the stairs up to her new room, at the split level turning to the left staircase and not the right one as before. She hoped that Erik wouldn't mind her choice of a room next to his, but then, he had said any room that wasn't locked, and why should it matter either way…?

Inside her new bedchamber, Christine turned up the flame of a lamp near the bed and settled down to read. Too late, she realized this was the last book of a series. Disgruntled, but not wishing to take the long corridor and two flights of stairs back down to his library and fix her error, she proceeded with the tale.

Unaware how much time passed, but long after the chivalrous and smitten King Louis and Mademoiselle de la Valliere found refuge from the storm beneath a tree, Christine decided to cease with her dip into the literary world for the night and prepare for bed.

As she stripped down to her undergarments and took a seat before the dressing table, she found herself making favorable comparisons between Erik and the king of the novel, both who were unconcerned with what the world thought and continually broke rules of decorum, both who did his utmost to see that the woman under his care knew every consideration, even at the price of his own discomfort.

While she brushed out her hair, she studied the strange medallion against her chemise. It was a far cry from the beauty and elegance of the jewel-studded necklace he'd given her at the opera. With his insistence that she wear the amulet when away from the castle, clearly he believed the danger extended from Paris to Berwickshire and she was included in that threat. She wasn't sure how she felt about wearing something purported to be magical, or even if she believed in such things, despite that she had witnessed his demonstrations of such power.

But she had seen how important her decision was to Erik that she wear his medallion outside the castle, and for that reason alone would honor his request. Indoors, however, it didn't seem to matter to him...

For whatever reason, he considered Castle Dragan invulnerable against attack.

Slipping the chain over her head, Christine held the stone in one hand and studied it more closely. The man's face on the coin was harsh and strong with high cheekbones. He wore his hair and mustache long and had strange headgear that suggested a ruler. Letters, a few of which she could not decipher they were so faded, were inscribed along the rim: Vla…Drăcu… The dark green stone into which the coin had been cemented was just as bizarre, with spatters all over it. Crimson red, like blood...

Uneasy at the thought, she set the medallion on the dressing table and again picked up her hairbrush. She pulled the bristles along her scalp and through long curls, the strokes soothing, until her hair became a cloud of rippling waves, when suddenly the trio of candles near her elbow flickered. She paused, watching the flames bow to darkness before struggling upright again.

Once before she had seen candles do that, and her heart picked up a beat at the realization, at the certainty. She turned her head aside to look.

Erik stood on the threshold of her new bedchamber. He pushed the door in further and stepped inside. His gaze swept her head to stocking-toe, moving to scan her bare throat and collarbone before his golden eyes again lifted to hers and kept her within their mesmeric grasp. She inhaled a tremulous breath at the message they conveyed.

He held out one arm, extending his hand toward her. Without hesitation she rose from her chair and slowly covered the distance, lifting her hand to take hold of his. Drawing her to him, his other arm slipped around her back at the same time his mouth lowered to hers, and she lifted her hand to his nape to hold him there.

The flames madly danced and extinguished, the door softly closing of its own accord as darkness fell all around and wrapped them in its cold embrace.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

XXVII

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

A second time Christine woke in a bed unfamiliar, pleasantly drowsy, naked and alone, with the flicker of distant light from a wall sconce to give her reassurance.

She smiled at his thoughtfulness, relieved that on their second night together in union the old fear had not come as strong, her inadvertent and anxious reactions to the darkness brief and seldom. In their darkness, Erik taught her there was only pleasure to be found. Their darkness he taught her to embrace because he controlled it, and she trusted him.

One day, she hoped that he would allow some form of light to enter their small darkness, even if only a dim luminosity. She wanted to see what her hands and body had been given permission to know... to see beyond the mask he had yet to remove.

She felt a little like Psyche to the god, Eros, who falsely called himself a beast and never allowed his wife to see his face or form, only making love to her in complete darkness. Of course, she would not be as foolish as Psyche to come upon her husband unaware and unveil his face to the light she carried, but Christine hoped one day Erik might allow her to see him… to see all of him… she did not think she would be entirely satisfied until she could.

Until then she would share in his darkness, to be held and touched and adored.

Loved…?

The whisper of thought caused her heart to skip a beat.

No. She knew well from sobering tales of experience spread among the chorus that just because a man lay with a woman did not mean he loved her.

Erik had never intimated such a thing. They had barely been given time to know each other for that emotion to blossom and grow, and yet… she felt she had known him since the beginning of time, and in a sense she had, since he composed many of her earliest memories. As a little girl, she had keenly sought after and adored his voice, entrusting him with her reflections and dreams. As a woman she needed him, all of him, to make her feel complete. A truth she had not realized until they were wed, never having known there was emptiness in her soul until he filled it – with his music, with his touch, with his very being. And in turn, she gave him her warmth, as she had both nights they had lain as close as two people could become… her warmth his body had again taken unto itself, his flesh becoming heated, if only for a time…

A gentle scratch sounded against the outside of her door.

Christine curiously shifted to sit up when nothing more followed and clutched the covers to her breasts. "Yes? Is anyone there?"

The door opened and Mihaela entered the room with a basin and pitcher she set on the washstand. "Good day, Mistress. I thought to inquire if you need anything from me?"

Christine wished she could control the heated blush at the young servant seeing her in such a disheveled state, and with her undergarments in scattered disarray on the floor where Erik had tossed them in his impatience to have her unclothed beneath him.

"Why did you scratch at the door?" she asked quickly, hoping if she ignored the scene, the maid would too.

Mihaela giggled. "If you were asleep you would not hear and I would not wake you, as with a knock. But if you were awake, you could tell me to enter so that I might serve you."

Christine smiled at such consideration and nodded. "How very wise. I approve the idea."

The girl seemed pleased. "The master brought me to the castle to cook for you and to clean. But I have been trained in other things as well. I can help with any lady's aids you might need. I am skilled with styling hair, if you should wish it."

She wondered what a wild tangle her hair must be in for the girl to bring up the topic.

"Thank you, Mihaela. I shall remember that for future. Right now, I think I should like breakfast."

"Would you not prefer luncheon?"

"Luncheon!"

How long had she slept?

"Yes, mistress. It's gone two and a half hours past noon," the girl added, as if hearing her thoughts.

"Two-thirty - in the afternoon…?" Christine shook her head in astonishment. Even when working at the opera, where performances ran late, she had never awakened more than a few hours after dawn. With morning rehearsal and Madame Giry's strict adherence to schedule, the corps de ballet had not been given the luxury to lounge about in their beds.

"I think then, yes, luncheon would be best. Thank you."

Once Mihaela left, Christine hurried to collect her clothing from the floor, wash and dress, also putting her hair into a semblance of order. Over an hour later, once she finished a light repast of sliced honeyed apples with thin bread twists and cheese, Erik unsurprisingly absent for the meal, she decided to further investigate undiscovered chambers of the castle.

Finding herself back at the corridor where Gregor had come upon her almost three weeks ago, she tried the handle of the door that was locked before – to find it responsive to her touch.

Curious, she looked into a dark windowless chamber, with the shapes of what looked like barrels sitting on widely-spaced shelves. She shivered at the extreme chill of the room, as if a crevice in the stone wall existed to let in the frozen outside air, but decided without light to guide the way not to pursue further. She could easily retrieve a torch or candelabra, but the chamber did not seem to hold anything worthy of interest. She closed its door and bypassed the storage room to try the third door, finding it locked.

Deciding to take her investigation to another wing of the castle, Christine moved toward the bottom left of the staircase, as opposed to the right that led to the throne room, his library, and the music room. A long corridor took her to another massive chamber, what appeared to be a banquet hall, from the several long tables and gargantuan iron chandelier hanging from a beamed ceiling above. Through the opposite doorway, she found herself in another chamber, huge and empty of furnishings with a wooden floor thickly coated in dust - perhaps intended for a ballroom.

Why did a man who shunned society and all its trappings possess rooms meant to hold hundreds of people? Why had he chosen a castle with its multitude of bedchambers to become his home…? And yet, with its location deep and secluded in the midst of a forest, she supposed the place ideal for him.

Christine passed more rooms, a glance inside their doors showing them to be smaller and used for storage, before she entered a wide room with minimal furnishings and an open doorway that led to a long annex and another part of the castle. She hesitated, noting that the corridor and the chamber to which it led lay in darkness at one end, as if seldom used, and she retrieved a flaming torch from the corridor near the banquet room, curious to see what was on the other side.

To her shock, at the corridor's end stood a huge tower room that contained several white marble statues, holy in appearance. Stained glass in no particular design filled two opposite windows, the glass too opaque to allow any true daylight to stream into the tower, only enough to cause the bold colors of the panes on the western side to glow with vibrancy. Six black, wrought-iron stands of candelabra were placed along the front, and three short benches stood before a small covered altar.

A chapel! And she remembered his words on their wedding day that the castle contained one.

Pleased with her discovery, Christine set the torch into a holder on the wall and took a seat on the front bench, seeing no floor cushion on which to kneel. It had been so long since she last prayed inside a chapel, not since the Opera House, and she took a moment to collect her thoughts.

There was a soft stillness, a sweet peace found in this quiet tower, and she folded her hands and bowed her head in silent petition to the Almighty for their safety, apprehensive about the unknown nemesis that wished to do them harm.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Not long after Christine returned to the main chambers, Anton found her in the throne room standing before the fire with her hands held out to its warmth, chilled after her lengthy excursion through the seldom-used chambers of the castle.

"My lady, you have a visitor." His words were polite, but by his somber expression he disapproved the idea.

"A visitor?" she asked in confusion. "Who?"

"He says he is your cousin, the Vicomte de Chagny."

Raoul! Eager to see him now that she had become lady of Castle Dragan and anxious for the same reason, she wondered where to receive him. This room felt much too intimidating, with its solitary throne-like chair before the equally lofty hearth… while the music chamber contained two chairs in front of an average-sized hearth that was also lit, the room adequately warm.

"Please bring him to the music room. I will meet with him there."

"As you wish." Anton frowned and left.

Christine moved into the adjacent chamber, knowing Erik wouldn't be present, having first gone there upon her return from the chapel tower. Avoiding the set of cozily grouped chairs, she went to stand in front of the low fire and wrung her hands together in her skirts, uncertain why she felt so ill at ease with the unforeseen visit. Perhaps Anton's sour mood was contagious, or more likely, perhaps because this, more than any of the others, felt like Erik's room. Even though he was absent, she worried he might think her use of it an intrusion. Feeling the stones of his ring against her fingertips, she held to it, finding a measure of confidence in the act.

Hearing a step in the entryway, Christine turned in welcome, the smile freezing on her face at the anguished look on her cousin's features. He seemed frustrated and weary, his usually pristine appearance disheveled, his cravat askew, a lock of hair falling into his eyes. He appeared as if he'd ridden pell-mell on his charger to reach the castle.

She stepped toward him as he strode into the chamber, clutching his hands that he held outstretched to her in anxious greeting. "What is it? What's the matter?" And she remembered. "Your grandmother."

"She left this world in peace," he said quietly.

"Oh, Raoul. I am sorry for your loss."

"My loss…" He huffed a laugh that grated hoarsely. "You speak to me of loss." He shook his head. "I could not believe the news when Uncle told me upon my arrival to Montmarte - and rode here at once to witness it for myself, hoping it wasn't true... What have you done, Christine?"

"What have I done?" She pulled her hands from his. "I am not sure I follow -"

"You married him? Why - why did you do it?"

She struggled to remain calm and stable in the tide of his desolate accusation. "I had little choice in the matter. But then, I suppose our great uncle didn't tell you that, did he? His plan was to deliver me to Lord Lomax like some sort of bridal sacrifice. Erik intervened and extended to me a better offer."

"What the devil are you talking about?"

Grudgingly, she told him all of what transpired that day, within these walls, the day of her wedding. As she spoke, she looked toward the corner of the room where Erik had issued his conditional proposal. She vowed to be loyal only to him, and with that memory, she did not share with Raoul the reservations she had struggled with upon entering into such a life-altering decision.

"You can seek annulment," he decided once she told him of the wedding conducted at the bedside of the convalescent priest. "Say you were coerced."

She regarded him in surprise. "I have no intention of doing any such thing. It would be a lie. Besides, annulment can no longer be sought."

He blanched as her face warmed with her quiet words, her meaning clear by her blush alone.

"You gave yourself to him?"

"He is my husband."

"But you gave me no chance! Damn it, Christine – you don't belong in this accursed castle, not with him…" Once more he shoved a hand through his hair and took a few steps away before turning to her again, a light of desperation in his eyes. "Listen to me, all is not lost. Philip has agreed to speak to our uncle and work out an arrangement. We can still seek dissolution, and in time, I can take you as my wife."

"Your wife?" she blinked in stunned disbelief. "I have no idea what sort of 'arrangement' you and your brother have set upon, but I never agreed to any kind of arrangement between us. What did I do or say to make you think I would?"

"Don't you see, Christine…?" He held out his hands, imploring. "We are perfectly matched, you and I. Both of us slayers, the few remaining of our kind, and with a duty to perform. It is our destiny. And once we marry, I swear I could make you happy. Surely you must know how I feel toward you –"

"Raoul – enough…please."

She spoke softly, hoping none of the servants lurked nearby to overhear his absurd ramblings of destroying vampyres… hoping also to stop him before he admitted to feelings she did not reciprocate. Words which could never be taken back but once aired would surely make things more difficult between them. He was family; she loved him for that, but a cousin was all he could ever be to her.

"The decision was mine to make, and I am the Countess cel Tradat." It was the first time she put the title to her lips and she felt a warm tingle to hear the words. "You must reconcile yourself to that. If you cannot accept my choice, then perhaps it would be best if you leave before we both say something we may regret."

"Christine," he complained, almost on a whine. "Why did it have to be him?"

"Why not him? He is a good man."

"He is a reclusive freak…"

"Raoul!" she sharply reprimanded. "Never say that again. I expected better of you."

"And he is dangerous," he went on, as if she had not spoken. "A danger to you."

Recalling their escape from Paris, she forced back a shudder and looked toward the fire.

"There is much about the Count that remains shrouded in mystery," he went on, "including his partiality to the night."

Incredulous, she turned her eyes back to him. "Please, please tell me that you are not again suggesting he could be one of your fabled creatures of darkness!"

"Are you so sure he's not?

She sighed. "I have spent the past weeks traveling with my husband, by day, and I assure you, Raoul, not once did he go up in a puff of ash and smoke!"

By his dismal, somewhat confused expression, he seemed disappointed to hear it, and she rolled her eyes a little and moved toward one of the chairs, stiffly holding to her elbows, though she did not take a seat. She hoped her revelation would cause the end of such wretched accusations volleyed against Erik.

"You haven't read the journals, have you?"

"As a matter of fact, I did read the one written by our ancestor."

"But not my mother's?"

"No…" She hesitated to say it. "I left that one at Montmarte."

"So then, you still don't know."

She warily turned to look at him. "Know?"

His features were grim. "Your parents were not killed by any accident, Christine. That was a falsehood you were told, so as not to frighten the child you'd been. They were killed – by vampyres."

She closed her eyes in irritation, uneasy to hear such words that painted such a stark tragedy, so real and so painful, with imaginary strokes that were an insult to her parents' memory.

"Stop it, Raoul, just stop it. I don't want to hear any more of this!"

"Christine." He swiftly closed the distance and grabbed her below the shoulders. "You cannot pretend away the truth as if it doesn't exist and close your eyes to it forever!"

"Your truth, Raoul, not mine." She shrugged loose from his hold and took a step back. "Not mine…"

He looked to the fire, upset and clearly not knowing what more to say. She didn't want strife between them, especially after having not seen him for weeks, especially after he had just lost a beloved member of his own family. If they could only reach some sort of understanding…

"Raoul." She hesitated before stepping forward and laying a gentle hand on his sleeve. "Let's not argue. We will never agree on this, so can we not simply leave it be?" She smiled, though it came weak. "Tell me, how are things at Montmarte? How is Lucy?"

"I only arrived from Bordeaux this afternoon. Lucy was in her room, I suppose, where she usually keeps herself hidden."

His news troubled her for some reason. "Keep a close eye on our cousin, Raoul. Before I left, she was acting most peculiar, much more so than usual." Christine would not soon forget her nocturnal trek through darkness to find the befuddled Lucy, barely clothed and lying like a virginal sacrifice in the center of the maze.

"Perhaps, if you are so concerned, you should not have left as you did."

She softly snorted in exasperation at his bullheadedness and dropped her hand from his arm. "Would you have preferred seeing me married to the obscene Lord Lomax and becoming the prey into giving him an heir? Because had I not escaped Montmarte that would have been my fate!"

"No, of course not." He sighed. "If only I had not gone to Bordeaux. I could have put a stop to this unsolicited marriage!"

She doubted that but wearied of defending herself and had no wish to replay the stale conversation ad infinitum.

"Of course you should have gone; you needed to be with your grandmother." Swiftly she changed the subject, making her voice purposely light. "I plan to visit Montmarte soon, to collect my things, hopefully before the Yuletide begins – I can scarcely believe that time of year is upon us again. Can you, Raoul?"

He looked beyond her, his eyes narrowing. Christine did not need to ask the reason; she felt a shift in the air and sensed the presence she had come to know well. Briefly she closed her eyes, wondering how much he'd heard, and turned to face the master of Castle Dragan.

"Erik, hello." She did not need to force a welcome, always pleased to see him, but wondered if he could sense the apprehension behind her tight smile. "You remember my cousin, the Vicomte de Chagny? He has come to offer his felicitations on our marriage."

The Count stood in the arched entryway, unsmiling, his eyes searing points of flame beyond the black mask. He gave a curt nod in their direction that fell far short of a greeting and strode determinedly toward his piano. Taking a seat on the bench, he began to riffle through several pages spread out on the rack above.

Well then.

Christine could not fault him for his discourtesy. He told her on more than one occasion that he lacked in the politesse of society's graces, and clearly she had been right about her earlier qualms and he wasn't thrilled to find her entertaining a guest inside his musical domain.

"I should go," Raoul said, casting a bitter look of disgust toward Erik's profile before again addressing Christine. "There is more we have to discuss. Another time, perhaps when you visit Montmarte?"

Christine vaguely nodded, though if 'more' had to do with either his disapproval of her sudden marriage or wild talk of vampyres, she would prefer the time be never. "I will see you to the door."

"Anton can see the young Vicomte out," Erik abruptly said, his wry tone painting Raoul as a child. "We have a lesson, Christine."

Thinking his instruction wasn't scheduled until evening, she curbed her impulsive reply that it would take only a moment to escort Raoul to the door, upon seeing the warning sharply relayed in the two golden eyes turned upon her in piercing demand.

"Lesson?" Raoul asked Christine, doing his utmost to ignore Erik, who turned back to his musical scores.

"My husband is teaching me in voice, to improve my singing," she said somewhat nervously against the friction that coated the room and grew thicker with each sentence aired. "I will bid you farewell here, Raoul. It was good of you to drop by. Please, when you speak with Lucy, tell her I shall soon come to visit." Not that the girl would care, or possibly even remember once told, but Christine had to say something bright and positive to cushion the prickly atmosphere.

Raoul looked at her a moment longer, his eyes intense, as if he might ask her to reconsider and leave with him. Her eyes flared a little, and she barely shook her head, begging him to go and keep his silence. He gave a curt inclination of head and shoulders in a stiff bow and promptly left without a word.

Christine hesitated, briefly closing her eyes a moment, before turning them toward Erik.

"He is not welcome in my home."

She inhaled swiftly at the harsh, direct words and replied without thought, "He is my cousin. I have so little family left."

"He insinuates himself into your life at every turn and has made clear his views with regard to our 'unsolicited marriage.'"

She winced at his sardonic reply, having hoped he had not arrived yet to hear that.

"Raoul can be obstinate in his views, but he means well. I told him and will tell him as many times as I must that I went into this union of my own accord, with full knowledge of what I was entering into."

He looked away suddenly, to the instrument's keys. It was a moment before he coldly spoke. "I do not want him here, Christine. If you wish to visit, do so at Montmarte."

She did not argue; there was no point. Raoul's visit had been less than heartwarming, in no way encouraging, and not something she would wish to relive any time soon.

"If you are ready, I would like to begin before the evening is lost."

"Evening?"

At her clear surprise, he turned to look at her. "Perhaps in your zealous discourse with your cousin, you failed to note that dusk has fallen."

She was stunned to realize it, but noticed well the bitterness in his tone.

"And so, if you are prepared to sing, shall we proceed?"

His wasn't so much a question as a command, and immediately his hands took her to the first of the scales, prompting obedience. She hurried to stand in the bow of the piano, where he had placed her when at the hotel.

They did not get far before he ceased to play and shook his head grimly.

"Now that I have seen the cause of the restriction, I know how to deal with it."

She wasn't certain if his muttered words were meant for her or himself, but the message in his eyes turned up to hers was definitely intended for Christine.

"Come here."

Her heart missed a beat at his determined manner. Blindly she obeyed, as if she had no will left of her own.

He first cast a glance toward her bare neck then looked down the front of her gown. He seemed to consider his words carefully.

"I will ask that you remove your bodice so I may loosen the strings of the device that impedes your breathing – would that I could remove it altogether."

She blinked, his cool words invoking a frisson of warmth inside that she didn't think he would appreciate during a lesson.

"My corset?" Her face warmed to speak of such things to him. "But Erik, all singers in the opera house wear them!"

"Which may account for the subpar vocalizations I was made a hapless victim to during the performance. You cannot draw sufficient breath with a wide strip of boning that squeezes your lungs, depriving them to attain full capacity. Now are you going to remove it, or shall I?"

Christine was half-tempted to tell him to do it, not sure her fingers would work right, but his look was anything but amorous, and she sensed he was still upset about earlier, with Raoul.

"If I must," she said, somewhat doubtfully.

He pointed down with his index finger and gave it a little spin for her to turn around. Nibbling at her lower lip, she did so but held back at a sudden thought.

"What if one of the servants should enter?"

"They know not to disturb me when I am immersed in my music. Come, Christine. The evening wanes and I wish to resume with the lesson."

Hearing his impatience, she forced awkward fingers to manage each button. Once she reached the last, she felt his hands move to her shoulders to rid her of the garment. She held a breath, reminding herself that he had seen her naked – well, at least she assumed he had, his superior vision clearly able to pick out objects in the dark. But he had also seen her in just such a state of undress… directly before they lay with one another, in Paris. Then, too, he had unlaced her corset.

She closed her eyes, chiding herself for thoughts that did not belong to music lessons.

His hands went to her ties and tugged them loose. The boning gave way, as he tugged at each crisscrossed section, and she was soon able to pull in a deep breath and exhale with more ease.

Once he re-tied the laces, but loosely, she jumped a little at the gentle rub of his icy fingertips along her shoulder blade, at the edge of the corset where it had bitten into her flesh.

"The foolish device marks you," he said, and before she knew what to make of that, she felt his cool lips brush the spot where his fingers had been.

Her lashes fluttered down and she exhaled the breath she'd been holding. She felt him pull the sleeves of her bodice back up over her arms and bring the edges around the front. Again awkward, she fumbled with the buttons, barely able to manage the first two, before she felt his hands at her hips turn her slowly around and lift to the buttons to give aid, his hands brushing hers in the process. She somehow managed to push the third button through its slit by the time he was done with the middle ones and working toward the bottom row.

Once she was again presentable, his large hands grasped either side of her waist, his thumbs at her ribcage, and again she forgot to breathe. It was a moment before he looked up into her eyes.

"Christine, I am not angry with you. My irritation lies solely with the boy and his single-minded efforts to take you from me." At the flare of shock in her eyes, he quickly amended, "Not that I wouldn't release you should you wish to go in a year's time; I have said it. But he oversteps the boundaries of what is permissible, and I'll not tolerate such insolence. Especially in my own home."

She nodded, understanding why he felt that way and wishing she would have been more forceful in her disapproval of Raoul's persuasions when Erik had been there to overhear.

"So you have no cause to be nervous or to fear me. I would never want that of you. Now, shall we continue with the lesson?"

This time, he posed it as a question, not a command, and she looked straight into his eyes.

"I do not fear you, Erik. I never have."

A slight smile tipped his lips and he nodded. She felt stunned that he thought her nervousness caused by recent events and an anxiety of his anger that simply did not exist. Stunned that he did not yet realize the effect he had on her, just to be in close proximity to him, how it affected the beats of her heart and her thoughts and her soul…

She loved him. It hit her so suddenly, she felt lightheaded with the truth she had been disguising as companionship and affection and so many other things. Yet she could not bring the tender words past her lips, so new to her mind, so fragile…

What irony. She had prevented Raoul from expressing his feelings, and now that she wished to speak of hers to Erik, she, too, felt hindered.

He began to play, and she resigned herself that this wasn't the time for such a weighty revelation, especially when he then achieved the role of strict teacher, gentle husband fading to the background, and looked at her in silent command for her to take her place.

The lesson proceeded much better than its onset; Christine had to admit that with his adjustment to her laces, she found it easier to extend a note. It made sense, of course, but would surely be frowned upon by Madame Giry and any of her dressers at the opera.

He pulled his hands away from the keys once she sang the final line of the chosen aria.

"Better," he conceded. "Still, there is room for improvement. But that will be all for tonight. Mihaela will have prepared your dinner. It should be waiting for you."

"Will you not join me?" She despised the idea of again eating alone.

"No. I have business to which I must attend."

She could hardly plead with him to remain in her company, since he had put aside all of his business to take her to Paris, so Christine posed no argument or persuasion and grudgingly left his presence.

She had much to dwell on, with the new instruction he'd taught...with how to manage her cousin's difficulty to accept her new status...with her heart's latest revelation. Perhaps some time alone was not unwarranted.

However, once Mihaela served a platter of baked lamb, along with various side dishes, Christine invited the girl to sit down to dinner.

"I cannot do that, my lady," the maid refused in shock, her startled gaze going to the door as if she'd just been asked to commit a mortal sin and was fearful they would be overheard.

"It is perfectly alright, and I would welcome the company. There is more food here than I eat in a day. Please, Mihaela, get a plate and join me. I'd like to know more about you, and with Christmas Eve only days away, I wish also to propose some ideas for the dinner I would like you to prepare." With Erik's firm refusal to allow Raoul to enter the castle, Lucy unable to visit and her uncle unwelcome, she dispensed with the idea of the feast of Le Réveillon on Christmas Eve. A family gathering and what Mama Valerius had made so special. But she had no wish to dispense with celebrating the holiday altogether.

The girl uneasily perched on the edge of a chair across from Christine. It was nice to share dinner conversation, as she questioned and Mihaela answered about her life in Romania. She learned that the girl and her brother had been educated in three languages as part of their training, which explained how she could converse with Christine so well. Toward the end of the meal, Mihaela seemed to have relaxed enough to take a few bites of the meat she had cooked and offered to prepare some favorite dishes from her country, if the village market could supply what was needed, to which Christine readily agreed.

That night, in bed, she read on into Part Two of Dumas's novel, her mind barely cognizant of the continuing anecdotes of the king and his musketeers, at times skimming over pages that seemed to crawl along. All the while, she wondered if Erik might come to her room as he had last night and found her eyes repeatedly lifting to the door and willing it to open.

At last she heard the click of a door closing nearby. Footsteps paused before her chamber momentarily before continuing on and fading, for once not silent. Setting the book aside, she hurried to her door and opened it, peering around the lintel to see him retreat down the corridor, already a long distance away.

He was fully dressed, his hat on his head with his cloak billowing behind him as he set a swift pace, and she wondered where he was going at so late an hour. Tempted to grab her wrapper and follow him downstairs, she barely curtailed the desire.

They had parted on good terms after her lesson. Evidently he was in a hurry and in all likelihood would not appreciate her delaying him to yield to her ever-burning curiosity. But that did not make it easy to meekly return to her bedchamber...

Determined to await his return, she continued on into Part Three of the book, growing more alert at the introduction of a mysterious prisoner in the Bastille and his imprisonment in an iron mask.

Had Erik also been forced to wear a mask when hidden away in a cave with the madwoman, and was years' worth of familiarity behind its protective cover why he refused ever to remove it? More to the point, how could she convince him that it did not matter to her, that his scars did not matter to her in how she perceived him?

The questions revolved as Christine read on, feeling an empathy for the unknown prisoner confined into a disguise not of his choosing…

Until suddenly she found herself awakening as if called from slumber.

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up. Uncertain whether it was day or night, she knew only that something was terribly wrong. She sensed it deep in her spirit and hurried to don slippers and grab her wrapper, belting it as she left her bedchamber. Raising her hand to Erik's door to knock, she changed her mind and scratched her nails along the carved wood panel instead.

When she received no answer, she hesitated then put her hand to the knob…

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

XXVIII

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Christine laid her shoulder to the wood, feeling the door move inward.

"Erik…?" she spoke softly as she pushed it open, suddenly uncertain if she should proceed. The torchlight from behind slanted across the massive wooden four-poster that stood along the far wall. The bed curtains had been left open, the bed still made up, as if never slept in. The remainder of the room lay buried in thick darkness.

With a disappointed sigh she shut the door and returned to her bedchamber, pensive with what to do next. A glance between the heavy folds of dark green velvet drapery that covered the tall window proved it was still night, whether in the hours before dawn or deep into the evening she didn't know. But she could find no further sleep, the feeling of unrest never dissolving.

Quickly she dressed in bodice and skirt, fastened on boots and brushed out the tangles from her long ringlets. She didn't bother with pinning them up as decorum demanded of a married woman, preferring to leave her hair down, especially in the chill weather. But more to the point, not wishing to take the time. Before she left her bedchamber, her gaze went to the medallion Erik believed would protect her. She fingered it in indecision before pulling it over her head and pulling her hair free of the chain.

It was Erik for whom she felt true concern. She failed to understand what caused her to experience this horrible disquiet, but Christine knew he was in trouble. Perhaps it was only a residual fear, related to their escape from Paris and whatever madman sought to do him harm, but she would not rest easy until her husband was again in her presence.

She hurried downstairs, to find the throne room, the library, and his music room empty. The chambers were still lit, the ever-present fires burning in all three hearths of the main rooms.

"Hello...? Can anyone hear me?"

No one heeded her call, though Christine cried out more than once.

It felt strange, disturbing to walk through empty rooms lit by torchlight and candle and flame, as though everyone had disappeared from existence while she slept and she was all who remained…

She moved toward the adjoining wing lit with the occasional torch. Up ahead, she caught the waver of shadows, whatever presence that inhabited the chamber most certainly alive. She hurried ahead, coming into the banquet hall just as a slight figure tossed something high into the air above his head and caught it as it came within reach...

The boy from the train.

He flipped the token high again, lowering his eyes from the air above and moving to catch his prize – at the same time catching sight of her as she came into view. His aim went off, hitting the airborne object with his hand, instead of catching it, and sending the small item skittering across the floor to land a short distance from her skirts.

Christine stepped forward and bent to pick the object up, her heart pounding to see that she held what looked like a button made of ivory carved in the shape of a bone.

"Archer, where did you get this?" she asked in soft demand for a greeting. "Were you at the maze?"

"The maze, my lady?" He swiftly pulled his cap off as if recalling he wore it indoors. "I only just arrived. Don't know of no maze."

"Then where did you find this?"

"In the alleyway." When she shook her head in puzzlement, he added, "Near the Opera House. You was there."

"The Opera House," she repeated dumbly. "In Paris?"

"Aye, that be the one."

"I was there…" she repeated his words pensively and caught on to the rest of what he said. "The man in the alley."

"Yes, mistress. Nicolae."

So, the frightful scoundrel had been given a name.

"This…" Christine glanced at what she held, struggling to understand, "…was his?"

"Came clean off his sleeve when you sliced him but good."

She felt almost lightheaded with the news. She had seen the twin to this uncommon button once – found in the maze and left behind at Montmarte.

What did this mean? Had her attacker – Nicolae – been to Berwickshire as well as to Paris? Certainly such a button was uncommon for a man's frock coat…

She felt a wave of shock as the truth hit her with full force – Nicolae must be the man who threatened Erik and from whom they had fled! Of course, that made the greatest sense. First he attacked her in the alleyway then, at some point, later threatened her husband. She recalled that wretched day and the uneasy feeling that the two men had previously met from the familiar and vulgar words her attacker had spoken as well as Erik's terse replies. Nicolae must have visited the shire here, on England's border.

The boy approached. "Might I have it back, my lady?" He came to an abrupt halt a short distance away as if he'd walked into an invisible wall. His eyes went wide as he stared hard at her face, his attention dropping to her bodice then to the floor. If possible he seemed to have gone paler than the bone-white cast of his skin.

"Archer, whatever is the matter? Are you unwell?"

"I do feel a bit queer, mistress."

"Have you eaten today?"

"Er, I found something before I arrived." He swallowed hard and stuck out his hand across the space. "May I have it back?"

She hesitated. "Not until I show this to the Count. It might be important. Do you happen to know where he is?"

"No mistress, Haven't seen him." His request denied, Archer took two steps backward. "Said when I got here I was to work in the stables. Might you tell me where they be?"

Christine hadn't the faintest idea where the animals were lodged, but it couldn't be too difficult to find. The stables would be located outdoors, likely somewhere within the large courtyard, just as at Montmarte.

"Come with me."

She led the way to the foyer, first calling out in the event that someone might be nearby to hear. But save for her and the boy, the castle appeared empty. Of course, the other servants were probably in another part of the fortress and simply out of earshot.

Opening the tall arched door, Christine took the wide steps in descent, past the large bowls of fire that provided a beacon in the dark, and entered the courtyard. The boy trailed far behind, and she wondered why he kept such a great distance. Perhaps he did not trust that Christine knew her way around the grounds - and he would be right, since thus far, she had kept her investigation to chamber rooms inside the castle. Yet she moved with determination, scanning doorways and stone structures that looked promising within the curtain wall.

Fortune favored her when a whinny came from inside one of the enclosures they passed.

"There!" Christine said, feeling a bit of pride that she'd been successful even if her discovery could only be accredited to sheer dumb luck. She swung open the heavy door. "It's as dark as a tomb in here. You'll need light to see."

"No, mistress. You needn't trouble yourself."

"But of course I shall. We cannot have you stumbling about and falling on a pitchfork or any such thing." She hurried to collect a sturdy twig from bushes that grew outside and retraced her steps to the nearest open flame, hurrying back with the lit taper.

"There must be a lantern in here somewhere…ah, here it is." Swiftly she lit the glass receptacle that hung from a hook, grateful it held oil and she didn't need to go in search of that too. A whinny from nearby had her turn to see - and nearly drop the flame.

"Mist!" Hurriedly she shook out the lit taper and moved to the stall that held the gray. She rubbed a fond hand against the gelding's muzzle and between masked eyes. "Have you been here all this time, dear friend? Oh, I'm so glad you're alright!" She had thought the horse would have run back to Montmarte the night he'd broken free from her and was surprised to find him stalled comfortably at the castle.

A deeper snort came from a stall further down. She glanced that way, startled to see Erik's massive black stallion there. Had he left his horse behind and walked to wherever he had gone so late at night? How peculiar… but that made no sense, as often as he warned her about the dangers of nocturnal treks through the forest. He must have returned and somehow she had missed him. Eager to retrace her steps indoors and see if her presumption was correct, she addressed the boy.

"Is there anything more you need before I go?"

"No, my lady."

"Once I find the Count, I shall tell him of your arrival. Welcome to Castle Dragan, Archer."

The boy nodded, his gaze dropping from her face and quickly away. Again he seemed leery of her – why? What had changed? In the blink of an eye he had gone from affable to ill at ease in her presence. Christine puzzled over the strange lad as she retraced her steps to the door of the massive castle keep. A crescent moon hung low over the treetops, piercing the low-hanging misty clouds. Soon dawn would arrive, pushing aside the night and bidding the dark hours a transitory farewell.

Suddenly weary and the day not even begun, Christine took the wide steps back into the castle. Upon opening its heavy door, she sensed a difference in the air, an awareness that she wasn't alone…

"Erik?"

Hopeful, she hurried past the foyer and into the throne room, finding it empty as before, as was the music room and the library. Moving back toward the stairs, she saw a blur of motion high above. At the top of the uppermost staircase and going into the corridor, she caught sight of two men. One was Gregor, and on the other side of him was her husband – his shirt bloodied?!

"Erik!" she cried out in horrified shock.

Both men disappeared into the corridor and out of sight.

"Erik…?!"

Christine rushed toward the first staircase, finding her way instantly blocked by Anton.

"My lady, may I be of service?"

"Anton, let me pass. I fear something has happened to the Count!"

"You have no cause for alarm," the boy said calmly.

"No, you are mistaken. I saw blood."

"I am sure that all is well. In the shadows it is easy to see only what you believe might be true. Not what is really there to be seen."

She blinked, disbelieving of his cool nonchalance. Disbelieving that he attempted to handle and manipulate her, as if she were some incompetent child or a woman with frail sensibilities. Well, she was none of those things! He stood taller and had muscle on his lean form, it was true, but she would not be deterred and doubted - hoped he would not use physical force to try and stop her.

"Stand aside, Anton." She summoned the boldness to use her new title. "As Mistress of this castle and the Count's wife, I command you to let me pass."

He hesitated, as if he might actually refuse, but grudgingly stepped back from her path. She hurried past him and up the stairs, as fast as she was able, impeded by her long skirts and tight corset. Once she reached the corridor she saw the men disappear into, she took a moment to collect her breath, dismayed to find the long hallway empty.

Hurrying down its length, past many closed doors, she finally came to his bedchamber and knocked. "Erik?" She waited but heard nothing and put her hand to the knob. "Erik, I need to see you. Are you alright…?" Gradually she opened the door, determined to enter yet nervous he might deem the intrusion unwelcome, and found the room as it was each time she previously looked – dark and empty, with his bed still perfectly made.

"What…?" she breathed in confused dismay, not knowing where else to look for her wounded husband. Where would he go if not to his room?

She stared at the myriad of closed doors that stood on either side of the long, dimly lit hallway, as far as she could see, and retraced her steps, wondering if he was behind one of them. Her gaze dropped to the floor, and she stared in horror, noticing dark drops on the grey stone that formed a sparse trail she had not first noticed. Anxiously she turned and followed what she could see of it, when a door in the distance creaked open behind and she looked over her shoulder to see Gregor emerge from a room. Swiftly she again retraced her path down the corridor toward him.

"Gregor, where is he? Where is the Count?"

To her shock, the stooped man swiftly locked the door with a ring of keys he pocketed as she came to a breathless stop before him.

"You should go back to your chamber, my lady," he said with clear disgust.

Earlier she had hoped and prayed and searched to find a servant nearby; now she wished they would all disappear. With the young Anton it had been easier to exert boldness, and she forced a self-assurance she was far from feeling, especially with Gregor's cold eyes of disapproval chilling her soul.

"I know he's hurt – I saw him! There's blood on the floor." She swept her arm back, pointing to the area from which she had just come. "Do not tell me otherwise, Gregor. I'll not be refused." She quickly sidled past him, surprising them both with her swift dexterity she attributed to the dance, and stopped before the door. She stared at it a moment before turning to look at Gregor and holding out her hand. "Give me the key."

He shook his head dourly, his thin lips turned down in a frown.

"No, mistress. I will not."

Christine blinked, not having expected disobedience and clueless how to deal with insubordination in her new role as Countess. She had no idea what to say or do to make him succumb to her order. With the exception of her husband, and then only when it pleased him to do so, when had any man ever submitted to her wishes in her entire lifetime?

"Gregor, I only want to ensure that he's alright. Please do not refuse me."

"The Master is well. He is in his bathing chamber." He glanced toward the door that barricaded her.

"His bathing chamber?" This was a different room than the one to which Mihaela previously escorted her. "I…" She hesitated, not wishing to intrude on his personal bath time ritual, and felt her face flush warm with the mental image that brought.

Embarrassment took a back door to the urgent need to hear for herself that he was truly safe and well and unharmed. She knocked on the door – then knocked again.

"Erik? Can you hear me…? Are you alright?"

"Yes, Christine." His voice came from the other side, weary but stable. "I am well. Go back to bed, my dear. It is late."

Her eyes fell shut with a relief that drained every bit of her bluster and strength. Had the change in their relationship not been so new, even fragile, had the door not been locked with a key being held captive, she might enter or ask to enter or even insist on being given that blasted key. But as things presently stood, and with his manservant watching grimly like a vulture nearby, she felt it best to do as Erik directed and return to her bedchamber.

"If you're sure…"

"Yes, Christine. I will speak with you later."

"Alright then... goodnight."

Avoiding eye contact with Gregor, she turned and retraced her steps down the corridor to her room.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Erik settled back in the recessed tub of black marble. Patterned after the Roman baths, it took up almost half of the chamber room. He took a long drink of the life-sustaining liquid upon which he was forced to exist, feeling the deep gash above his ribs close up.

As he waited for Gregor's return, he thought about the night's success. Two more newly-turned vampyres obliterated from the earth – yet the head count was constantly rising. He would no more than destroy one, and another would appear. If he could locate their individual dens, he could wipe them out when they hid from the sun and were weak to defend. Though even with the protection of his father's ring to keep him from burning to ash, he could never produce a strong offense by daylight, himself weakened. Only by the shadows of night could he exert true force with the vampyric power granted him.

His actions would not be blamed by the other two leaders of the Order for exterminating those who were a danger to their kind and especially to Christine, though of course those men would never know it was truly for his young bride that he acted. Vlad Inecatul preferred to keep council in his own district, unconcerned by what transpired outside its boundaries, and the contemptible Vlad III, their sovereign leader, had been missing for more than a century, purported to have been captured and locked away in a coffin by a Van Helsing. And so the mantle of leadership had fallen to Erik, the last surviving heir of the House of Florin. The deformed son, unwanted and unloved, had taken control of the secret sect that branched off from the original Order of the Dragon, a complete contradiction to that faction's beliefs and begun by those two immortals and his father. What damnable irony!

Erik was ruler but had no army; he trusted none of his kind, resolved to attend to matters alone and as he saw fit. The older the vamypre, the stronger his power, and he and Nicolae were near evenly matched in strength and wit, the ring Nicolae coveted giving Erik a decided advantage. Erik was sure the bastard son of Vlad III was responsible for turning the newly formed monsters in his vendetta against Erik and in his hunger to be supreme ruler, but from what he could tell, the rogue vampyre had remained in Paris. He was both grateful, for Christine's sake, and disgusted, wishing to put an end to the scoundrel's life.

Should he do so, all those Nicolae turned would cease to exist… including Archer.

On the train while Christine lay sleeping, it had been a rare sense of guilt that made Erik refuse the boy's wrist in an offer of much-needed blood. How could he take from the lad he had given no thought to protecting? He favored few, mortals and vampyres alike, but was somewhat fond of the scruffy youth he first helped two centuries ago, enough to take him on at Castle Dragan.

As leader, Erik was expected to put the Order first, certainly not value the life of a slayer, their enemy, over the unnatural existence of a vampyre. But Christine had become all that mattered, like Daria once had been to him. Christine was more to Erik… so much more – once the orphaned child he taught and protected and for whom he experienced a quiet and tender affection, like Daria, Christine had then become a woman of gentle beauty with hidden depths of passion, and the wife he never thought he could have.

Daria had been a child of five when he first came across her path a decade after he'd been turned. Soon after that her mother died of a fever, leaving Daria alone in the world. Erik had regarded himself as a father to her, since he could never sire a child of his own in the mortal sense, having then had no concept of whose child she truly was. The medallion originally had been fashioned for Daria as a safeguard, until the day she needed it no more.

Sweet little Daria … his second grave mistake.

He frowned and forced away all doleful thought of tragedies from centuries past, dwelling instead on the more pleasurable reflections of his young bride.

With Christine he shared a bond like no other experienced, which grew more powerful the closer they became. It was not unheard of for vampyres to form deep attachments to their pet mortals, though he did not think of her as a pet. This, he could not name because he never knew of its existence: a bond that tied his soul to her heart and made him aware of the gentle beats of it, even from a distance.

In bed, she'd given him warmth, abundant warmth, much more coveted than this steaming bath in which he now sat immersed. His every gesture of fondness and passion had been accepted and reciprocated, and in recalling her soft, creamy skin and the wet heat of her, he wanted her against him now – almost wishing he had not turned her away at the door…

Though should she enter the chamber and see the bath of red-tinged water she would be horrified.

"Master…? We brought what you requested."

The query came from the corridor.

"Enter."

The sound of the key in the lock preceded Gregor's entrance as he led the way inside, Anton following with a steaming vat of the clean water Erik had ordered. The boy bowed and left. Gregor, however, remained behind and Erik sighed not to be given his privacy.

"Is there something you wish to discuss, Gregor?"

"You gave her the medallion. Do you think that wise, given its effect on you and your kind?"

"The medallion is necessary at this time." He did not bother with explanations, his servant having no idea that Christine was a slayer.

"The boy Archer arrived tonight," Gregor stated gruffly. "He said you sent him."

"Yes. Archer will sleep and work in the stables. Was there anything else?"

"She disrupts the household," Gregor complained, again turning his grievances against Christine. "She corrupts Mihaela into dining with her, though it is strictly forbidden, and has arranged with the girl to prepare enough dishes to feed a small army!"

"What the devil for?" Erik hoped she had no thoughts to entertain, uncertain who would be on that list since he forbade the pesky Vicomte's presence, the earl was unwelcome, and Lucy rarely left the manor but then always in her father's presence.

"The Yuletide," Gregor clipped. "A holiday never before celebrated in this household. Exactly what are we to do with all that food?"

Erik snickered quietly at his wife's girlish enthusiasm for the change of season, a trait she'd carried with her from childhood, and waved the old man's trivial concerns aside. "It is not that I cannot eat mortal food, Gregor. It is that I do not require it to exist."

He could still taste; indeed, flavor was enhanced as intensely as his other four senses. He simply did not have a true desire for the mortal palette of courses he once ingested, and had partaken of meals in Christine's presence only to appease any suspicion she might have when he continually declined to sup with her.

"Hmph," Gregor mumbled. "If that is not enough of a trial, she told Anton that she requires him to collect greenery from the forest to drape about the castle! She even suggested he chop down a small tree! All of this is a foolish waste of time…"

"Give her whatever she asks. She is mistress here and should be obeyed."

Gregor looked disgusted, as if he thought Erik would actually side with him, but gave a curt nod. "As you wish, Master."

His manservant must learn quickly that given a choice, Erik would always support his wife.

When Gregor still failed to go, Erik having no desire to remove his mask with anyone present for the final cleansing of his bath routine, he looked at him impatiently.

"Is there something else?"

"We are running low on supply. With Archer now working at the castle, I assume the need will only increase."

Erik scowled at the burden of the essential task cast upon his shoulders.

Once, he had given no thought as to whom he took as victim, a mere sacrifice to his thirst, and gorged on his bitter revenge and on those fools' blood. Daria had changed him; Christine, as a child, had changed him… and he had slowly come to realize there were those men and women, the innocents, who did not deserve to suffer the penalty of death for his curse.

Battles ended with the mortally wounded left to expire on the field and amply provided more than enough provision. Yet in times of peace, other methods had to be devised, and due to the rising panic in the village, it was more difficult to safely find quarry to sink his fangs into. The barrels of blood, once used as an alternative or a reserve in times of crisis, had become more vital.

With the murders discovered in Berwickshire of late, he dared not select his victim from the district. He would need to proceed with caution, take a few hours and go to one of his other two homes and the city there. Whereupon he would find a man deserving of his punishment by death, usually the worst of criminals fallen through the cracks and released by a faulty court system or perhaps convicted by one, or even a felon not yet apprehended. It was little surprise that a portion of them turned out to be so-called men of noble rank.

The world would not miss those thieves, rapists, and murderers. In truth, Erik was doing those lands a service by secretly taking the fiends off their hands. He brought each back, scarcely breathing, a victim to Erik's lasso still used on occasion and to his bite.  Gregor then bled the torpid scoundrel dry, storing the lifeblood into barrels kept chilled and fresh, like wine. The remains were dumped into another barrel, weighted down with stones, and tossed into the nearby sea.

From recent correspondence, the Count had his prey in mind: an evil marquis who used violence as his voice and murdered for his title, raping the staff of women in his household, his meek wife also a victim to his brutality. Gold had exchanged hands of those who should have imprisoned the brute for his crime of kicking an old, lame beggar to death, also shunned for his imperfection, and though it meant a return to Paris, the marquis offered the best choice for provision.

"I will tend to it soon," Erik said wearily.

Gregor nodded and finally left. Only then did Erik pull the lever that activated the drain and remove his mask to upend the clear hot water over his head and cleanse all traces of blood away.

No matter that those fiends branded for death deserved a complete bloodletting, no matter that he must consume the life-giving liquid to survive – he despised the animal he had become. No amount of steaming hot water would wash away the centuries' worth of blood and sins he had perpetrated.

He did not deserve the pure bride he had taken, nor the blissful moments of fulfillment found in her embrace, though he grasped each second of each hour to him greedily, desperate to hold onto those cherished moments in the darkness – to all the time he had with Christine, as long as he was able - certain she would one day leave him…

And though the pain would be fierce, he would let her go.

A life, cursed and eternal, shackled with solitude and misery was all that a monster deserved.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Christine half reclined curled up in one of two wide-backed chairs of the music room, with her stocking feet tucked beneath her skirts, and stared into the low fire.

After leaving Erik locked in his bath chamber, she found some solace in sleep, but briefly, soon waking again to concern when he did not answer her scratches at his bedchamber door - upon opening it, again finding his bed made up as if it had never been slept in, though certainly hours had elapsed since they'd last spoken through the door.

When Mihaela came with fresh water and to help her dress, she questioned the girl, but received no satisfactory answer, Mihaela uncertain where the Count had gone.

The memory of his shirt colored in blood haunted Christine's every waking minute. In her investigation of another area of the castle, made as an attempt to force her mind from the horrid image, to run across a chamber filled with nothing but weaponry – daggers, swords, and spears and other types of armaments just as frightful looking –only darkened her worry. He collected weapons as he did musical instruments, one of each kind and in great number. Had a vicious weapon such as one displayed been the cause of his injury? – for she knew she had seen blood despite that he had assured her from beyond a closed door that all was well.

"Christine?"

At the silken tone of the beloved voice she had waited much of the night and all day to hear, she swiftly uncurled from the cushion and looked to the entrance where he stood seeming surprised to find her there.

"Erik?" Instantly she was on her feet and moving toward him, not taking the time to don her slippers left by the chair.

Her eyes did a frantic appraisal of his form as she walked, the pristine shirt he wore un-bloodied, unlaced and un-tucked beneath a long robe of black velvet. Black silk lounging trousers and slippers completed his attire, his appearance more casual than she had ever seen him.

"You are truly alright? I saw blood on your shirt. Quite a lot of it in fact…" She pressed tentative fingertips to that area, near his ribs. "There."

"A mere trick of the light and shadow played upon your eyes."

"Shadows are not colored red."

At her sure words and uncertain manner, he covered her hand with his. "Would it put your mind at ease to see?"

Her heart skipped a beat at so unexpected an offer and she nodded softly, eyes intent as he moved her hand away and lifted his shirt to expose skin as pale as parchment and ribs somewhat pronounced – little surprise since she rarely saw him eat. What she could observe of his torso was unblemished, save for a few old scars, and she found her hand moving without permission to press the tips of her fingers along one white stripe that curled around from his back. She had felt the scars there against her hands, long and puckered like this one, which must be the tail end of such a stripe, proof he had been horribly and viciously whipped at some point in his life.

At her gentle touch, he hissed a quiet breath through his teeth but remained motionless as curious eyes searched what inquisitive fingers touched, never having been given the privilege to see.

"How did this happen?"

"I was rebellious in my youth."

"In your youth?" she teased, flicking her eyes upward, having never known him to be anything but defiant. Her relief was great to find that her mind had indeed tricked her and he was truly alright, no stab or puncture wound in sight.

"I have never been one to conform," he agreed and took her hand from his side, bringing it to his mouth briefly in a kiss while lowering his shirt. "I am rigid in my routines, preferring the structure that I set. With that said, it is time for your lesson."

She nodded, somewhat reluctant, having wished to see his body further bared as she brought the familiarity of touch to the exploration of sight. The thought brought heat to her cheeks, and he looked at her somewhat oddly as he took a seat at the bench while, blushing, she moved to the bend of the piano.

Exactly like their last lesson, she got no further than several practice scales before he ceased playing and let out a heavy sigh. His eyes turned up to her.

"After knowing my preference, you laced it more tightly?"

"The bodice fits better when I do," she admitted.

"Come." He crooked his finger, beckoning her approach.

Expecting the same course of action as last time, Christine did as requested. He remained seated and she was surprised when he did not order her to turn around, his hands going to her buttons and popping each tiny disc free. He did not draw the bodice down from her shoulders, instead sliding his hands inside its loosened folds and around her corset to the back. Through touch alone, he manipulated the knot, loosening sturdy laces, until her lungs could again expand to breathe more easily.

He brought his hands around to her front again, and she waited, expecting him to refasten her bodice. Her eyes widened when instead they went to the top hook of her corset, popping it free of the eye, and did the same to the next…

"Erik…?" she exhaled his name on a wondering breath, her pulse skipping a faster beat with each hook released.

"The device is unnecessary and an impediment to your lessons," he explained, his voice deep. "I would prefer you not burden yourself with such bondage to culture's conformity during the training of your voice."

"Alright," she barely breathed as he undid the last hook and pulled the corset away, dropping it to the ground.

He stared at what he unveiled, the chemise clinging damply to her skin, and lifted his hands to grasp her waist, bringing her slowly forward to stand between his legs. She gasped at the sudden press of his masked face beneath her breasts and felt his lips kiss above her belly through the thin material. In bewilderment, she clutched his shoulders, the stir of desire growing stronger.

After a moment, he tilted his head so that golden eyes caught her in their sultry glow.

"I should like to postpone tonight's lesson," he said quietly, "if you are agreed."

She barely was aware that she nodded, in no doubt to what she was in agreement.

His lips lifted in the wicked twist of a smile. With a swift flick of his fingers, the flames extinguished from the candelabra beside the music stand. The sole remaining light of the dying fire in the hearth behind painted his mask with a pale orange glow. But it wasn't fear that prompted the hiss of her breath in a lengthy inhalation.

"I sense that you no longer shy from the darkness…," he mused, rubbing his thumbs in gentle motions against her ribs, "…and have learned to perceive its hidden qualities. Indeed, I question if there is not a part of you that craves its mystery, eager to claim what it holds as your own."

"Yes." She could not deny it, but only if that darkness had Erik at its core, and bending down she pressed her lips to his, her action telling him so.

He shook his head in awe once she pulled her head away. "You are all that is pure, your beauty celestial, yet you want me. How can such a wondrous thing come to pass?"

She smiled with lifted brow. "Celestial? I am hardly connected to the heavens."

"Are you not?" he tenderly scoffed. "Who but an angel could bestow acceptance to one such as I? Not only your outer appearance can describe such beauty, but your voice, Christine – it is angelic in tone, needing only expert tuning and crafting to make it worthy of opera. You are my Angel of Music."

His voice was soft, liquid gold, but his eyes bespoke of devilment. His hands dipped beneath her skirts, running up along her legs and moving to her ties which he unbound, tugging down the drawers over her hips to let them fall to her ankles. Obediently she stepped out of them, her face afire as she looked to the entrance that possessed no door.

"Erik – here? And with no bed?"

He darkly chuckled. "My little ingénue, still such an innocent…"

His chill hands again found sanctuary beneath her skirts as he stroked up along her stocking legs, bringing them to bare hips and around to cup her bottom. Drawing Christine against him, his fingers formed patterns against her flesh. He undid the top buttons from within her skirt to give them greater span up her spine and down again to the backs of her thighs.

"The servants went to the village, each to their own task. I do not expect them back until dusk... and we need no bed." He craned his head upward. "You look at me so strangely."

She swallowed. "You take my breath. I never know what to expect when we meet."

"And does this quirk in my nature displease you?"

She slightly shook her head. "It excites me," she admitted, feeling another wave of warmth at her admission followed by another course of shivers elicited through his wandering touch.

"Indeed."

Another wicked smile he gave as he brought one hand from beneath her skirts and up to the back of her head to pull her down to meet his lips, kissing her more thoroughly. His cool lips warmed to hers as his heated tongue delved between them. Once she pulled away for breath, she felt unsteady and clutched his shoulders more tightly uncertain she would be able to continue standing much longer.

As if sensing her dilemma he pushed her back so that he could stand, and took her hand, walking with her to the curve of his piano. She looked at him in confusion as he removed the prop and lowered the lid so the top lay flat. Her eyes widened and she gasped in shock as he grabbed her about the waist and lifted her to sit atop its glossy surface.

"You are my most prized instrument, your voice to shape, your body that gives such pleasure, such passion... to see, to touch, to know…" His hands went to the hem of her skirts, lifting them to her knees. "Shall I play you and achieve some of the most beautiful music I have ever heard?"

"I…" At his shameless and provocative words, she could bring nothing more past her numb lips and only nodded, feeling her face flame again.

His mouth twisted in a roguish grin and with a flick and wave of his fingers, the hearth fire gave a loud whoosh and blew out, leaving behind only glowing red embers. They, too, quickly faded, colored specks that provided no true light. All was in darkness, the entrance to the throne room a dark gray archway and nothing more.

Christine rested her weight on her palms, leaning back as she felt her skirts lifted away from her legs. Against her thigh, she felt the sudden brush of his cheek – his bare cheek – and her eyes opened wide on a swift inhale as she realized he had removed his mask! She tensed with expectancy, wishing to imprint every sensation of his features against her skin. Lest he take her act of surprise as one of disgust, she brought her palm to rest against the bulge that was his head buried beneath her skirts.

He kissed along her thigh, his tongue trailing along her limb. Still she did not understand his intent, even when he pushed her knees further apart and kissed her groin.

Innocence fled as passion reared up in a hot torrent at the first brush of his lips and his tongue that laved wet flesh, eager to add 'taste' to the sensations he'd named...

The sounds for which he had sought sailed from her lips in pure cries of ecstasy.

Christine fell back on her elbows and then her shoulders as Erik introduced her to an even more profound level of pleasure. With each suckle that came from his cool lips, each slide of his hot tongue, she felt drawn deeper into a place of profound sensation, the familiar coil twisting headily within – until abruptly he pulled away and bowed his head between her legs. She felt the strange warp of one temple and the smooth curve of the other against her thighs and welcomed both. His fingers at her hips dug into flesh as her fingertips pressed heavily against the slick wood of the grand piano.

Twice before in the heat of their passion, each time they had shared in physical intimacy, this sudden and strange distance occurred. On both occasions, he had come back to her from whatever so overwhelmed him, and she waited again, her ragged breaths all that filled the silence.

At last he stirred, gently drawing her calves down from over his back where he had brought them as he moved from beneath her skirts.

"Erik, are you alright?"

His answer came in the sudden press of his lips to hers, and she tasted her desire on his tongue before he pulled away again, this time to bring her to sit up.

"Wrap yourself around me," he ordered roughly and she moved to comply, winding her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. He strode confidently in the darkness and she clung to him in complete trust. When he knelt to set her down, beneath her hands she felt the softness of fur that still held trace warmth from the fire and knew he'd brought her to the rug before the hearth. He tore away her bodice from her arms, and she pulled away his robe with equal fervor. He laid her back and placed one knee outside each of her legs, covering her with his body, so cold, but she knew from experience soon to be warm again.

Drawing the straps of her chemise from her shoulders, he kissed down her neck to her breasts. She gasped at the feel of his mouth against sensitive skin, at the press of his face there without the mask. Touch painted a picture he would not let her eyes see, and fingers ached to explore, but she allowed them only the satisfaction of cupping the back of his head and lacing through his hair as he played her to his heart's content and to her great pleasure.

He released her nipple with a gentle suckle, kissing up to her neck and jaw. Christine shifted her head, her lips seeking his - instead finding rippled flesh. He flinched, immediately drawing back, but she reached for and grabbed his shoulders. "No!" And her hands slid up his neck to cradle his face, this time giving them what they desired.

"There you are…" she whispered huskily.

It was a foolish thing to state; she didn't know why she said it, but his tense muscles began to relax and he did not wrench away from her again. Nor did he prohibit her continued touch, and with her fingertips she learned this forbidden part of him. Of dips and bulges, the warped skin was like cold wax, and she gently brushed her touch beneath his eye, finding the skin there fragile and papery thin. Her heart caved to feel a drop of moisture wet the tips of her fingers.

Suddenly he grabbed that hand and kissed its palm and fingers.

"No one has ever touched my face." His voice came hoarse.

"Then I am privileged you have given me the honor."

She could not see his reaction to her breathless words in such darkness, but sensed his astonished disbelief.

"I think you must be a true angel, and I am but a feckless demon at your mercy and under your command."

Christine shook her head at his low words. "You are my husband and my Angel of Music. And I missed having you in my bed last night."

He brought his lips desperately to hers and eagerly she returned his kisses. His hand moved to her skirts, wrenching them upward. He brought his knee between hers, and she opened herself to him.

Mapping her hands down to his waist, she found the tie that held his trousers. Of fine silk, they provided a thin veil to what they covered, and gently she stroked the bulge there. His inhale was swift, and he took hold of her hand bringing it with him beneath the shield of his clothing. She gasped as he wrapped her fingers against the solid length of him, his hand atop hers showing what gave him pleasure. Eagerly she complied, feeling his hardened flesh, silken to the touch, twitch beneath her grasp.

When next he moved, it was to rid himself of all but his shirt that hung past his hips. And yet, once he stretched atop her, still he was not satisfied and pulled back again. Christine felt him take each of her thighs in turn, quickly pulling away stockings and baring more of her flesh. Once more he lay between her legs, one of his hands going to her calf and wrapping her leg around him while she did the same with the other, cradling him within the warmth of her body.

He slid deep inside her velvet heat, groaning to feel such bliss. His strokes came slow and languid, the increase of speed and strength a gradual incline neither of them wished quickly to travel. She matched each hungry plunge, her hands going to the edges of his open necked shirt and pulling them wide, wishing to feel as much of his skin as possible against what he had revealed of hers.

In the darkness there was only pleasure and ache and need to be claimed and found and grasped. Cold was abandoned as he melted into her, and they seized and shared greedily, with utter selflessness, in the heat of their indulgence…

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

XXIX

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

The eve of Christmas had come upon them, and Christine decided she must cease with postponing a visit to Montmarte. The previous day she had been much too worried for Erik's safety to leave the castle and the day before that, too weary from their journey home.

Erik was safe and Christine well rested. She no longer harbored excuses and would prefer a fresh change of clothing since there was no word yet from Berwickshire that her winter wardrobe had arrived from Paris.

With her husband again absent, nowhere to be found and likely attending to whatever business matters awaited him, Christine planned to set out alone for her great uncle's manor and asked Anton to drive her there. Once again she had slept late into the day, having enjoyed the night in her husband's arms, and wished to make her visit to Lucy and be back at the castle before darkness again fell.

As Anton walked with her to the closed conveyance, something occurred to Christine. "The gray horse in the stables – please tell Archer to tie him to the carriage. I should take him back to Montmarte." She had no wish to be construed as a thief, having always intended to make arrangements to return her uncle's horse.

"That is not necessary, my lady. The Master's instructions upon your return were to go to Montmarte with money to purchase the beast that I found wandering outside the castle after you left for Paris."

"Purchase?" she stared at him in astonishment. "The Count bought Mist? The horse?" she clarified when he glanced at her oddly.

"Yes, Mistress, he did." Anton glanced up at the sky. "If it is your wish to return before nightfall, we should leave."

Christine followed his gaze upward, noting the heavy cloudbank that permitted daylight to shine through but not the sun, making it impossible to tell the time of day. "Yes, alright." Gathering her tumbled thoughts, she took a seat inside, bringing them forth again for review once the carriage was in transit.

Erik had purchased Mist. Why, when he had his black stallion and the two horses used for pulling this carriage and the wagon the servants used for chores? He certainly had no need of another horse, though she was grateful to learn Mist had been found and was well cared for.

At Montmarte's door she almost changed her mind and told Anton to retrace the route home. The first and last time she'd stood on this stoop waiting to be admitted, she had felt as inconsequential as a drowned rat – and looked the part. A poor relation, sodden from the abrupt rainstorm. Waiting once more for the butler to admit her, Christine nervously wondered what sort of reception she would receive this time. She had slipped away in the night, little more than a runaway horse thief, and returned to its doors as Countess to one of the wealthiest men in the country. She had never been one to covet a wealthy patron as so many girls in the chorus did, Christine always desiring to achieve a relationship founded on love. However, she had quickly learned that such principles as one's status mattered to the majority of the populace, in Paris and in Berwickshire, and likely everywhere else.

From Little Miss Nobody to titled countess – Erik's Countess …

The burst of confidence and little wondering smile at the thought faded upon seeing Thorsten, the butler, his expression just as disapproving and surly as it had been the first day she dared to stand on this threshold.

The unsavory man looked her up and down. "My lady." He offered as slight a bow as could be managed to satisfy courtesy and opened the door wider to admit her as if he would prefer not to but had no choice. "The Vicomte said to expect you. I will inform him of your arrival."

"Actually," she hastened to say, not wishing to be confronted with Raoul's absurd persuasions the moment she stepped foot indoors, "I should like to see Lucy. Is she in her room?" She posed the question as she strode toward the stairs.

"She is, but you may not visit. The physician is presently with her."

This stopped Christine in her tracks and she turned to look at him. "Physician?"

"Yes, miss. His second visit."

"Is she very ill then?"

Thorsten hesitated, and Christine wondered if he was under strict orders not to divulge too much information. "The earl will disclose to you what he wishes to be revealed," he sniffed. "You may wait in the parlor."

She had no intention to be shuffled to the side and dealt with at her great uncle's whim. "Thank you, no. I came to collect my things. I shall be upstairs."

Christine mounted the steps, a bit astonished when Thorsten said nothing more to prevent her progress. A curious glance over her shoulder made her think by his expression that he appeared almost relieved that she had taken the matter out of his hands. A strange thought, but she couldn't shake it.

Upstairs, she stared at the faded, heather-sprigged walls of the room she once inhabited then moved to the cupboard and retrieved her carpetbag, setting it on the bed. At the sight of her clean black silk day dress with its smattering of red flowers, she decided not to wait a second longer and changed out of what she wore into fresh attire. Inhaling deeply, she appreciated the calming lavender scent that came from the cloth and pulled the medallion free to drop against her bodice, the chain resting around the high ruffed collar. Hardly a statement of fashion, the amulet was really quite ugly, but she had made a promise to Erik to wear it outside the castle.

Once dressed, Christine recalled the button and searched the top of the small bureau for the last place remembered where she put it, but without success. Opening the wardrobe, she cast a withering glance toward her aunt's journal and searched the bottom of the cupboard.

Behind her the door opened, followed by a sharp gasp.

"Beggin' pardon. I heard a noise, but didn't realize you was here."

Christine looked over her shoulder to see the maid back away into the corridor. "Daisy – wait!" She straightened from where she knelt. "I should like to speak with you."

"Yes, miss? Er, my lady?"

Christine smiled, hoping to put the girl at ease. "There was a button, I think, in the shape of a bone, about this size…" She held her thumb and index finger a short distance apart. "I cannot seem to find it."

"Sorry, I haven't seen it."

Before Daisy could duck back out the door, Christine hurried to say, "Please, can you tell me what ails my cousin? I understand the doctor is in to see her." She doubted she would get any information from her uncle, and to track down Raoul might mean to open herself up to further demeaning remarks with regard to her decision to marry Erik. The servants were privy to almost everything that happened inside a household and often knew things others did not.

"I really shouldn't say, miss. I wouldn't want to get in trouble."

Christine approached Daisy where she still stood by the door as if ready to bolt. "What you say will remain between us," she said softly. "Lucy is family, and if she is ill, I wish to know it."

Still clearly anxious, Daisy gave a short nod. "One of the servants overheard the doctor tell the earl that Lucy has been…violated."

"Violated?" Christine frowned at the horrific implication of the whispered word.

"Yes, my lady. It was the word he used though I'm not sure of its meaning."

"But who would do such a thing?!"

"Don't know, miss. The Vicomte found her in the maze last night and brought her back indoors then sent a servant to collect a doctor in the next township, since we have none." She looked behind to the partially open door as if afraid she might be overheard. "That's all I know. I must get back to my duties before Mrs. Higgins comes looking for me."

"Yes, of course." Christine was still reeling from the wretched information that Lucy had been harmed and that she had again visited the maze in the night. "Thank you, Daisy."

The girl gave another nervous nod and left.

Perhaps, had Christine never fled from Montmarte, this would not have happened...

A sense of guilt and the need to know more, to see for herself that Lucy was as well as one could be after suffering such hardship, drove her down the corridor and to the wing of the girl's room. Outside its doors she saw Raoul in deep discussion with a stout, white-haired gentleman. As she drew close, she overheard what they said.

"…some elaborate hoax –" the stranger said gruffly with a slight brogue.

"I assure you, Doctor, no hoax was involved. You saw her wounds. You, yourself, bound them up last night!"

"Had they been actual wounds, they would not have disappeared as if never there. The body doesna heal that quickly." He harrumphed. "No, by the inferior lamplight I must have been fooled into believing something more was amiss."

"Do you accuse me of perpetrating a hoax, sir?!"

"No, my lord, you misunderstood. Perhaps one of the servants, having heard the wild talk in the village, was up to some mischief –"

"Our servants have better things to do with their time than to instigate ridiculous pranks! Perhaps, as you believe yourself to have erred in what you treated, you were mistaken in your other assessment as well."

"She is most certainly anemic and fatigued, in all likelihood a victim of Neurasthenia, but there are aspects of her condition that I have never seen in my thirty-eight years as a physician. I have consulted a colleague by telegram to gain his opinion. He has agreed to take a train to Berwickshire and will be arriving tomorrow…" He broke off on catching sight of Christine hovering a short distance away, and Raoul turned to look.

"Christine! Thank God you are here." Raoul held his hand out as an invitation to join them and turned back to the physician. "Dr. MacGrady, my cousin Christine Daaé."

Raoul was clearly rattled by the circumstances concerning Lucy, and Christine forgave him his error as she closed the distance.

"My cousin forgets my recent wedded state – I am, in fact, the Countess cel Tradat. Can you please tell me what has happened with Lucy?"

"My lady," He nodded his head in a stiff but polite bow. "I will leave the Vicomte to inform you of all you wish to know. I must speak with the earl before I depart for the village. Good evening," he said to them both and quickly took his leave.

"Raoul?" Christine queried once the doctor bustled away.

His manner was grim. "Lucy was attacked last night."

Christine winced at the words, reaffirming what Daisy told her.

"Did you see it?"

"I found her in the clearing of the maze, laid out on the bench there. The monster was on top of her…" His words trailed off, and he hesitated with what to say. "Forgive me. This is unfit for a lady's ears."

She blew out a frustrated breath. "I am a married woman, Raoul. I won't be scandalized and I want to know what happened."

His lips compressed at her words. "Her nightdress was hiked up, and it has since become evident that the fiend had his way with her!"

Christine closed her eyes at the horror of Lucy's travail.

"But he was no man – she was bitten! I know she was…" He spoke, as if arguing with himself. Suddenly he moved, striding into their cousin's room.

Christine followed, shocked by her first sight of Lucy. In the light of the lamp by her bedside, she lay with eyes closed, perhaps sleeping. Her face was as pale as death with dark smudges beneath her eyes, her hair a wild tangled mass of white-gold on her pillow. An unraveled and untidy pile of white linen, clearly a discarded bandage, lay nearby.

Christine followed Raoul to the bedside, watching curiously as he bent to inspect the girl's neck and pushed aside a thick lock of her hair to do so. The touch of his fingers brought Lucy's eyes wide open and she screamed. Raoul took a hasty step backward in retreat, almost knocking the oil lamp off the table.

"Lucy – it's alright. It's only me."

The girl did not respond but warily eyed Raoul then Christine. Her eyes abruptly dropped to the medallion and widened.

"Get away from me," she demanded hoarsely, digging her head deep into the pillow as if to seek escape through linen and feathers, and Christine realized, as bizarre as it sounded, the ugly medallion appeared to frighten her eccentric young cousin.

With the neck of her dress too high to tuck the amulet safely away, Christine clutched the disc, keeping it out of the girl's sight. Clearly, after her traumatic experience, Lucy was more addled than she normally was, and Christine had no wish to add to her distress.

"I heard you haven't been feeling well," she said tactfully, in as soothing a voice as she could manage. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"The light is too bright," Lucy complained, putting her sleeve over her eyes. "It hurts."

Christine swiftly moved to turn the flame down to a more gentle glow. "Is that better?"

Lucy moved her arm away from her face but stared straight ahead and gave no reply. Christine felt her own arm grabbed as Raoul pulled her back and quietly spoke near her ear.

"Do you see now? It is as I've said."

"What is?" she replied, also beneath her breath.

"The attacks. The manner in which they occurred. The wound on her neck – two puncture holes, a mark that fangs would make."

Christine immediately saw where this was going and had no wish to be taken there.

"I heard the doctor say that the wounds disappeared," she argued beneath her breath. "It is likely you imagined them or they weren't as bad as you first thought."

"But to leave no trace at all?" he scoffed. "The doctor bound them so did see them. And he was correct to say that wounds don't just disappear within a day's time so as to be invisible."

"Perhaps he was also correct that the lighting was too dim to tell properly. It is rather difficult to see with the lamp turned down like it is –"

"That's another thing," Raoul insisted, "her intolerance to the light. Victims of a vampyre cannot endure strong light."

"There is nothing preternatural about a simple headache, Raoul. But perhaps we shouldn't be holding this discussion in her presence." He spoke quietly but surely could be heard by the patient who rested only a few feet away.

He seemed somewhat chastened by her remark as he glanced in the girl's direction and back again – and Christine understood how easy it was to forget that Lucy did indeed understand and absorb conversation around her when she so often did little to contribute to its progression.

"I should speak with Uncle," Raoul said suddenly. "He has not taken the news well. I hope to have a moment with you again before you leave."

At the intent question in his eyes, Christine gave a halfhearted nod. Once he exited the chamber she turned her attention back to Lucy.

Raoul's tiresome persuasions troubled her more than usual, and she attributed her unease to Lucy's horrid condition coupled with a sense of guilt for leaving Montmarte, though there had been little choice at the time. But she had known of Lucy's nocturnal forays into the maze and told no one, trusting her addlepated cousin at her word, a promise that Christine had extracted from Lucy to abstain from further visits there. She should have known better. Her cousin simply did not exist within this realm to understand its hidden dangers.

"Please…"

At the soft, almost desperate query coming from the bed, Christine stepped forward.

"Is there anything I can get for you, dear? Perhaps a cup of tea? Do you wish me to call for the maid?"

"I want him," Lucy stated quietly, a sad plea in her crystal blue eyes.

"Him?" Christine shook her head in confusion and glanced toward the door, noting for the first time that Lucy's pup lay on the floor on the opposite side of the room, his shaggy head dejectedly resting on his paws. "You would like for me to call Raoul back? Or perhaps you want your dog?"

Lucy grabbed Christine's wrist hard, and in surprise she brought her attention back to the girl.

"I wish for the dark faerie to come. He won't, unless I invite him inside."

Christine smothered a weary sigh to hear her cousin once again immersed in her fairytale land of warped reality, unable to see the truth for what it was. What had happened to Lucy was obviously very real, as was the scoundrel whom Lucy erroneously thought one of the dark fae.

"I need him," Lucy continued plaintively, "and he needs me."

Christine sank slowly to the edge of the bed, Lucy never releasing her desperate hold. The girl was so pale and thin, clearly ill, the bloom in her cheeks absent, even her usually pink lips without color to them. Though she was a year younger, her condition made her look almost two decades older. Gaunt and frail...

"I think this dark faerie you have been seeing is a danger to you."

"No." Lucy briskly shook her head. "He wants to bring me into his world. A happy place, where we will forever dance and play. And I want to go be with him."

Christine winced at so troubling a thought. "He persuades you to leave the safety of the manor in the dead of night, barely dressed, to meet with him in the midst of the maze. That is hardly a game, Lucy, and quite unseemly."

"It is the only way we can see each other. Father would never allow us to..." Her words trailed off as her mind seemed to do also. Suddenly she looked straight at Christine. "Please, let me go. I must find my dark faerie."

Unnerved by the girl's soulful words, Christine looked askance, to the bedside table and the wadding of linen spotted with red. Her mind was slow to pick up on what she observed, and when she did make sense of it, she whipped her gaze from the discarded bandage to both sides of Lucy's neck, Lucy's shifting around having laid it bare. Neither side was marred with so much as a scratch.

"Please!" Lucy's protestations became almost violent as she dug the fingers of her other hand deep into Christine's sleeve, hard enough to bruise. "Help me to find him."

"Lucy!" Christine tried to wrench her arm free but her cousin held fast. "Let go. You're hurting me."

Lucy's nails dug in deeper. "I need him. Don't you understand?" Her words were stronger, insistent, almost hateful. "He said everyone would try to stop us from being together – he was right! You must let me go to him! I can hear him calling me!"

"Lucy – stop it!"

Christine struggled to wrest herself loose, grabbing Lucy's claw-like grip with the intent to force her to pull back, finger by stiff finger. In their tussle, the medallion again swung free, glinting in the low lamplight.

Lucy hissed and let go, swiftly recoiling her body and averting her face, as if suddenly afraid.

"Lucy…?" Christine rubbed her arm, feeling adrift at the abrupt change in her cousin from violent aggressor to anxious victim. "Whatever is the matter with you?"

"I don't like that," she answered, between a whimper and a growl. "Neither will he."

"He?"

"The dark faerie."

So, they were to remain fixed in tales of pretense, and yet, this figment of Lucy's imagination was truly flesh and blood. A snippet of fantasy could not rob a girl of her virtue. Though with Lucy's frenzied pleas to find him, perhaps she had given herself freely. But she was too young and far too confused of mind to make such a life-altering decision. What monster would take advantage of her youth and naiveté to manipulate her in such a foul manner?

Christine thought back to the bone button she'd found in the maze and its match, in Archer's care…

Which led to thoughts of the fiend to whom they belonged.

No…

At the terrible idea that crossed her mind, she said almost breathless, "I'm sorry you don't like my medallion; it was a gift from my husband. But tell me, Lucy, do you know the name of your dark faerie?"

"You're a countess now – Daisy said so!"

Christine blinked, at a loss. "I don't see what that has to do with this."

"You can force Papa to let me see him!"

"I highly doubt, even if your father were to consent to my request, that to present your wishes to him in such a manner would give you the results you desire," Christine scoffed. "But why would you even want to see your dark faerie? Did he not harm you?"

"No – he loves me! And I love him! I belong to him! He's calling to me - and I must go!" Lucy scrambled up onto hands and knees, as if she might vault off the bed like a wild animal. "You cannot prevent me from being with him - no one can!"

Christine had never heard her cousin so lucid with words for so prolonged a time. Nor had she ever seen her behave so wildly out of control. From the distant corner, Topsy whined then barked.

"Lucy – please! Calm yourself."

The dog continued barking as Lucy crouched with her tangled hair hanging in her face and clutched the coverlet beneath her hands into tight fists, her eyes lunatic. Before Christine could form another appeal, Lucy sprang off the bed and pushed Christine hard, knocking her into the wall. Christine regained her balance and hurried into the corridor after her, the dog whimpering and running past her skirts in the opposite direction.

"Lucy!"

Before the deranged girl could reach the stairwell, one of the earl's men, Jason, appeared around the corner and grabbed her by the waist, preventing her frantic escape and slinging her over his shoulder. He took her kicking and screaming back to the bed, holding her down by the arms while she gnashed her teeth and flailed her body in attempt after attempt to bolt off the mattress.

Christine hurried to the bell pull to summon a servant. Daisy appeared within moments, her eyes wide to witness Lucy's struggle not to be contained. Her nightdress had ridden up bare legs from her kicking out at her captor, and her neckline was dislodged, exposing one small shoulder and half a breast.

"Daisy, is the doctor still here?"

"Yes, my lady."

"Fetch him quickly!"

The maid scurried away while Christine lingered, motionless with shock and helpless with what to do. She did not have the brawn to even attempt to help hold her mad cousin down.

"Let me go!" Lucy screamed in between frustrated whimpers and harsh curses Christine never thought to hear from one so childlike.

"I canna do that, Miss Lucy," Jason grunted, even with his thick bulk the Scotsman finding it difficult to keep her restrained as much as she writhed and kicked out. "Not since you took to opening third-floor windows at night. Your Papa says you're not t' leave this room."

"To the devil with you! With all of you...!"

Christine glanced toward the turret windows with all four sides fixed in stone so they couldn't be dislodged. Had Lucy slipped into a different room to seek escape? Was she so desperate to meet with her dark faerie that she would attempt the hazardous feat of climbing out of a high window into the winter night?

But the question uppermost in mind - was Erik's nemesis and Christine's attacker – Nicolae – Lucy's dark faerie?

Everything became a blur as the earl, followed by the doctor then Raoul, swept into the room. Raoul immediately went to the opposite side of the bed to help hold Lucy down while the doctor scrambled inside his black bag. The earl caught sight of Christine and moved toward her.

"You should go."

Christine had not expected him be pleased to see her after their last angry confrontation on the morning of her wedding, but she didn't anticipate his outward rejection of her presence either.

"I wanted to see how my cousin was faring. Now that I have seen, perhaps I should stay the night."

The idea was distasteful. She had no desire to be away from her husband any longer than necessary, and unless he had returned to the castle, Erik didn't even know she was at Montmarte. Yet she felt responsible for Lucy's condition and could send word so he wouldn't worry.

"As you can see, this isn't a suitable time for a visit," her uncle said distantly. "I have servants to care for my daughter. You should return to the castle. It is the best place for you."

An uncomfortable twinge traveled Christine's spine at the parroted words she'd first heard her uncle repeat after Erik on the morning the earl discovered her at the castle. Anything she might have replied was lost as the doctor moved to Lucy's side, bearing a vial of some dark liquid.

"What is that you intend to give my daughter?" the earl demanded, stepping toward him, Christine forgotten.

"Chloral hydrate, my lord," the doctor grumbled, clearly not thrilled to have his actions called into question. "A syrup that will put her to sleep."

The earl frowned but nodded his permission, and Christine watched while both Raoul and Jason did their best to hold Lucy down, Raoul squeezing Lucy's jaw to force her mouth open as the doctor tilted the vial between her pursed lips.

Christine could no longer bear to hear Lucy's gurgled protests and whimpers as she was forced to submit. Turning away from the harrowing sight, she left the room.

She cared for the disturbed girl, and in part felt she should stay; but she had been summarily dismissed and wanted nothing more than to leave. With the doctor's potion, Lucy would sleep, and though her cousin's actions had been quite bewildering – utterly troubling – Christine agreed it would be best if she maintain her distance for the present.

A swift detour to collect her carpetbag she quickly packed with the remainder of her belongings and she was taking the flight of stairs downward, eager to return to Castle Dragan and to Erik. Raoul caught up with her before she made it out the front door.

"Christine, one moment if you will."

Biting back a curse, she swung around. "Raoul, I have no desire to take up our earlier conversation. I am weary of all of it and wish only to return home before it grows dark."

"It's too late for that," he said as she swung open the door and saw that he was right. The gray light of day had dimmed and was on its final downward pinnacle, but to her shock, she noticed flurries of white in the air, patches of it having collected on the ground. The snow, which had given her such joy in Paris, she could now only give a passing thought, her mind too laden with distress over her visit.

"I don't wish to trouble your day further," Raoul amended, his tone contrite. "Though it might reassure you to know that the sedative the doctor administered will ensure Lucy sleeps the entire night and likely on through the morning."

She gave a tight smile, relieved to know that her young cousin had calmed even if unaware of the improvement.

"We can speak about what happened another time, Christine, but as I will not see you tomorrow, I didn't want to miss the opportunity to wish you a Happy Christmas."

With the day's worrisome events, the greeting seemed somehow misplaced; still, Christine clung to its normalcy and hope.

"A Joyeux Noël to you, Raoul." She returned his warm hug of goodwill. He took the bag from her and escorted her to the closed carriage to which Anton had mysteriously returned and sat ready on the driver's seat. Raoul gave her a hand up the stair-step into the carriage and placed her bag on the floor at her feet while she tucked the fur lap robe around her waist. Before he could close the door and go, Christine leaned forward and clutched his sleeve.

"Promise to keep me apprised of Lucy's condition and send word when I may again come to visit."

"Of course." The pat he gave her hand only mildly reassured.

Their farewells made, the carriage retraced its route to the castle through the thick forest, what should have taken no more than a quarter hour at most, and would have…

…had Christine not heard a man scream.

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Chapter Text

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XXX

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Christine sat momentarily frozen with shock, before understanding what she'd heard was definitely no animal. Eclipsing the dread uncertainty of what lay beyond the carriage door was the realization that some poor soul must be in dire circumstances. Just as the priest she had helped in these very woods suffered an accident and just as her parents were once in peril but without anyone to come to their aid…

And in that moment, an inherent force unfamiliar yet once experienced rose within, giving a strange surge of energy to her blood, more powerful than the fear that pummeled through her veins at the probable danger that stalked within the forest.

How many times had she been warned of the hazards of these woods at night? They had fled Paris to find a measure of safety in this shire – but was anywhere truly safe?

A snippet of memory, dark and chilling, tried to break through the unintentional barriers blocking her past, something long ago forgotten and too hazy to understand. She forced it away, determined to concentrate on the here and now.

"Anton!" she called as she groped for the dagger beneath her skirts and unsheathed its deadly blade. The carriage rolled on and she realized he could not hear her weak attempt to gain his attention. She pounded against the roof – "Anton – stop!"

The carriage dipped and lurched to a halt, almost unseating Christine. Her hand went to the handle of the door, and quickly she exited, jumping down to the ground now sparsely clothed in winter-white. The yellow glow of the lamp that hung from the front near the driver's seat highlighted the disapproval on Anton's face.

"My lady, we must return to the castle! My lord will not be pleased to return and find you missing."

In the distance, a man's pained cry was again heard.

"Did you not hear that? Someone is in need of our help!"

"I will drive you back to the castle and find help there."

"It might be too late then! Will you come with me?"

"I cannot leave the horses."

"Stay then. I shall return soon."

"My lady – no!"

But Christine was already making a swift trek through the trees in the direction she'd heard the distant cry, her hand clenched on the hilt of her dagger with the blade pointing upward. Even had she wanted to, she could not ignore the peculiar energy that frothed her blood, urging her forward to confront whatever conflict lay in wait. She did not pause to question the prudence of such a reckless decision, aware there was no choice.

A fine, ominious mist crept over the ground, gathering around her skirts almost to her waist, but she struggled not to let frightful memories of her last nighttime carriage ride through this forest drain her resolve. There was little daylight left, the high branches of the trees cloaked with the remaining fringes of violet dusk, enough snow having accumulated to reflect what scant light remained.

She broke through a thinned area of dense, scraggly bushes and gasped, coming to a swift halt. Her fingers instinctively squeezed the dagger's handle in awed shock as her eyes beheld what could not possibly be and made no sense.

A blur of darkness, like a small whirlwind, shot from one tree to another and back again at a velocity not even conceivable. As it came to an abrupt halt, slamming against a wide trunk, it transformed into the figures of two men fighting. An unholy roar of a growled shout, animalistic in nature, issued from the pair, and again the two became a blurred gust of wind as the black funnel rushed across the forest floor and crashed into a tree closer to where Christine stood but still at a shadowed distance.

She gasped as once more the chaotic rush of wind became two individuals, neither of them discernible. The taller of the two had his back to her and held fast to the other man's arms beneath the shoulders, trapping him, his head diving to his neck. Even without the ability to see clearly she sensed his captive's terror and heard the gurgle of death rattle in his throat.

"Stop! - what are you doing to him?" she cried out before she could consider the wisdom of bringing attention to herself.

The tall figure abruptly stood erect. She heard a horrendous crack as without pause he wrenched his arms in a swift and violent move. His victim slumped to the ground as if boneless. Christine stared, immobile with shock, and desperately gripped her weapon, holding it aloft, ready to defend herself if need be. Yet the stiffly erect figure that remained standing made no further movement, either to flee deeper into the shadowed forest or to turn and face her.

Logic should have her running back to the safety of the carriage, but when her chilled limbs at last responded to movement, she found herself stepping slowly closer. A surge of something foreign, something she'd felt once before in the alleyway with her attacker, made her determined to confront this assailant and spurn retreat. No matter that she was a bundle of quivering nerves and flesh. No matter that it was insanity to linger, much less to approach...

"What have you done?" she whispered beneath her breath in the unnatural quiet.

The dark silhouette impossibly stood even taller. A formidable tower of strength, with his cloak fluttering about him in the soft breeze, the man with whom he'd fought lying still and silent at his feet…

She tried to make sense of what her eyes told her in her struggle to remain calm - when the figure left standing slowly turned her way. It was too dark to define features, but something about the lissome manner in which he moved gripped her heart with merciless talons, telling her what she refused to realize.

She was given no choice.

Had she the ability, she would step back in retreat as he separated from the shadows and began to move toward her across the forest floor, but her limbs felt solid, frozen, and not only from the cold. The pale gray mist acted as a second cloak, rising and creeping behind him as if he controlled its ghostly existence. Inhaling a shaky breath, she felt lightheaded with astonishment and alarm to see eyes of blood-red gleam within its hazy veil. The dread intensified as he drew closer, and in what little light remained she glimpsed two sharp and long distended teeth from behind his upper lip – the fangs of an animal stained with fresh blood.

But the greater horror came when she recognized the face of the creature who stood before her – of only partial flesh as pale as bone, with a half mask of white porcelain glaringly brutal in its revelation. And in that instant, all of the denial and evasion she had long bottled within, all of her refusal to believe what made no sense became irrevocably empty and terrible…

In what she now knew was true.

Christine opened her mouth to speak, but could produce no sound. Not even a grunt, a hiss, a cry. Silence trapped her within a void, her mind gone suddenly blank in its futile desperation to deny what could no longer be mocked or evaded or ignored.

With his eyes fixed upon her, now glowing both red and golden, the Count came to a sudden stop, his breath erupting in harsh pants. The cold mist he brought with him swirled to the sides and behind her, engulfing them both within its icy well. She looked at his changed countenance, both terrifying and fascinating, and froze with indecision. Her grip on the handle of the dagger grew so tight and stiff her hand stung like a thousand quills pierced it.

Her entire body shook with the dread of what some steady inner voice told her must be done and from the terror of what just occurred – the carnage she had witnessed. For surely the snap of bone told her his victim on the ground was no longer a denizen of this world. And the blood on his sharp teeth and his chin explained the partial reason why.

He made no further move toward her, keeping more than an arm's length of distance between them, where strangely little mist gathered, though around them the wall of high fog was nearly white it was so dense. And trapped within that circle of mist in the clarity provided, she stared with horrified wonder at the pointed tips of fangs he did nothing to hide. His pupils were mere pinpoints, the reddish-gold orbs wild and untamed and glowing, belonging to a beast in the night.

And wasn't he exactly that? A beast. A vampyre, God help her. And she - a slayer as she had so recently learned, the truth of her unwanted legacy now brutally clear and horrible and demanding that she submit to what was expected of her kind…

A compulsion rose up inside so strong, so appalling, it tasted like bile in her throat, and she fought the bitter urge to strike out at him, instead forcing her hand with the dagger to lower to her skirts. He watched its unsteady progress without emotion.

"What are you?" she asked in a daze, the words unnecessary.

"You know the answer."

"Yes," she breathed, and she realized that perhaps a hidden part of her had begun to suspect and buried all speculation in her refusal to accept what she had no wish to acknowledge. How else could she explain that her surprise was not as extreme as it should be to see him so altered, what in the sane world was wholly illogical? Should she not faint dead away at the sight? And yet, unaware, she had been prepared through Raoul's tales and the journals, what she had then assumed a terrible fantasy of madness and horror. What she had hoped were fictitious stories to occupy those with a morbid preference for their entertainment, but nothing more...

"And so, it comes to this," he said, his voice like dark velvet and as beautiful as always. "The slayer and the vampyre."

Once more she felt the shock, so much so that her eyes widened until they stung.

"You know?"

He gave a somber nod. "I have known for some time. You are descended from the line of Gabriel Van Helsing. And according to the mandates of centuries, only one of us can survive. As you too have come to realize..." He looked down at the dagger she held.

"What? No..."

Her dismay and horror to hear such condemning words from his lips and dwell within this awful moment wasn't so great that the thought of a life without Erik didn't terrify her soul…

Even while the burgeoning influence of the slayer whispered to her mind to destroy him.

He is a monster, the persistent voice argued. You saw what he is capable of – he killed a man before your very eyes…

He is my Angel of Music, her beleaguered heart argued, and has been there for me since I was a child, to guide me and to guard me…

His kind deserves to be wiped off the face of the earth to protect all humankind…

He has only ever been gentle with me, turning my greatest terror into a comfort. My worst nightmare into a beautiful dream…

He is composed of nothing but evil…

He has such poetic beauty within…

He is death.

He is my heart.

He must die!

I cannot...

"I sense how you struggle," he said quietly, almost sympathetically, "desiring nothing more than to sink that blade of silver deep into my heart and put an end to my foul existence. It is, after all, your nature."

"No…"

"Why else would you carry the weapon of a slayer if not to carry out the deed?" he asked in dry resignation. "See how your arm trembles with the overwhelming desire to impale me." He spread his cloaked arms to the sides, as if to clear a path for her to drive the blade. "You can barely fight the urge!"

"Do you want me to hurt you?" she asked, incredulous that he seemed to be provoking her into an action she was loath to take.

"The word is kill, Christine. It is who you were born to be. A slayer."

"No…" She shook her head slowly from side to side, tears stinging the back of her eyes. "I don't want that."

"You cannot change what you are, just as I cannot change the monster into which fate has made me."

"No!" she said more vehemently to his bitter statement, though the despicable and alarming urge to follow his dark persuasions continued to thrum inside her veins despite all words to the contrary. "I cannot accept that!"

Before whatever awakening influence that was maliciously building within had its way, she wrenched her arm behind her to prevent herself from thrusting forward. Desperately she whirled around -

"I WON'T accept that!"

With all the contained force boiling within, she rammed the weapon, underhanded, into the wide trunk of a tree, astounded by her fierce display of unnatural strength. To her shocked distress, the handle broke off in her fist as the blade drove deep into smooth bark, the bared metal slicing into skin, the damaged hilt falling to the snow. Tears rushed to fill her eyes as a streak of unforgiving fire shot through her hand, and she winced to see the wet darkness smeared there. Curling her fingers into her palm, out of sight, she bleakly stared at the jagged end of the damaged blade now sticking from the tree.

"You may come to regret that, Christine."

Drawing her brows together, she worked to mask the pain and turned back to look at him.

"Why?"

She was without a weapon, but oddly felt little of the panic she should to stand unarmed in his presence, despite that she had just seen him kill a man. The myriad of shocks through the night had likely robbed her of rational feeling…though she did know sorrow to see him so changed – the world of sadness in his strange eyes and the weariness in his quiet voice a testament to his own suffering.

And she recalled that long-ago day in a fog such as this one when he'd found her drifting like a lost little lamb. She had felt no fear to be with him then either, and distantly wondered why he did not reveal his beastly nature to her then or at any point afterward. Despite that he had known the truth of her legacy, he had only ever been protective of her. Especially in the intimacy of their union, when she had lain completely naked and vulnerable beneath him, he could have transformed into the monster and attacked... yet had been nothing but considerate and tender...

All these thoughts raced through her mind while time warped into a sluggish crawl as they stood and somberly stared at one another.

And as she remembered the endearing traits that made him her Angel, her beloved husband, the wretched desire to kill that was so foreign to her spirit - to everything she believed in - gradually ebbed away.

His eyes had slowly altered until they were no longer fiery red but again golden, glowing as if the fire of his earlier rage had drained leaving behind only embers. The expression in them registered slight confusion and disbelief, even pity, and scarcely realizing she did so, she held her fisted hand out to him in appeal.

"Would you do it, Erik...?" She barely got the wretched words out. "Would you sink your teeth into my flesh and end my life?"

The Count's eyes flared at the sight and scent of blood trickling from her fingers, his bestial instinct rising up to demand he take what she so carelessly offered, but he fought the urge and maintained his distance. The blood inside his mouth, that of his own and his victim's, reminded him of her sweeter taste so recently sampled, and control became a requirement desperately sought. Would that he had escaped when he had the chance and avoided this vile moment fate so callously decreed! But the beast inside had been too powerful in its bloodlust, honing in on the lure she presented when she first called out to him and he'd become aware of her presence. With whatever scrap of humanity that yet lingered, he had suppressed the primal instinct to sink his fangs into her flesh and drink deeply, the medallion also helping to prevent him from so horrendous an act.

"As you can now see, it is as I have told you," he said in grave disgust. "I am no more than a monster."

"I don't accept that either. You would never hurt me – I know this more than any age-old mandate. I know it like I know my own heart." Her voice went softer. "Because it's yours, Erik. I love you."

His eyes widened at her husky revelation, but even when faced with the terrible truth that created such despair, Christine's deeper feelings went unchanged and her heart did not deny him.

She took an uncertain step in his direction, surprised when he swiftly stepped back. His gaze briefly dipped down to the ugly medallion he commanded she wear for protection, and suddenly the mystery of its advent into their lives became clear.

"Could you truly love a monster, Christine?" he hissed. The man behind the beast studied her in his struggle to believe. "Or perhaps you say such words to stall the inevitable because you fear the Grim Reaper lurks at your door, since it is the Angel of Death who now stands before you."

She contained a shudder at his dour words and frowned at the memory of their conversation in Paris. "That was only an opera – an absurd opera written by someone who clearly had no knowledge of such things. My feelings are real, not a piece of fiction."

"Are you so sure?"

"With what I believe to be genuine?" The truth of her feelings untapped, she could not prevent them from spilling over. "The strength of love is not in the word itself but in the actions it facilitates. These last weeks, I have told you all along of my love for you without speaking the words; now I am speaking them. I know my heart and have felt this way for some time, and I believe I know yours. Tell me, am I wrong...?"

She took a more hesitant step toward him. "Would you do it?" she asked again, more softly. This time he did not move away when she came close enough to touch him, though she refrained. "Would you truly destroy me? Because everything within the core of my soul tells me that you could no more harm me than I could you. I have known this since the day we met. As a child, and now, as a woman."

Determined, she grabbed the protective amulet. Sensing what she was about to do, his eyes flared wide in alarm.

"Christine – NO!"

Ignoring him, she yanked hard at the chain. It broke against the high back of her collar, the medallion falling to the snow and ridding her of her last form of protection.

"I stand by my conviction that you won't hurt me, because it's not in you to hurt me," she stated quietly. "You were my Angel once. If you meant to do me physical harm, you have had plenty of opportunities you never once took."

Silence rang empty and hollow between them as the snow began to fall heavier, muffling all sound and causing the beats of her heart to pound loudly in her ears. A small annoying part of her that still questioned the credibility of her belief in his will to resist the monster he'd become - the proof lying dead behind them - prayed that it was true. Her eyes begged him to confirm her words.

"You should not have done that."

His low chastisement reverberated like a death knell to her soul. Awkwardly she stared at the ground and the silver amulet, concentrating on its dull shimmer as the snow sought to cover its existence. Frantically she searched her mind for what more to say in response to his stern words. She clenched her fingers putting pressure against the skin which still bled freely, then grabbed her skirt, wadding the silk against her palm in a tight fist, hoping to better staunch the flow. Her limbs were numb from the cold but still she felt the throbbing pain - in her heart, in her hand - and fresh tears rose to her eyes.

She had come here by instinct, because she felt she must help - but realized, he, too, must be ruled by instinct...

The instinct to kill ... and to feed...

Had she been wrong to hold such faith in him?

She felt woozy, her head floating in a fog of confusion, as if the mist had moved inside her mind…

He exhaled a long, heavy breath.

"Let me see your hand."

It occurred to her that his kind craved the matter that seeped from her fresh wound, but she struggled to squelch the rise of apprehension, determined to prove her trust, and held out an unsteady hand, palm up, opening her fingers. In the pale light from the snow, she winced to see the skin ripped in a diagonal, from the bottom of her palm to index finger, the injury looking much worse than she'd thought it. Blood still leaked from the tear and glistened darkly over much of the pale flesh, dripping onto the snow, and suddenly she felt more than just a little lightheaded, her stomach now queasy. Her free hand moved behind to grasp the trunk for balance and she prayed she would not vomit.

The Count frowned at the grisly sight. Christine almost jumped when he brought his glove against the back of her injured hand at which they both stared. His first touch since she learned the harsh truth of what he was.

Forcing herself to remain perfectly still, she closed her eyes and gave a slow and steady intake of breath.

"No, Christine, I could never harm you. I tried and failed to forget you, those weeks empty and insufferable. Yet I fear it is my eternal curse to love you."

She blinked up at him in surprise, relieved to see that his fangs had disappeared.

"You love me?" she questioned softly.

His somber attention remained focused on her hand that he cupped, seemingly at war with whatever thoughts raced through his mind. And she sensed that he was as conflicted as she, but for far different reasons.

"Allow me to help you as only I can," he said at last, flicking his gaze up to hers.

Caught in the hypnotic glow of his golden eyes, she barely nodded. In the semi-darkness they appeared lit from within. Unnatural. Beautiful. Eyes such as she had never beheld, like candlelight's glow…uniquely Erik's eyes.

He raised her hand, his motive apparent as he slowly bent down to set his cold lips to her palm. She despised the involuntary flinch when her hand jerked and slightly drew back, but his firm grasp went unbroken. Nor did he seem perturbed by the unwanted flicker of fear that sprang to life, as if he expected her wary reaction.

"Trust me." His silken tones soothed as his warm breath caressed her anguished skin, his eyes again flicking upward, to command her compliance.

Feeling adrift, she gave a slight nod, wanting desperately to show the faith in him that she had so devoutly professed.

With a mix of wide-eyed wonder and intrigued horror, Christine watched as Erik brought the flat of his warm tongue against her throbbing hand and laved a slow, decisive path along the deep angry split from the bottom of her palm and past it, to the tip of her index finger. His touch one of comfort, even pleasure, it added no further anguish to the existing pain, the sharp prick of his teeth she nervously anticipated never felt. In repeated caress, he brought his wet tongue along the inside of her hand, leaving no part untouched, as she stood in a breathless daze and watched him.

Lifting his head at last, he straightened and licked her blood from his lips, causing her breaths to come a little faster and her heart to jump into an unsteady pace. Yet his satisfied reaction became lost to her as she realized her hand no longer burned as if flames scorched within, and once he let go, she brought it closer to see.

"The wound…" she gasped in stunned disbelief.

It was gone as if it never existed.

The sound of a man's groan brought them both around to glance toward the area she first spotted Erik.

He swore beneath his breath and pinned her with a look. "Stay here."

She did not agree or disagree, given no time to react as in the time it took to blink, he moved with a speed inconceivable, as before, the wall of fog dissipating. One second he was simply there, and in the next he was bending near another body on the ground that she could barely make out and had not earlier seen. This one moved.

Erik said something indistinguishable then gave the man a hand up, helping him to his feet. The moon slipped from behind pale clouds, forming a sudden bright patch within trees where the men stood and causing any lingering mist to glitter with silver iridescence. In surprise Christine noted his identity - the physician who had treated Lucy.

Erik abruptly turned in her direction. "You know what to do?"

Christine blinked in confusion then heard Anton speak behind her. "Yes, my lord."

She glanced over her shoulder. The young servant gave her a look of grim disapproval as he walked past her to join the Count. They talked a moment, before Erik retraced his steps to Christine. Still feeling adrift within this horrific and momentous moment of all she had seen and experienced and had yet to understand, countless questions running rampant through her mind, too swift to latch onto even one, she stood speechless, her earlier flow of words quelled. Anton walked with the physician past them, supporting the older man who moved almost trance-like with a hand to his arm. Erik said nothing to either man, completely ignoring them as well, his eyes on Christine.

Reluctantly he bent to pluck up the discarded silver medallion by its links with two gloved fingers and thumb before it disappeared beneath the snow. He held it out to her, and numbly she took it. The closure of the chain unclasped if not broken, all she could do was hold onto the disc.

"We must return to the castle," he said after a moment. He hesitated, as if he would say more, but seemed to change his mind.

With slow measure he stepped close and reached for her as though anticipating her retreat. She offered no resistance, uncertain she could force her leaden legs to move. He wrapped his cloak around her, so that even her head was immersed within its satin folds, and the crisp aroma of snow, leather, and his musky scent filled her senses. He was cold as death, doing nothing to help warm her chilled bones, but her hand absent of the medallion lifted to clutch his shirt and hold him to her.

With her head pressed to his chest, her eyes slid closed. She inhaled a startled gasp at the sudden and breathtaking sensation of air shifting around them, as if a great wind swirled and they stood inside its frozen vortex. The rapid stir whipped at her from all sides; yet she stood with Erik, calm and untouched in its center.

"Christine."

At the low prod of his dark velvet voice, she opened her eyes, stunned yet again to find the snowy forest had disappeared and both of them stood inside her dimly lit bedchamber.

"But…" Finally she found a wisp of her voice. "How?"

A sardonic smile twisted his lips. "I know that you have many questions, and I shall satisfy your curiosity, as I see fit. Though be warned, you may not like what you hear and come to wish you had never asked."

"I don't… know what…" She shook her head in confusion, her mind once more in a tangle, unable to pull free a lucid thought.

"Rest." He cut off whatever lost snippet of phrase she might utter with his gentle order. She submitted willingly as he pushed her down by the tops of her shoulders so that she sat on the edge of her bed. Pliable. Like a china doll. Hollow. Without a mind to speak or the will to move. "We shall talk tomorrow."

The Count swept from the room, almost without Christine realizing it. Dully she dropped her gaze to the medallion she held, setting it to the side before unfastening her cloak, which she let slide unnoticed from her shoulders.

How long she sat, dumbly staring at the stone wall and the little flame that jumped to and fro in the bracketed lamp, she had no idea. Eventually she pushed herself up, bringing her legs onto the bed and curling them to recline on her side.

Had it all been some fantastic, horrific dream...?

Or perhaps a waking nightmare.

She felt bone weary, emotionally exhausted from the continual string of shocks that had bombarded her ever since she'd set foot inside Montmarte what seemed ages ago; sleep, however, was as unreachable as the stars hidden behind the pale winter sky.

Her hand rested within her line of vision, and she opened her fingers, studying the skin there, so smooth, pale and perfect, not a blemish to mar it, not even the trace of a speck of red to suggest what had happened.

The memory of his warm tongue laving slow paths against her bloody hand sent tiny electric shudders dancing along Christine's spine, her reaction to his shocking act not entirely the consequence of nervous revulsion…

Vampyre.

Erik was vampyre.

No longer could she insist that such creatures of shadow and darkness did not exist; her husband was one of them.

Her mother had not flirted with psychosis; neither did Raoul. This night's events could not be credited to any inherited family lunacy.

But oh, how she wished that it could...

She lay there, alert and uncertain how many minutes elapsed, while the scene in the forest replayed in her mind whether she wished it to or not. Sleep remained elusive; a vain goal that could simply not be attained. And it was a foolish waste of time and a sure method to madness to lie in an inert state and do nothing, except dwell on each bizarre moment confronted.

Tomorrow was too far away for the overabundance of questions that demanded answers. Now that her body and mind had thawed from the shock and the cold, so too did the thoughts that formed a persistent tolling not to be ignored.

First the harrowing truth about Erik, then of Lucy and her dangerous dark faerie - Nicolae? Then Erik and the man killed - who was he? Then Erik again and Lucy then Erik and Lucy - over and over, again and again, ringing through her mind - the memories, the confusion, the actions utterly bizarre and incredible...

Abruptly she sat up, her eyes going wide at so horrid a thought that flitted and perched, unshakeable - one she was certain must be true even as she prayed it was not.

Nervous but determined, Christine quit the room, in search of Erik and the talk they must have -

While she girded herself for the extent of his revelation.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

XXXI

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

He found her curled up in his wingback chair of the music chamber, sound asleep in front of the low fire, the last place he would have expected Christine to seek refuge. Surprised that she had not remained closed up within her bedchamber after the evening's vile revelations, he noticed the slim book in her lap, her finger marking the place where she had left off reading. Carefully he extracted the novel from her limp hand without waking her and grimaced at the title.

The Vampyre: A Tale. by John William Polidori.

Recalling her expressed disinterest with horror in literature and her disdain at seeing it on his shelf, it was quite evident why she had slipped into his library and chosen it.

The Count flipped to the page she had marked – "The guardians hastened to protect Miss Aubrey; but when they arrived, it was too late. Lord Ruthven had disappeared, and Aubrey's sister had glutted the thirst of a VAMPYRE!"

Wonderful, he thought with weary sarcasm. In her insatiable need to have curiosity met, she sought information on his kind from foolish mortals who had no clue - and gleaned knowledge through a piece of absurd fiction, involving merciless vampyres who drained their brides shortly after the performed nuptials.

He set the reprehensible book on a nearby table. Had she drawn some ludicrous parallel? And yet, she had come to his favorite chamber where he spent much of his leisure time, the same room where he gave her voice lessons, so she could not be too apprehensive of him to seek out his company.

Taking a seat in the chair across from Christine, Erik studied her flawless face where her head rested, turned against the scrolled rim. In repose, her features glowed in the dying light of the fire, angelic and tranquil. He could only hope that she remained as calm once he satisfied curiosity with regard to those areas of his sinister life he felt he could broach - and avoid sending her fleeing in terror from here to kingdom come, running pell-mell into the night as was her wont, as she had done this very evening…

Leading them full circle toward the dreaded revelation.

Erik frowned. What the devil had she been doing in the midst of the forest, so far from the castle? And what damnable misfortune that she had come onto the scene as he rid the world of another fledgling vampyre! Erik had attacked before the fool could make a permanent repast of Lucy's doctor and later compelled the traumatized man to forget all of what occurred, including his own presence there, but Christine never would... Nor, with his slayer wife watching, had Erik been able to ensure that the newly-turned beast would never again rise, leaving Gregor's apprentice with the order of decapitation.

How would she ever understand his world and what he had become, all of it without choice, those morbid acts he must eternally accomplish a prerequisite to survival...? His. And hers.

All along he had known one day she would come to reject him, if not for his excuse of a face then now, for the beast into which he'd been cursed. Since he had made her his wife, a part of him sensed that, despite his best efforts, she would one day uncover the truth...

And now, that day was here.

He had willingly let down his guard, allowing Christine into his life as he had done with no other. If she should come to despise him, if she should leave him - he would need no blade of silver or lack of a daylight ring to destroy him.

Despite her sweet words of love, words he yet struggled to believe, he had seen fear and doubt linger in her eyes to see him in his changed form - no longer her guiding Angel, but a monster in the truest sense of the word.

And yet, perhaps he did not give her enough credit...

Christine was no wilting hydrangea. She had proven to be both beautiful and strong with thorns to dissuade and a scent to allure - like the blood red rose that covered the vine in great number and looped closely around the three-headed dragon of his family crest.

His gaze wandered down her slim neck and perfect bosom to the hand that lay in her lap with open palm, white and unmarked, and softly he licked his lips at the memory ...

The base part of his nature had derived undisguised pleasure in her sweet, pure taste, and he had taken his time after closing the deep wound to savor her blood and gradually lick away every drop that remained on her skin. To his amazement, she had stood silent and watched, absent of the usual coercion required, which had no effect on her mind, completely aware though certainly in shock. Not once attempting to stop him from continuing to lave her hand once the cut immediately closed and she no longer felt the burn.

Nor had she run when he then approached and wrapped her within his icy embrace, the Count no longer finding it necessary to hide from her his skill to disappear and materialize into one of his three homes. A vampyric ability, often used as a defense when outnumbered or cornered and one that only the eldest of their kind could accomplish, of which there were few remaining. But a detriment in catching the bastard son of Vlad III, who had that same ability... To use the skill severely depleted Erik's power, especially the further his destination, and he did not employ that mode of homecoming often.

He thought to the monumental task ahead...

Before entering this chamber tonight, he had not planned to share with Christine those secrets of his dark heritage still painful to remember, and some of the more lurid aspects of his unnatural existence he could never bring to light. But silence no longer presented an option for the former - not if he wished her to separate the truth from ridiculous fables written and spoken about his kind. No doubt that irksome Vicomte had also had his say in the matter, of which he knew so very little…

She stirred softly and Erik's attention lifted to her face. Her dark lashes flickered and opened, her eyes meeting his across the short distance that separated them. She blinked away the remnants of slumber and gave a tiny lift of rosy lips, the smile never fully forming, only dimming as recollection set in, the welcome that first lit her eyes also fading, her expression now guarded...

What he sadly assumed to be the precedent to each of their encounters henceforth.

She shifted from her curled position to sit up, setting her stocking feet to the floor. "I was looking for you," she began. "That man from the alley who I think must be the threat to us – Nicolae. Is he like you?"

The Count stared at her with some surprise. A question about his nemesis was far from what he expected, given all she had learned about her monstrous bridegroom this night. Still, he supposed it prudent she know the truth about the fiend who attacked her, now that she had been made aware of the existence of his kind.

"He is. Why do you ask, Christine?"

"It's Lucy – when I went to Montmarte earlier. I think he must have bitten her!" And in disjointed sentences that slowly began to meld and make sense, she poured out all of what occurred, including her discovery of the unique button of bone in the maze, similar to one Archer found in the alleyway, the telltale accessories indicative of Nicolae's bizarre preference in wardrobe.

The news was unsurprising, though utterly disheartening; it was clear that Nicolae intended to add Lucy to their number, if it was not already too late. And for one with her simple and sweet childlike mind, the step leading beyond the point of no return into vampyrism could be treacherous for the girl and for all involved.

Personal experience had taught him that ghastly truth.

"I will do all that I can to help your cousin," he assured quietly, resolved to secretly visit Lucy at the first opportunity. "Since she is under the effect of a soporific at present, it is useless for me to speak with her until it wears off."

"But - why would he even target her? I don't understand. In Paris, you said that he threatens what is associated with you - but you don't even know her."

"That is not entirely true," Erik admitted and noted her gaze sharpen on him. "Two years ago, when first I returned to Berwickshire, in part to keep track of Nicolae's activities, I found Lucy alone inside the center of the maze. I spoke with her from beyond the bushes, sang to her, and told her stories each time I visited there, for a season, though she never once has seen me, only heard my voice."

"Like you did with me in the chapel."

"Yes."

"But why?" she insisted, and he heard a tinge of hurt and envy in her tone. "Why would you even do that?"

"Once I fled Paris, in those empty years after losing you, I was wretched in my solitude. She, too, was lonely. In her gullible, childlike state I never once considered approaching her as a man to a woman – she was barely that. But for a time I sought companionship, as well as making it my duty to watch over her, to ensure her safety. Much as I behaved toward you at the Opera House, though I quickly learned she had been given no talent to sing."

"You were the other dark faerie," Christine said with weary realization. "She spoke of more than one in the maze. And Nicolae is the other."

He inclined his head in a slight nod.

"Then he found out about your time spent with her – and was jealous?" she floundered, as if desperately trying to make the pieces fit. "Is that why he has singled her out and brought her to harm and now has a vendetta against you?"

"No. I soon discovered he was not residing in Berwickshire at the time. He never knew of my visits there."

"Then why Lucy?"

She seemed inclined to push away the terrible crux of the mystery involving him and their forbidden relationship – what affected her on a much deeper and darker level. Yet Erik welcomed the reprieve, dreading the moment he must unveil truths he had always hoped to keep hidden.

"To understand, you would have to know more about the man I now hunt. Nicolae is the bastard son of Vlad III, later known as Drăculea, the dark prince who began this damnable curse, originally put on him alone, by a vengeful gypsy witch." He saw the enlightenment in her eyes and nodded, "Yes, it is his face on the medallion I gave you. Every vampyre fears him; to see the talisman is a warning to those who dare to draw near with evil intent. The silver and the spelled bloodstone ensure that those foolish enough to ignore the threat will suffer greatly for their attack…"

Restless, he stood to his feet and walked the short distance to the hearth before he resumed -

"Drăculea would not acknowledge Nicolae as his rightful son, wanting nothing to do with the boy. And though the dark prince shared his curse and power with two men of equal standing, one of them my father, he refused to extend immortality to his own flesh and blood."

"Immortality..." The rasp of dazed shock entered her quiet voice.

He gave an abrupt nod. "In my initial ignorance of the precepts of this curse, I made the mistake of giving aid and, in so doing, granting that which Nicolae sought. In his anger to be overlooked and ignored by his father, he began a vendetta - seizing what he willed from vampyre and mortal alike, leaving his victims desolate or dead, breaking every rule of our Order. Toward the end of the eighteenth century, he found his way to Berwickshire and sought to marry the only daughter of the earl of Montmarte, a beauty who refused him and made Nicolae a laughingstock in front of her friends. That night, he took his vengeance and lured the young woman into the maze. She was the first to die there, but not the last."

Erik continued to peer into the flames, recalling what he had learned of that epoch in time...

"Decades later, he again wreaked havoc with the descendants of that family, feeding off a young nursemaid inside the same maze near twilight - but this time there was a witness to the death, hidden in the bushes, having been involved with her nanny in a game of hide-and-seek. A girl of four whom Nicolae then spied, frozen in terror, and manipulated into a state of forgetfulness and more. The nursemaid was never found, assumed to have run away. The small girl was never the same, and as she grew older, her mind remained that of a child's, trapped inside a fantasy, forever compelled toward the maze…"

He looked at Christine then. Her wide eyes appeared almost vacant, her lips parted in shock, as if a thousand thoughts spun inside her mind around one that suddenly settled with force.

"Lucy," she whispered.

"Lucy," he affirmed.

She blinked and briefly looked toward the fire then back at him, slightly shaking her head as if trying to make sense of all he told her.

"You speak of decades…"

Her words faded away, unable to finish the statement made, and he supplied what she feared to ask.

"I have walked the earth for centuries, my dear."

"oh…"

Almost amused by the soft, understated wisp of her reply in light of the titanic revelation he had just given, Erik grimly smiled.

"Perhaps before we go further, you would care for something to drink?"

"Yes, please."

He moved into the adjoining chamber to pour whisky into two glasses and returned, handing one down to her. She took it but did not sip as she had on previous occasions, instead throwing it back like an experienced drunkard and emptying her glass. Unlike a drunkard, she immediately went into a fitful spasm of coughing.

He waited until it cleared then offered her his glass to replace the one she had emptied. She made a face at him, showing her exasperation at his light, mocking gesture, and in that childish little roll of her eyes, he knew relief that her ease to be with him had gone unchanged. Still, he set his glass on the table near her, believing she needed its bolstering effect more than he, especially for what was yet to come.

"That explains the state of my poor cousin, but why is Nicolae after you?" she asked. "If you gave him what he wanted, it seems he would be pleased, not resentful."

Ah, and there it was. He toyed with the idea of disclosing only a portion of the truth and omitting the rest, uncertain how much more she could take.

"It is not I that he is after. It is you. He seeks to destroy me by harming you."

"Because I'm a slayer," she whispered. "Is that why you gave me the medallion?"

"He does not know you're a slayer - he must never know!" In a sudden fit of nervous energy, Erik whirled to pace a short distance away. He halted briefly before retracing his steps to the hearth and looking back at her. "No one must know the truth of your heritage, Christine. No one. Do you understand? Keep your secret. I will never tell a soul."

She peered at him so intently, so at a loss, a myriad of questions sparkling in those haunted brown eyes.

Questions, always more questions. However, he had told her he would answer those he could. Given the wretched state of their circumstances, he had little choice.

"Yes," he said at last, "that is why I gave you the medallion. I first issued the order to have it created for a small girl, Daria, centuries ago. I knew of its power to protect."

"Daria?" she asked when he went silent.

Uncertain he could speak of a topic so painful, he nodded. Yet for her to better understand their enemy, he must open old wounds.

"I did not know until years later that she was Nicolae's bastard daughter whom he sired before he was turned. She was a drop of sweetness in a bitter world. So much like you … my Lotte."

At his gentle words, something softened in her expression and gave him the strength and will to continue.

"It was three years after my encounter with Nicolae on the battlefield that I came across Daria, at first on occasion and by chance in the village streets of my homeland. She was all of five years old, dirty and unkempt but so spirited and full of the joy of life, helping her mother hawk their wares to passersby. Later that year, her mother died, and I took Daria away from her poverty and into my guardianship. Yet I have many enemies among my kind; it always has been so, and I feared what they might do to her. I gave Daria the medallion to wear in my absence. I thought of her as my own daughter."

He clenched his hands at his sides, the next part difficult to say. He had never told anyone as there had been no one to tell.

"While the medallion protects against the preternatural, it cannot fight the plague. Upon my return to the castle after an extended absence, I found Daria deathly ill. Dying." He shook his head. "I could not bear to see her so weak and helpless and…rid her of the sickness. That same day, she was sitting in a high window and reached out to catch a butterfly. She fell and became like I am."

He bowed his head in despair, feeling almost physically ill, and grasped the mantel.

"All that made her the sweet child she was became twisted by the darkness. I tried to teach her all she must know to survive, but I failed. With a child's mentality and a monster's need, she could not reason or understand consequence; our curse to her became a perilous bloody game - the villagers, especially the children, pawns she captured, toyed with, then killed. She was a danger to our kind, to herself - there was no other way…" His voice hitched, a tear falling from beneath his mask, uncertain if he tried to convince Christine or himself of his guiltlessness when he felt such blame. "Shortly before dawn, I tricked and locked her into the eastern tower where the morning sun floods in through the windows. In so doing, I ended her existence. In my nightmares I still hear her cries, her terrified voice calling out to me –"

He brought his dismal words to a halt, stunned to feel Christine's small hand press against his upper back. Slowly he turned head and shoulders to look. Her cheeks were wet with tears, but he saw nothing but empathy in her eyes.

"Oh, Christine," he whispered softly, never ceasing to be amazed by this mortal woman he had taken as his wife.

She offered a small, tender smile and held his drink out to him. He took it with a grateful nod and grim twist of his lips, tossing the acrid, smoky-flavored malt back as she had done, but without the fit of coughing that followed.

"So Nicolae seeks vengeance toward you because of Daria," she said quietly after a moment.

"And power. Daria only made it personal, though he never once acknowledged her while she lived. It is why he has targeted you - to take you from me, as he falsely claims I took her from him."

"Power?"

"Drăculea disappeared in the last century. It is believed he was trapped by a Van Helsing, his coffin chained and locked away into a secret chamber."

A shadow passed over her eyes as she seemed lost in another thought.

"But – what does that have to do with you?"

And now, they were getting to the heart of the matter.

He exhaled a heavy breath, deciding it best to lay all the cards on the table. With her sharp, intuitive mind and her now dwelling within his castle, making it her home, it would not take her long to realize…

"Your world, the world of mortals, knows me as Count cel Tradat, and I am that. But in my world of darkness I am also a prince, Vlad Balaur, a ruler of my kind and my father's successor. With Vlad Drăculea missing, I am in power."

Her eyes glazed over, and she stared at him as though she had gone into a trance.

"I…I think I need to sit down," she whispered and turned to reclaim the wingback chair, clutching the curved armrests the entire time, even once seated, as if in an attempt not to lose all consciousness.

Without a word he returned to the adjoining room, collected the bottle of whisky and brought it back with him into the music chamber. First he poured another dram into her glass, then his own before setting down the bottle and retaking his seat across from Christine.

Her wide gaze never left the fire.

"Perhaps we should continue this discussion another night," he suggested, himself wearied in emotion after speaking of Daria.

"No. Not yet..." She looked at him then, a veil of dread having closed over her eyes though he did not believe it related to what he had just revealed, only to what she would now say.

He took a long draught from his glass and set it down on the small table beside his chair, waiting.

"Raoul recently told me that my parents did not die in an accident as I always thought…" She swallowed hard and he could see the vein in her neck began violently to throb. "…They were killed by a vampyre attack, in the south of France. Please, tell me, please, that you were not the cause."

He had killed many men in his lifetime; among them there had been slayers. Excluding those despicable mortals who escaped the court's justice and deserved to become food for the slaughter, he now killed only when his life was threatened and had adapted to that rule for centuries.

If her father and mother had set out to destroy him …

He closed his eyes. "When did they die?" he all but whispered.

"In the month before I came to live at the opera house," she said softly, fear trembling within every word.

The relief he felt was palpable, shaking the breath from his lungs. He could have so easily been the cause of the Daaés' demise. Had that been the case, Christine would never have forgiven him; nor would he expect her to.

"I had been living in Paris for three months before I made myself known to you. I did not leave once during that time."

She too let her breath out in a relieved gasp, pressing fingertips to lips that formed a shaky smile. "Thank God," she whispered.

"Indeed."

The Count looked away, back to the fire. It was a moment before she again spoke.

"Have you ever killed…?"

He tensed, waiting for her to continue.

A hesitation, then –

"Have you ever killed a slayer?"

At the decidedly unwelcome turn of conversation, he sharply looked her way.

Her anxious gaze was focused on the book she earlier held in her possession.

x

He rocketed up from the chair. She shied back in alarm.

In three strides he was at the table next to her and snatched up the novel.

"This tale is nothing but rubbish!" he growled and held the book aloft. "Pure lurid melodrama – a contradiction of all that I desire to be for you – and fit for nothing but to nourish the flames!"

With brutal force, he hurled the book into the fire. Christine gasped and recoiled further into the backrest as spark and flame flew high on impact, the blaze giving a greedy roar as it consumed leather binding and pages.

"Even Drăculea, as cruel a tyrant as he was, loved a woman, his wife, so that she became everything to him – her tragic death at the hand of his enemies is what set him on the path to this curse of destruction. He never got over the loss of her."

Christine regarded him with startled eyes that went even rounder, but remained silent.

"My God, do you think after all you have experienced with me – all I have done for you – that I would act in any manner that leads to your death?! Do you, Christine?"

The hesitant shake of her head was hardly satisfying, and he cursed his earlier sarcasm in the forest when he spoke cold words never meant, as a defense to the anguish he'd felt upon her wretched discovery. If it came down to such a harsh choice between his life or hers, he would gladly accept death to save her life that he valued most precious - if only he could make her believe that!

She had told him on more than one occasion that she knew he would never harm her - most recently hours ago.

What had changed?

Erik worked to control his fiery temper, pacing to and fro a short distance, before he retraced his steps to her chair and crouched down before her. He took her hand in his, grateful when she did not pull away.

"These rings on your finger – I chose them, I designed them, when I harbored the desire for a bride I had not yet met, the yearning to possess what other men have and be in union with a woman I could one day love. I found that woman in you."

This brought a soft smile and her eyes began to shimmer with a look he never thought to see again. But then the smile faded.

"You would have bitten me."

He inhaled a swift breath through his nose but did not respond.

"You would have bitten me," she said again with more volume this time. "At the festival of Samhain. And in the fog. You nearly did." She brought her free hand up to her neck at the spoken memory of his fang scraping her flesh.

He could again deceive her, but what was the point? She had seen how greedily he had cleansed her hand.

"Yes. But I would not have killed you. Never that."

"Why?" she insisted. "What makes me different from any other slayer?"

He sighed and released her hand, changing position to sit on the floor like a dog at his mistress's feet. And was he not exactly that – a foul beast eager for her acceptance? And she, as always, his beautiful Angel. When finally he had stopped avoiding her and given in to what had been blossoming between them, he had bared his heart, without words, exposing a vulnerability he had shown to no other, vampyre or mortal.

As he did again tonight with them…

"At first, I did not understand. I only knew that you were different. I could not bend your mind to my will and have it remain in my power."

"You can do that?" she whispered in astonishment.

"Not with you," he repeated and shook his head, remembering. "Never with you. You were impervious to my every persuasion, silent and otherwise. The night of the ball I saw the sign of the slayer on your arm and could have killed you in your bedchamber, but I never wanted that. I think I loved you, even then. I have never tried to manipulate one of your kind, did not know it wasn't possible, and I put you into a deep sleep, whispering to your unconscious mind to forget me - but that failed to work as well. Those weeks apart from you were a private hell I embraced, in part to keep you safe. But then you came to me of your own volition, always of your own volition, and when I learned you were my Lotte, I was hopelessly lost, deciding I must do all I could to help you."

With her heart in her eyes, she regarded him tenderly the entire time he spoke, but then shook her head a little as if afraid to give in.

"I must know, Erik. Is that something you still want...? To bite me?" Her last words came timid and whisper soft.

How could he truthfully respond without scaring her away?

His silence was its own answer.

"I don't want to be bitten," she said with nervous conviction. "I don't want to become…"

At her abrupt hesitation, he filled in the words, "like me."

An apology in her eyes, she nodded.

"You cannot become as I am by my bite. It is much more involved than that."

"oh…"

Again, with the response that was barely there.

He sighed and once more took hold of her hand, gently rubbing her fingers with his thumb.

"In all truth, Christine, I would not wish this curse upon you. I prefer you as you are – my living wife, and I vow to do all within my power to protect you. As I have always protected you …"

She gave him a tremulous smile but said nothing, a shadow having entered her eyes.

A dart of worry pierced his cold, dead heart.

"Yet, perhaps those hasty words spoken in the forest you have reconsidered after such frightful disclosures? Is it too much to anticipate that you still welcome my presence?"

She hesitated too long.

"No, I - "

He pulled his hand away from hers and swiftly stood to his feet. Before he could move away, she clutched his sleeve.

"I meant everything I said," she finished quietly.

"Then you will stay, with me, here at the castle?" He could not disguise the hope in his voice, having dreaded that she would flee back to Paris at first opportunity as had originally been her plan.

A hint of uncertainty clouded her eyes.

"I will stay but… I need time."

Time…

What the devil did that mean? Time. And why did the word resound like a death knell throughout his empty soul? It was clear with the manner in which she worded her response, time referred to him and his company was no longer wanted.

"It is all so much to take in," she added, her rapid words sounding like an excuse.

"You owe me no explanations," he said with icy formality and a chill smile.

"Erik, please -"

"I have business to which I must attend that can no longer wait."

"But Erik - wait!"

Christine craned in his direction as he strode past her. Losing sight of him, she popped up from the cushion and went around to stand beside the chair, her hand clutching its winged back. "There is so much more I want to know! About you, about how you came to be this way – I want to know everything there is to know about, well – all of it."

"We will speak further on the matter another time, my dear," he said, briefly halting at the entryway and barely looking over his shoulder. "Perhaps you would do well to get some rest before the dawn."

Christine stood motionless, mouth parted in shock, and stared after her suddenly unapproachable husband as he swiftly exited the chamber. Nor did she miss his scathing emphasis on the word time.

She should be accustomed to his mercurial mood swings by now, blowing hot then cold, but felt dismayed that she had evidently wounded him with her unthinking response.

He had been so open with her, so gentle, pouring his heart out to her with beautiful words she had waited so long to hear – whereas the majority of her replies had been offered as silence, and when at last she had spoken, it had been a request for time.

She shook her head a little in dismay, fearing her mind would remain in a perpetual daze...

Of course she needed time – hours, days, months – to sort through her thoughts and feelings and make sense of all he'd told her. Could he not understand that? Such a request was not inconceivable given the continual shock of her unending discoveries.

But she could have handled it better, should have at least told him with more clarity what still beat strongly within her heart.

Her eyes fell shut with the truth of what she had seen burning in his eyes.

He wanted to bite her... wanted her blood... to sink his fangs deeply into her neck ...

She had already seen the verity of that in his clear delight to taste. And though she should have been entirely appalled by what he had done, there was more that lurked beneath the surface of such uneasy feeling, more that had kept her fixed, breathless, to watch him... not having known then that his tenderly savage act would heal the cut on her hand.

The journal had said he was no more than a monster. At every turn, Raoul attempted to drum that idea into her mind -

But monsters did not heal, surely. Nor would they care to do so...

Christine put on her slippers she had discarded and exited the music chamber, but her dark Angel was not in the throne room, and a quick peek into the library proved that to be empty as well.

She recalled the wretched book he had so furiously thrown into the fire… not that she'd given it serious thought. Much. Yet portions of the grisly narrative had troubled her...

Still, stories of fiction weren't real.

Erik was real.

Lucy and her frightening dilemma, that was real.

Vampyres with vendettas and slayers destined to stop them were real.

Christine wished she could withdraw to a safe world of pretense, as she had done as a child, as Lotte, but such escape into fantasy was no longer possible... and again she thought of her poor cousin who could never escape from that world.

With a troubled sigh, she took the stairs up to her bedchamber, glancing at his closed door in indecision before she opened her own. Once she had shut herself inside, she turned the key in the lock, staring down at it a moment, before moving across the room to the chair that held her newly retrieved carpetbag and beside it, her mother's journal. With grim determination, she picked it up from the seat and walked back across the rug, toward her bed.

Suddenly the door blew inward on a great gust of wind and hit the wall, causing her to drop the book and spin around in shock.

The Count towered just outside the entrance, a formidable force - the cloak he now wore flowing from his broad shoulders to the ankles of his boots. His eyes within the ebony mask blazed golden from beneath the black fedora he wore.

"First lesson to be learned, my dear," he said, his voice like dark velvet and dangerously soft. "Locks do not keep vampyres out. Only a lack of invitation keeps the predator from your door. And once given, it can never be retrieved."

"Erik," she breathed unable to form another syllable as she pressed a hand to her racing heart.

He gave a mocking little bow. "I bid you goodnight and farewell, as you have a preference for such conventions." His manner grew somber, and though his was an intimidating presence, she saw, too, the sadness in his eyes. "You have no need to fear, Christine. I'll not cross your threshold again."

He grabbed the edge of his cloak, swinging it up high around him in a rustling snap, and in a puff of red smoke –

Vanished from sight!

Overwhelmed, Christine sank as if boneless to a sitting position on the floor, her legs no longer able to support her.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter XXXII

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

The nearly full orb of a pallid moon lay concealed beneath thick clouds as the Count took position behind plump, snow-laden boughs of a shielding evergreen, one of many that fronted the old manor house near the road directly outside of Paris. Only once, long minutes ago, a horse-drawn carriage rumbled past, no other sign of life apparent. The myriad of tall windows of two homes that stood in the distance remained dark, the hour late...

Excellent. There was no one nearby to interfere or to observe.

From behind a curtain backlit by strong flame of what he presumed a chandelier, two silhouettes faced one another in evident discourse. The Count watched for a time, the cold certainly no stranger to him, and wondered how much longer he must lie in wait, though in truth he was in no hurry to return to the castle after all that transpired…

Time.

Was it to become his enemy once more?

Despite his desire to forget, his mind replayed the earlier confrontation with Christine.

He had responded to her withdrawal in sardonic ire, but truthfully, how could he expect his pure and innocent bride ever to come to terms with the horrendous knowledge she had unveiled this night? Clearly she no longer wished him near. Perhaps he should remain in Paris. Archer could fend for himself for a season, and with Gregor and Anton to lend aid, he would not starve. Erik had made it impeccably clear to the boy that he not take sustenance from any of the villagers, not with the perdition Nicolae inflicted and the rampant fear he had spawned.

And it was for this very reason Erik somberly realized he could not distance himself from Berwickshire for even one night. His continued absence would do nothing to mitigate the ever-present danger, especially for his wife. No matter that she wanted little to do with him at the moment, perhaps for all time to come, he had no choice…

And now he must summon the patience to wait for hers.

Time…

Why should the solitary passage of seconds into minutes into hours alter one's initial perception of events? Would such a deed not serve to make matters worse if she was to dwell on all that brought them to such morose consideration in the first place?

He had required no time to acknowledge his deep feelings for Christine, even after having learned she was a slayer. That had not changed the depth of what he felt for her. He had put distance between them, yes, in a futile effort to protect his curious bride from discovery, but the deep emotion contained within his soul never once wavered. But then, he was darkness seeking even a glimmer of light. He could not expect an angel, who dwelled in the sun, forever to embrace the infinite shadows and all that came with them.

Earlier she had professed her love for him; did she now rescind that vow? Did she now regard him as an Angel of Death?

Reminded of his present course, he wryly considered - was that not what he was? Though to call himself any manner of angel was surely a sacrilege…

From inside the manor, the muffled sound of a man's angered shout came to his attention. Erik's lips thinned to hear a woman's soft, startled scream. His hand clenched into a fist at his side to see a blur of shadows and hear the thuds and slaps of what sounded like a beating.

The brute.

The Count held back, aware that if he intervened the situation could only get worse. No matter, after this night the aggrieved woman need never again fear. He narrowed his eyes in contempt and waited. Minutes later, his patience was rewarded.

The door opened, admitting a portly man in a dark overcoat into the night. He slapped the crown of his hat twice and settled it on his head. Behind him a young woman in somber dress stood trembling, her cheek bruised, her lip bleeding.

"Let that serve as a warning, Marisol. Next time have my dinner prepared precisely when I inform you that I wish to dine," he threw the directive over his shoulder as he walked down the short stoop of stairs. "I will not tolerate such a gross lack of punctuality."

"When will you return?" the girl asked, a tremor in her voice.

"That is no concern of yours – I will return when I return. You would be best served to manage the affairs of the household, as a wife should, and not interfere in my own."

The longer the Count observed, the more disgusted he became. The crimes of this man unpunished and profuse, especially to the weak and underprivileged, this fiend deserved the worst of what he could give and Erik anticipated taking on the role of executioner.

The door closed, shutting the woman safely inside. Several more unwary steps of the bully, passing a short distance from where the hunter stood in shadow, and the lasso flew through the air, catching its prey around his thick throat. The marquis's hands went up to the constraining rope as he stumbled a step back, almost knocking into Erik as he sped around to confront him. The man's eyes bugged to see his attacker and witness his unnatural speed.

"Who - are - you?" he croaked the words over the tightness of the rope.

"I am the end of your days," Erik responded, his soft-spoken words bearing a dark, cruel edge, "and the beginning of your worst nightmare…" With that, he whipped off his mask with his free hand and brought his twisted face close, doing nothing to prevent the protrusion of his fangs.

The man garbled a terrified cry, his eyes bugging wider, before they flickered and rolled back into his head. One of his hands raced from fruitlessly pulling at the rope to clutch his chest as his body gave a harsh spasm then slumped forward against Erik.

Bloody hell! Had the fool already perished? He detected no heartbeat...

Erik quickly replaced his mask and, in a violent whirlwind, breached the distance as only his kind could, in an instant bringing his prey beyond the cold storage chamber where Gregor waited and ripping the corded rope from around the marquis's throat. To replenish energy after using his vampyric ability, the Count sank his fangs deep into his victim's neck, taking enough until he again felt the unholy power throb through him, then pushed the corpse indifferently to the floor.

"You will need to act quickly while the blood is still warm," the Count instructed.

"He is dead then?" Gregor picked up the mass of tubing that was used to siphon blood into a waiting barrel.

An abrupt nod, then, "Once the deed is done, make the arrangements." He thought about the battered woman left behind and frowned. "Add twenty thousand francs to the sum. Give the usual explanation in the letter, but wait one full week after the marquis's disappearance to thwart suspicion."

"As you wish, my lord."

Erik hesitated, not wishing to utter the words, but they came regardless.

"The Countess…?"

"She has not left her chambers."

He gave a curt nod in acknowledgement.

Of course she would not stray from her room; it was the middle of the night. Even if she could find no slumber, he doubted Christine would leave the safety of her bedchamber, despite that he had so caustically shown her that locks were useless against him. He felt a sliver of remorse at the manner in which he last addressed her. After centuries of learning to live with absolute rejection and fear, he should have handled her nervous retreat better, no matter that her slight injured him far more deeply than he had a right to feel.

He studied his manservant, aware from his taut expression that Gregor wished to speak but refrained.

"I assume Anton told you of the confrontation in the woods and that Christine has been made aware of the truth."

"Yes, my lord. Might I presume that she will be leaving the castle soon?"

Erik frowned, weary of Gregor's undeserved hostility toward his bride, which would be ten times worse had the man known she was a slayer. The Count understood that it derived from a deep loyalty to him and the cel Tradat name, but Gregor's attitude did not fail to ignite his frustration.

"If she is willing to stay, she will stay. And if she does make that choice, she will be treated with all the courtesy and respect due my Countess. Is that understood, Gregor?"

He bowed his head deeply in submission. "Clearly, my lord."

"Splendid. I will leave you to your task. There is somewhere I need to be."

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Within moments of speaking to his manservant, the Count slipped into an upper window of Montmarte. Having received an invitation to the ball weeks ago, nothing prevented his return this night. Though the corridor was empty and dark, it took him only a moment to find her. Unguarded. Unprotected.

She lay motionless, swallowed within the thick down covering of a four-poster bed. Her eyes were closed, and he wondered if perhaps the sedative had not yet dissipated, though several hours had elapsed since he had been informed of Lucy's dire situation.

Her breathing did not come prolonged and steady, her heartbeats slightly erratic, which led him to realize that she was awake. In the moment he arrived to that conclusion, she abruptly sat up.

"Master, is that you? Have you come for me?"

He scowled at the title she used for the bastard scoundrel but kept his voice calm.

"It is I, Lucy. We met within the maze two years ago, in the springtime of the year."

She inhaled an audible breath of surprise.

"I remember…but – where have you been?" She squinted into the night-veiled room in an attempt to see him where he stood near the door he had just softly closed. "I have missed your songs and stories."

"I am here now."

"And will you remain hidden from me?" she broached the plea, her voice quivering with undisguised longing and nervousness. "May I see you at last?"

To ascertain the depth of what he must know and commence with what he would demand of her, it was imperative to draw close and look into her eyes. Which meant that he must surrender to her wish and make himself known, not only with his voice but through her sight.

"This once, I will allow it."

Another audible gasp – clearly she did not expect him to relent as many times as she had asked it of him in the past. Unbridled curiosity was an inherent trait in the Van Helsing line; Christine often behaved with the same fervent need to know. But first he must prepare the girl so that she would not scream. The last thing he needed was for that impudent boy to interfere and come running to her unnecessary rescue.

"Do not be frightened, my dear. As you are mortal, I must keep a mask over my face to conceal my enchanted features. It is dangerous for humankind to stare upon the countenance of one of the dark Fae, such as I…"

He did not like to persist in the masquerade of deluding this poor young woman, just as he had come to feel remorse for deceiving his little Lotte into the blasphemy of believing him to be an angel. But the realm of fantasy was all Lucy's childlike mind could comprehend, due to Nicolae's foul manipulation well over a decade ago.

"My master allows me to see his face," she contradicted softly.

Again, he grimaced. "Your master and I are nothing alike."

"Yet you are both from the land of Elysium, where I, too, will go. He told me so."

At her quietly eager tone, expressing interest in the immortality she could not begin to conceive – especially with what it would seize from her – he slowly covered the distance toward the bed. Once his tall figure caught in the silver beam of the moon cutting a swathe across the floor, her eyes widened and she lifted her head to follow his approach. Her gaze fastened with awe upon his full black mask.

"You were at the ball," she said in surprise. "You danced with my cousin. I watched from between rails of the upper banister."

He gave a slow nod of affirmation, unsurprised that she had kept herself hidden away, like a child curiously surveying the activities of her elders.

"Listen well, Lucy, your master is a danger to you. You must never invite him into your bedchamber."

She frowned and averted her eyes to the blanket covering her legs. He took a swift step forward, coming to the edge of the bed.

"Tell me you have not already done so."

"No... he plays games with me inside the maze," she said, as if defending him.

"Games?"

She nodded.

"What kind of games?"

"Games that feel strange and sometimes painful, but nice, too, as if I'm floating in the clouds."

He drew close enough to stare into her dark-shadowed eyes. Faint blue rings circled the fragile skin above her cheeks.

"I like to play games as well. Do you remember the songs I would sing and the stories I used to tell?"

A flicker of a smile lifted her near bloodless lips and she nodded. "Will you sing for me again?"

"Perhaps… but first, I will show you an act of magic. Would you like that?"

She briskly nodded, and he flicked his gloved hand before her face, bringing a flame to dance upon his fingertips. She recoiled, squeezing her eyes shut, her shoulder blades slamming against the padded headboard.

"No- it hurts! Take it away!"

With another brush of his fingers he extinguished the flame, frowning at the outward evidence that the alteration had begun. This area of the room was covered in the silver moon's glow, not in the thick darkness that would cause such a negative reaction to the sudden light he'd given.

"Does anything else hurt, my dear?"

Slowly she opened her eyes, then nodded and pressed a hand below her ribs against the lacy bed gown. "Here."

He inhaled briskly through his nose and posed the next question while carefully watching her reaction. "Would you like me to ring for your maid to bring some tea and raspberry scones? You could have a tea party with your dolls."

The Count mentioned what he remembered to be her favorite activity and her preferred luncheon.

Her delighted smile faltered. "That sounds lovely, though Papa would never allow me to have a tea party this time of night when I should be sleeping. Maybe we could have one tomorrow?"

Her desire to partake of mortal food was encouraging. A few more pointed questions and he became assured that Lucy had not been fully turned, the obsessive desire for blood not yet apparent. Nicolae was most definitely using the young woman for his corporeal pleasure and feeding off of her with frequency, never giving her body a chance to recover before their next hellish encounter. The Count bore witness to her lethargic movements and pallid flesh, which nearly blended together with her fair hair, along with the slight blue tinge to her lips and nails. Another feeding and she may well perish. Perhaps that was the fiend's plan all along and he had no intention of granting her eternity through vamyprism.

"Listen to me, Lucy, and look into my eyes…"

The Count lowered himself down to her level so that her blue eyes looked directly into his hypnotic gaze. Distantly she nodded.

"You must never allow your master into this house. Never extend to him the invitation. You will remain in bed for the remainder of the week and sleep. Eat all meals that the maid brings. You must rest and recover your strength."

Her light brows drew inward slightly as if she might refuse, and for a moment he worried that she was too far immersed under Nicolae's iron control to be compelled by the usual methods, but then she nodded.

"I must rest," she parroted, "and recover my strength."

"Good girl." He smiled. "Now lay down your head and I will sing you to sweet slumber inside a world of gentle dreams."

"Like Elysium?"

"No, my dear. Much better than Elysium, because it is a land for the living. Not the dead."

"Does it hurt to die?"

Her innocent question brought to mind that abysmal moment, centuries ago.

"You should not dwell on such a bleak concept. You have many years left ahead of you. Now, lie back down…"

Like an obedient child, she again reclined on the mattress, resting her head upon the pillow. She reached her hand out toward a doll sitting in the nearby rocking chair and he brought it to her. He then pulled the counterpane over her, up to her neck, tucking her in as he once did for Daria.

Taking a seat at the foot of the bed, the Count quietly crooned to her a lullaby, the same he had sung to Christine as Lotte. Once assured that Lucy slept, he made quick work of ringing for her maid. After she entered the room, he stepped close, into her sight, cutting off her shocked little cry with a gloved hand to her mouth and his immediate manipulation. Grimly he ordered that Lucy was never to be left alone and that she or some other trusted member of the household remain in the room with the girl at all times. As an added precaution, he ordered that one of the earl's men keep post outside her door for the remainder of the week, to guard her.

"Once I leave, you are to forget that I was here," he concluded.

"Forget," the girl parroted hypnotically.

The Count nodded with satisfaction. With one last glance toward the childlike young woman slumbering in her bed and hugging her doll close, he left the chamber and silently exited through the window he entered, a shadow dropping and blending into the night.

He had done all he could to ensure Lucy's safety. He only hoped it was enough.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Would she ever feel the sweet calm of safety again?

Shortly after her quietly furious and brooding husband disappeared in a veritable puff of smoke, Christine wiped the remnants of tears from her eyes and wearily picked herself up from the floor.

Needing to focus on anything other than the wildly unbelievable and incredibly emotional evening thus far experienced, she picked up her mother's journal from where she'd dropped it and padded to the bed. She took a moment to settle herself comfortably against the pillows before tentatively opening the cover, uncertain what she would find but knowing the time had come to learn her mother's perspective of such things. What was written within described only the past, not the present from which Christine wished a temporary escape.

Taking a deep breath to stabilize her thoughts, she untied the twine wrapped around the book and opened it, surprised to find a note folded and firmly wedged within the crease of the first pages.

Opening the piece of fine parchment, she read:

My dearest Christine,

If you are reading this journal, I have passed from this life into the next. Now that you have come of age, doubtless you will be persuaded by the Van Helsings to join in the timeless battle to which generations of our family have been called, the details of which are outlined in this book. Within our branch of the family, you are the only surviving member to bear the mark of the slayer, which means you are gifted with exclusive skills, inherent to your nature, which will become evident once you reach the age of maturity. For most, I am told, it is the commencement of the eighteenth year.

I watch you play outdoors as I write this, attempting to catch a butterfly on your finger, frustrated as it flutters beyond your grasp. Oh, my sweet and gentle daughter, there is so much I long to share with you! I wish I could have seen you grow into the wonderful woman I know you have become. A letter is so impersonal; there is much I want to share that brims inside my heart but limited space that pen on paper will allow.

Although we do not bear the mark, my sister and I made the choice to join the fight years before each of us was wed, because we both strongly felt it a direction we must take, as none of our generation or the former fought in the ever-present battle of good against evil. Your father learned my secret and joined us, though he is not a Van Helsing. Your grandmother bore the mark but was a gentle soul with no appetite for violence, wishing only to raise her family in peace, as did her sister, your great aunt. The fight is not for everyone.

That said, I leave you with these final words, my darling daughter: Whatever your choice, whether to accept this calling or refuse it, I implore you remain true to your heart. This too is your father's hope for you and what would give us the most satisfaction, because only then will you know true fulfillment and lasting happiness. That is our wish for you, above and beyond any desire for you to take up this heavy mantle that requires such a high price, involving every bit of what you have to give, including a continual sacrifice of time you would wish to spend with loved ones. You must choose your own path and disallow anyone from forcing you to take sides. Only then, will you know true peace...

Christine whisked the tears from her eyes with her fingertips. Still, they fell and she wearily gave them leave, surrendering to their quiet descent. She did not weep for sadness, though the ache to lose her parents had only mellowed with time and sharpened upon reading the letter. Rather it was a wave of utter relief that rent her emotions – for only then did she realize how great her burden had been, especially the fear of disappointing her sainted parents if they now watched from above.

True, her parents would likely be horrified to realize the entirety of Christine's situation, but her relief remained absolute to know they did not expect her to follow in their footsteps. Contrary to what Raoul had led her to believe.

Nothing had changed with regard to her feelings for Erik, though the discovery of the truth completely altered every perception of these last weeks with him. She could now see from a different viewpoint former words spoken and acts both omitted and committed, like a stream of candlelight shining into a dark corner that cast mysterious, shadowed forms into their true appearance…

Though she had yet to discern the content of these new shapes, which still bore a mystery.

She laid the journal aside for another night's reading, having learned all she needed to know for now. To better understand her mother's reasoning and her mission, she would read what was within the pages, but for herself Christine has already decided -

She could not join forces with those of her lineage whose sole purpose was to destroy her husband, who sought his blood –

Just as he sought theirs. Quite literally.

Her newly-found confidence shaken at the reminder, Christine removed her gown and slipped into bed. Each creak or step in the outside corridor had her startle to throw a glance toward the door… dreading… hoping the knob would turn… waiting for the door to slowly swing open… both disappointed and relieved when it never did. Uncertain what the coming days would bring but knowing she had no wish to leave him.

Of one thing she was certain – he was not the monster that the journals painted him to be and what Raoul believed he was.

Erik, for all his faults, was more often than not considerate of her feelings and always protective of her well-being. Ever since she was a child at the Opera House and relied on the instruction of an unseen angel.

Still, for all that, she experienced a measure of disquiet when he drew near that surely came with ignorance, fed by what she hoped were lies from the ancient journal she had read on their journey to Paris. Surely it had been only one man's perception of misinformation he'd been given or himself had presumed falsely. Had any slayer existed who sought to learn the full measure of the truth? If she could learn what made Erik this way, learn more of his past history, she hoped to dispel any lingering hesitance on her part.

He was her husband – she had married him.

Had she never done so, had they never met, upon discovering that horrific tales of fantasy were undeniably valid, no doubt she would have been as intolerant as the rest of her kin.

But the fact remained: she had met him – had known him since her childhood, when she was a small, frightened orphan. He had carved a place into her heart long ago. And, in becoming his wife most fully, she now knew him in the deepest sense of the word….

It was in this conflicting vein of emotion that Christine greeted the new dawn, having slept when exhaustion at last overtook her, but only for a short time. Her heart raced with both apprehension and eagerness at the prospect of encountering her dark bridegroom. Yet upon visiting the chambers he frequented, she found them distressingly empty.

Not seeing any sign of life, she continued down the corridor that led to the utility chambers, the fragrant aroma in the air bringing her to a large kitchen, where Mihaela busily chopped vegetables with a cleaver. She brightened upon seeing Christine.

"My lady! I have only to make the stuffed cabbage, and your Christmas feast will be complete."

Christine looked with disbelief at the wide array of dishes spread out upon the table, where she assumed the servants ate their meals, with what appeared to be sausages, cheeses, and rolls being the predominant ingredients. There was barely room for the dish the girl was currently preparing. When Christine asked for a special dinner, she'd had no idea that Mihaela would create enough to feed a small army!

The situation being what it was Christine felt uncertain she could manage more than a sampling of the supper and, upon recalling his absence at the majority of meals, doubted Erik would be all that interested to partake. Given what she now knew about him, he preferred a different kind of sustenance...

She repressed a little shudder, her hand instinctively lifting to clasp her neck, and forced her traitorous mind to the present circumstances.

"You have done a remarkable job, Mihaela, I never expected this much! However, there is no earthly way we could manage all this and not have it spoil."

"There is the cold storage chamber."

"Cold storage chamber?"

Mihaela fidgeted, looking suddenly uncomfortable, and turned back to her chopping. "It keeps food from perishing."

The girl clearly felt she had said what she shouldn't, and Christine wondered if she knew the truth about Erik. She did not believe the girl to be one of his kind, nor any of her family. Though of course she could not ask without betraying her husband's ghastly secret.

"Have you seen the Count today?" she posed the question matter-of-factly, a deception to her racing heart.

"No, Madame, he has not returned."

"Not returned," Christine parroted in uneasy surprise. "Since last night?"

"He left early this morning, while you were sleeping."

"I see."

Christine wondered if this was to be a routine revisited. Before Paris, she had known his business kept him away until late in the evening. He had told her as much. Now that she better understood the verity of his statement and the nature of such business – that he was a leader of his kind, for mercy's sake – she wondered, too, what such a position entailed.

She would soon drive herself mad with questions that only he could answer and concentrated on the banquet at hand. Even with the servants to share, there was much too much. On the heels of that conclusion, a wonderful idea came to mind.

"Mihaela, please put aside a portion for us, and find baskets or boxes for the remainder."

"My lady?" the girl asked in confusion.

"The Yuletide, especially, is a time to share with those who are less fortunate, and I aim to do precisely that."

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

An hour later, Christine sat in the minister's cozy parlor with the housemaid who refreshed her tea. The minister was out on a call, and Christine had spent the last twenty minutes visiting with the older woman, who proved quite the fount of knowledge with regard to all who lived in the village.

"I cannot tell you how thankful we are for your sweet gesture, my lady. You can be assured that all the victims of the recent tragedies will receive a share of the food you have so kindly provided today. And what unique dishes - they look positively marvelous! You say your maid is from Romania...?"

Christine smiled and nodded, sipping her tea. Mama Valerius had headed benevolence committees and donated to charities all through the year and especially to the unfortunate at Christmastide. It seemed only fitting to continue with such a worthy tradition. It also helped to assuage Christine's guilt, in part, since her husband was indirectly responsible for the loss of lives in the district… or had he been the one responsible?

Her smile slipped as she recalled the frightful scene she had witnessed in the forest. She had been so concerned over Lucy's dilemma she had not thought to question Erik about the man he killed…

One of many, surely.

"Are you feeling well, my lady?" the housekeeper broke off her gossip of the grocer's wife meeting in secret with the mayor to question. "Your face has gone positively white!"

"Yes," Christine struggled for calm. "I'm only feeling a bit out of sorts. I found myself unable to sleep more than a few hours last night. The wind and other strange sounds…" She gave the feeble excuse that was only partly true.

"Oh, you poor dear. Well, if this blizzard blows in, as surely my bones tell me it will, the wind will be howling all the night long."

Christine cast an anxious glance toward the window, grateful to note that while the sky was overcast, the weather was as clear as when she arrived.

It had helped somewhat to talk to someone about normal, every-day occurrences. She had been faithful to her husband and not revealed his secret, of course, but that in itself was a burden, with how terrible and dark his secret was, much of what she still did not fully understand, and she felt a sudden, urgent need to return to the castle. Nervous to meet with him again, yes, at the same time almost desperate to confront him and learn more…

What she did not understand, that gave her fear. Perhaps if she learned all of what lay behind his… condition – and its cause, she could rid herself of these wretched feelings and not give a little anxious jump every time he drew near.

These thoughts were predominant in her mind once she made her farewells and returned to Castle Dragan – again, to find it empty of its master.

With a disappointed sigh, she exited the library, her last room to search of those where she might find him, and came across the path of Erik's manservant. The old man quietly scowled, curtly nodded as if in an effort to be polite, and made as if to continue on his way. The wealth of frustration that had steadily built with each vile revelation thus far experienced prompted her to boldly address the issue -

"Gregor, it is clear that you dislike me. What I don't understand is why? What have I ever done to offend you?"

"It is not my place to say, my lady."

His clipped words only incited her need to know the truth.

"I give you permission to speak. I'll not hold it against you. Nor shall I tell the Count, no matter what you should say to me."

"Very well, if you insist." He drew himself up and looked down his hooked nose at her. "You do not belong here, Madame."

She drew her brows together. "I am his wife. Of course I belong."

"A marriage of sacrifice, to save you from your great uncle's plans. Since you came to Berwickshire, the master continually puts himself in danger, forsaking his duties, all to safeguard you."

His low words felt like arrows piercing her soul, but she shook her head in puzzlement. "What danger? What does he do?" On the heels of that thought, came the knowledge. "You speak of Nicolae?"

"In part." He seemed about to say more then pressed his lips together in a straight line. "I have said too much. He would not be pleased."

"You know the truth about him, don't you?"

As soon as she uttered the words, she realized how foolish they were. Gregor had served Erik for many years and was fiercely loyal to his master. Of course he knew; one could not abide in the same dwelling and keep such a secret for long.

He drew himself up as if she had insulted him. "For generations, my family has served under the family of cel Tradat and shall go on serving our master."

She did not pose the question of why, but he read it in her eyes.

"Perhaps, if you have to ask, you should return to Paris, my lady. Unless and until you can accept all of what he is, you are only a burden to him. Now, if I may return to my duties?"

Struck by his blunt words but recalling she had demanded them of him, Christine gave a distant nod, barely aware as he walked away.

"Wait –" she turned to look at him. "What other dangers?"

He seemed again as if he might curb a reply before he spoke. "Since you have come to Berwickshire, he has ventured out in the nights, to rid the village of those who would harm you. Keep that in mind, should you ever consider revealing his secret to those who could harm him."

"I would never…"

He inclined his head in the brusque snap of a nod, cutting her off. "I earnestly hope that is true, my lady. Make no mistake, I will do all within my power to protect my master."

Having no words, Christine watched in disbelief as he lumbered away, realizing as he turned the corner, she had forgotten once again to ask the present location of her husband. Rather than call out a second time and subject herself to more of Gregor's hostile tongue, she took refuge in her room, finding some solace in her mother's journal, though each page she turned with qualms of what she might find.

Within the slim book, much like her ancestor's journal, were detailed the activities involved in capturing and confronting the 'Dark Ones,' as her mother called them. Yet though her mother was bound by oath to protect humanity, unlike what Christine had found in her ancestor's journal, her mother's soul was laid bare as she questioned with the desire to understand - and later wrote - of her surprise to notice that the Dark Ones had feelings and emotions, not unlike the living. They could love; they could hate. And they cared for those close to them.

Christine understood well the verity of such words, from her relationship with Erik. He certainly could express love and did indeed have feelings, ones she had inadvertently injured with her plea for distance.

A distance she was fast coming to regret.

A glance outdoors showed her that darkness had begun to envelop the land, and a light snow was falling. Not a blizzard as the priest's housekeeper had foretold, and Christine approached the window to watch the thick, downy flakes, reminded of the day.

How long she stood there lost in thought, she had no idea, but when the faint, distant strains of music teased her ears, immediately she exited her bedchamber and followed the anticipated sound downstairs.

x

He sat erect at the grand piano, and she watched the gentle sway of his upper body as he moved from side to side, soon completing the lovely piece, the bell-like chords softly chiming in the upper octaves synonymous with the gaiety of the season. Only then did Christine approach, moving to her place at the side of the piano. His burning gaze followed her as she came into his view, and he waited.

"Happy Christmas," she offered, attempting nonchalance though her voice came a bit strained.

The Count said nothing, gave no response whatsoever. Only waited.

"I wish to apologize," she said with a sigh. His brows drew together in puzzlement, and she continued, "For the manner in which I behaved."

He held himself rigid for another few moments then exhaled a long, heavy breath, his broad shoulders relaxing.

"I can hardly blame you, my dear. When first I learned the truth of what I had become, I did not respond well and would have strangled my stepmother with my bare hands if given the chance."

She barely withheld a small shudder at the casual proclamation of such violence.

"Will you tell me? How it happened?"

The half mask he wore gave evidence of his slight flinch on the side uncovered. "Would you not prefer to sing carols by the fire? Is that not what you previously expressed an interest in doing during this time of year?"

"Perhaps later. At the moment, I wish to know more about you."

Had the situation not been so grave, to sing reverent and gay carols would have been her first request. But she desired, more than anything, to have the irksome gaps of ignorance filled, to fully understand as her mother once wished. At least Christine had been gifted with that chance, likely the only member of her bloodline to be given the opportunity...

He was not quick with his reply but at last motioned to the two chairs near the hearth. She took hers and, folding her hands on her lap, waited for what he would say.

Instead of taking the chair opposite, he paced to the hearth as he had done the night before. With his hand locked around his wrist behind him, his steady and restless gait of barely retained energy was one that she had come to associate with his frustration and proof that the topic was a difficult one.

"I told you the minutiae of my birth, how my father ordered my death and his spurned lover, unbeknownst to him, kept me hidden away. Hers was not an act of benevolence or in the least bit charitable." He let out a scornful laugh. "No, I was her tool of revenge against my father. In time, he wed her, but she and her brothers held resentment against him for the slur inflicted. There came a day when deadly conflicts arose within his household, cousin against cousin, brother against brother. Blade against blade…."

He stared up at the insignia of the three-headed dragon hanging above the hearth. "I was tricked, manipulated, turned against my will, and murdered."

Christine inhaled a shocked little gasp. "Murdered?"

He gave a brusque nod, still not looking at her.

"To become as I am, one must die."

Christine could barely conceive his words. He had died?! But she thought he was immortal! Did he not say he was immortal?

He pivoted to look at her then. As if he read the stunned question in her eyes, he continued -

"My mortality was put to death. A chalice of poisoned wine that contained also the seal to my dark fate, though I did not know at the time it contained either the nightshade to kill me or the tainted blood to bring me back. Later that same day I was cruelly revealed to my father, and as he stood, cornered, and in horrified shock to see that I had lived and understand my stepmother betrayed him, one of her brothers came from behind and took his life with a blade of silver. Chaos broke out. The monster inside me emerged when I, too, came under attack, until none were left standing. The woman responsible for everything lay dead in a pool of blood, along with her brothers, the men she had sided with against my father having turned on her. I stood there amidst the carnage, the only surviving member of my household – of all who fought there that day – and all due to the damnable curse."

"Then… you never wanted to become as you are?"

"To become more of a monster than appearances have made me?" he asked incredulously. "Most decidedly not! It is a twisted darkness, this life I have been forced to endure and to which I have had no choice but to adapt."

She opened her mouth to pose a question then closed it, in that moment realizing what she had almost uttered, aghast that such a thought had entered her mind…

He narrowed his eyes, intently watching her.

"You wonder why, if I am so opposed to what I have become, I have not simply ended my existence by my own hand?"

The flush of color that swam to her face proclaimed her guilt.

"It is not for lack of trying," he continued with a bitter half twist of a smile. "The beast within will not allow it – the moment the sun's destructive rays began to shimmer over the earth, I suddenly found myself indoors, without having made a conscious decision to move. The moment a blade of pure silver was directed to my heart by my hand, a barrier unseen to the eye blocked its progression and prevented further descent. The second time I tried, my hand was suddenly and rapidly forced away, once more against my will, the dagger flying across the room to hit the wall."

She felt horrified to know he had made the attempt, and more than once, but something he said brought confusion and she shook her head.

"Yet the sun doesn't harm you."

"Will you know all my secrets?" he inquired of her somberly, causing her to avert her eyes to the fire with something akin to shame. "It weakens me. Let us leave it at that."

Frowning to know he did not trust her with the entirety of the truth, aware in light of their wretched set of circumstances he had every right to feel that way, given that they were supposed to be sworn enemies, Christine again caught his gaze and asked point blank, "Are you the one responsible for the many recent maulings in the region?"

"No."

He moved to pour two glasses of whisky from the decanter sitting nearby and crossed the room to hand her one. She had not asked for it but was grateful for its calming effect after what had become another evening of difficult revelations. This time she was careful not to take a great swallow but only a sip.

"What was done in turning simple villagers into a bestial army goes against our code," he said.

Christine's eyes went wide. Army? There was a code?

"To engage in such flagrant carnage boldly flirts with the danger of discovery – what no mortal must realize. That our kind exists."

"Is that why you never told me?"

"That, and your family lineage."

Christine frowned and again looked into the fire. She had not asked to be a slayer, never wanted it, never even knew such a role existed until Raoul enlightened her. Memory of their terrifying encounter in the woods came to mind, as well as Gregor's earlier words – and she suddenly snapped her gaze to Erik's and clenched her glass, asking the question, already certain of the answer.

"Weeks ago, the night our carriage was attacked in the forest - were you there?"

"I came upon the scene."

She recalled Raoul's puzzled words of how one of their kind had turned on them, something he had never before seen or believed possible.

"You saved us," she said softly.

His jaw clenched. "What I did, I did for you alone."

The softest of smiles lifted her lips before, unbidden, the image of her uncle's former driver and the brief glance she'd had of his bloody remains came horribly to mind.

Feeling suddenly confined to the chair, she set her glass down and quickly rose to move away, toward the fire. She held her palms out toward it, seemingly to seek warmth, and when at last she again turned to look at him noted the puzzled squint of his eyes as he observed her.

"The man last night," she began hesitantly. "The one you killed…"

"One of the newly turned of Nicolae's ragtag army. I came across him as he was attempting to make a meal out of Lucy's physician."

"Oh my," she whispered, feeling a second wave of appalled disbelief to recall what had happened to her poor cousin.

"These newly turned have not been given the necessary instruction, since Nicolae seeks only to destroy. They are feral in that regard and must be eliminated."

"I understand that," she said quietly, no less horrified. "And Lucy is caught in the middle."

"I spoke with her tonight."

Shocked to hear it, she gave him her full attention.

"She will stay indoors, to rest and recover, and will remain out of Nicolae's reach. I have done all I could to see to that. Rest assured, she is still mortal."

"Thank God," she whispered, briefly shutting her eyes. She gave a little nod. "And thank you."

He set down his glass and slowly approached. Her heart began to race as she stood, motionless, though when he lifted a hand to brush the backs of his fingers against her cheek in a whisper-soft stroke, she could not prevent herself from flinching, contrary to the image of calm she wished to portray.

Such sadness entered his eyes, it twisted her heart. He lowered his hand back to his side.

"I'm sorry," she managed, a slight tremor to her words.

He said nothing.

"It is just so very much to take in, beyond anything I could have imagined. You have had... centuries to grow accustomed to this; I have only just learned all of it. And well, I simply need…"

She hesitated, loath to say it.

"Time," he supplied for her in quiet resignation.

"Yes," she whispered.

He gave a slow nod. "Then I will leave you in peace. I have matters to which I must attend. There is no rest for the wicked, as that trite saying goes."

Before he could leave, she reached out to him, though her hand did not make contact with his sleeve.

"Erik – wait."

He looked her way, his brow raised in question.

"Please don't go just yet. It's Christmas, and I hoped that perhaps we could spend it together."

She had never spent the cherished holiday without family or friends and the festive music that rang throughout the chambers; and at the theatre, there had been dancing as well. She did not wish to relinquish all manner of celebration!

"You would wish to spend the evening with me?" He seemed genuinely surprised by her request.

"Of course. You are my husband and a most excellent musician, and I thought, since we are here anyway," she waved a flippant hand about the instrument-laden room, "we might indulge in the tradition of singing carols as you earlier suggested. If you play, I will sing for you," she prodded, hoping the suggestion was an enticement and not an offer to be shunned. No matter his unending criticisms when they encountered one another in the maze weeks ago, and more recently, when he acted in the strict role of her teacher, he had since told her he took pleasure in her voice.

She hoped that they could somehow salvage what was left of the Yuletide and put troublesome matters behind them, if only for one evening.

Her eyes beseeched him, though she did not persist, and at last he gave a slight smile.

"I am not well versed in the celebration of the holiday, but I do know the songs performed at this time of year. I can postpone my business for one evening."

Her smile was jubilant, conveying her gratitude, and when he again slowly approached, putting a tentative hand to her elbow to steer her toward the grand instrument and her place in its curve, she did not startle or withdraw from his touch - even pressing gentle fingers to his icy cheek beneath the mask before he moved away to take his place at the piano.

It was a start, Christine reassured herself with another smile directed toward her dark Angel.

And by the light in his golden eyes when he regarded her, he was well pleased.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter XXXIII

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

The following day dawned as St. Stephen's Day, what Christine learned from the minister's housemaid was otherwise known and celebrated in the shire as Boxing Day. A day of charitable festivity, when those of more fortunate means boxed up a minute portion of their wealth and belongings and gave to the impoverished, also presenting boxes of goods to their household staff, who usually took the day off for outdoor revelries.

Christine had little to call her own, her splendid trousseau from Paris having not yet arrived, though Erik often assured her that what was his was hers. Still, she did not feel confident enough to dole out any of his possessions, personal or otherwise. That should be his to give, if he so chose.

She did, however, own a serviceable and rarely worn shawl of soft lamb's wool in a deep cerulean blue, like the sea, and after careful inspection to ensure its pristine condition she hunted for and located a small empty box. In the spirit of the holiday she tucked the shawl inside, using one of her hair ribbons to tie it closed in a pretty bow, and went in search of Mihaela.

Last night, after she and Erik sang festive carols, their voices entwining together in a glorious blend Christine was stunned to behold, she had shared with him her plans to commemorate the holiday. He had not disagreed with her objective and assured her that he would see to gifts for Gregor, Anton, and Archer.

The ease of harmony had continued throughout their cordial parting, Christine then retiring to her room for the night, this time without a macabre novel or troubling journal to help exhaust her mind so that she could sleep. Again her undivided attention had wandered repeatedly to the closed door, wretchedly aware of the lengthy silence as well as every distant sound that came from the opposite side. When footsteps at last approached and paused directly outside, Christine's heart had hammered against her ribs. She sat up and craned forward - this time more out of anticipation than with fear. Yet a lingering apprehension not completely dissipated still prevented her from calling out to him. Once his footsteps moved away and she heard the dull creak of his bedchamber door open then close, such despair, such emptiness had weighted her soul that a second night tears wet her pillow as she fell into uneasy slumber scattered with nightmares too wretched to recall...

And yet, all of what had become the crux of her life.

She had finally come to accept the alarming truth of what her husband was, what those of her bloodline were called to fight, and though Christine made a firm decision never to lift a hand against him she had not yet resigned herself to her uncertain role in this unexpected twist of their marriage.

That she loved him Christine did not doubt; she did not lie to him that night. The wealth of feeling that had accumulated over months, over years simply did not disappear once flaws or trouble manifested. Her feelings ran deep, not shallow, and had slowly begun to form ever since she had met a man of mystery who posed as an angel through chapel walls…

Now she knew the darkest of secrets he'd kept hidden and detested her foolish reaction when he so unexpectedly drew near - the inadvertent recoil for which she immediately apologized, certain it must be some despicable trait of all that came with the Van Helsing lineage. He had softly commanded her to cease with all apology, stating it wasn't her fault, but she'd seen the pain in his eyes each time and hated herself for putting it there.

Oh, how she wished to cut out all that made a slayer from her body!

She had asked for time and prayed the passage of hours into days would solve this dilemma, clearly noting Erik's impatience with her inability to manage the situation. He said nothing to that effect, as broodingly silent as always, and would only quit her company or ignore her on those occasions she shied away, putting his attention to other things. Certainly he had much to keep him busy, and she wished she could say the same.

He detested what he had become but learned to live with it. She loathed her calling and wished to expunge it. Surely they could find some sort of common ground in that.

Still, there were additional questions of importance she needed to ask… and dreaded to know. Questions more difficult than those already posed. And she felt she could not go forward to somehow mend what had been broken until they were at last answered.

Christine found Mihaela dusting in one of the downstairs chambers and presented her with the gift box. Shocked to receive it, clearly having no idea how to respond, she thanked Christine for the shawl, immediately wrapping the soft wool around her shoulders. She seemed as if she wished to say more but refrained. Christine gently prompted her to speak, sensing the girl still felt awkward around her.

"My lady, it is only that I wish to say…" In clear unease, Mihaela clutched the handle of the duster in both hands near her skirts. "There are men who are bad – evil men – but the Count is not one of them. He loves you, I know this. Never have I heard him to take a woman. Never through the centuries has he had a wife. Until you."

Touched by her words, Christine looked at her thoughtfully. "Are you one of them also?"

Even after acknowledging that such beings did in fact exist, she could not bring herself to name them in the course of casual conversation. There was simply nothing casual about it.

"Oh, no, milady. Such power is not meant for our family. We are meant only to serve."

Strange words, but the girl seemed content. "Have you known the Count long?"

"All of my life, whenever he would come to Romania and the castle there. I do not know him well; I am but a servant and he a prince of his kind. But he has always been good to my family. There is no reason to fear him."

Doubtless, during her previous two morning visits, the young maid acknowledged Christine in bed alone and in her shift, having not been visited by her husband in the night, unlike the first two mornings she caught Christine au naturel.

Her face warmed and she hurried to change the subject.

"Thank you, Mihaela, I will take your words into consideration. As this is Boxing Day, from what I've been told it also entails outdoor recreation for the staff. You should take part in that."

"Re-cre…?" the girl repeated in slow uncertainty.

"Recreation. A type of leisure and amusement. The minister's housekeeper from the village told me that servants from different households often gather to watch men kick around a ball and cheer for one of two teams…though I can't see how they would do that in the snow. But I'm certain there are other activities planned for the day."

"I see." Mihaela sounded no less doubtful.

"Of course, you needn't go to the village if you prefer not to. You could take a picnic with your family - though it might be rather cold for that," she instantly corrected herself, then blew out a breath. "The point is, Mihaela, you may have the day off to do as you like."

"The day off?"

"A day to take time away from your chores at the castle, to relax and have fun."

Mihaela shook her head doubtfully. "I do not think my uncle will agree."

Which hardly came as a surprise, since Gregor contradicted Christine's wishes at every turn.

"I will ask the Count to talk with him. This day only comes once a year. You should enjoy it."

A short time later Erik did speak with Gregor at Christine's behest. The old man was reluctant, but finally agreed that he would use the opportunity for the outing to take the wagon into the village for repairs, also stating one of the horses needed re-shod.

Not exactly what Christine pictured for recreation, and she wondered if the blacksmith would also close up shop, but she supposed she could count it a triumph that Gregor at last surrendered and he and his family would adhere to the general idea of a special day shared. Why he seemed to detest the Yuletide, a time for family, cheer, and togetherness, posed yet another mystery. He treated it as a curse, not a blessing…

"With the staff absent for the day, have you also made plans?"

Broken from her absorbed thoughts, Christine whirled around in shock, unconsciously taking a swift step in retreat.

Sorrow filled Erik's yellow-gold eyes, his easy smile twisting into one of mockery.

"I'm sorry –"

"Do not," he ordered soft and abrupt, holding both his hands up to stop her. He gave the barest of nods and began to walk away.

"It's only that you took me by surprise," she hurriedly called after him. "I rarely hear you coming."

She winced, not intending her words to sound accusatory, like he was stalking prey. He turned again to look at her, his eyes pinpointing hers.

"A trait mastered long ago, to defend and protect…" He paused in his explanation that seemed to reflect what she'd been thinking. "And attack."

He offered her complete honesty, as she asked of him, but Christine could not prevent a shudder at the memory of all she witnessed in the forest on the night she learned her husband was one of the Dark Ones. His wretched words were the perfect segue to ask what more she needed to know, but she curbed her curiosity...

For now.

"Have you made plans?" She switched the question back to him.

"My day is without obligation." His eyes narrowed behind the mask. "What have you in mind?"

"I should like to visit Lucy, in the hope that she has improved. I left her in such a wretched state."

He gave a short nod. "I will instruct Archer to ready the carriage."

"Did he not go to the village with the others?"

"He cannot travel by day."

Five simple words, but they rocked Christine, and the puzzle of the boy's odd behavior since the moment she'd first met him finally made sense.

"He is like you."

She did not ask, having no need. Nor did he answer. How many more secrets was she so blithely to uncover?

Feeling a sudden desire for the cold bracing air, she made a decision. "Instead of taking the carriage, I should like to ride Mist."

He glanced out the window at the dull, overcast sky. "That can be arranged. Before leaving, you must retrieve your talisman off my desk in the library. The broken links have been repaired. I will speak with Archer."

He left before she could respond, but any disappointment felt for him to so quickly dismiss her evaporated when Christine stepped outside after she donned the pendant and all necessary outerwear and saw Erik mounted atop his black stallion. The reins to her smaller gray horse he held in one gloved hand.

He registered her surprise. "I do not want you to travel alone, even by day." His words were solicitous but grim. "Do you need a hand up?"

Once, he would not have asked only acted. While grateful for his consideration of her tumultuous feelings in keeping his distance, she missed the easy rapport they had found and shared in Paris.

"I can manage. I only hope that Mist doesn't bolt like last time."

"You will find your horse much more placid and not so easily spooked."

His words, as they so often did, painted a mystery. But she was resolved to initiate the conversation she had been avoiding, and once they walked their horses abreast of one another through the snowy lane that twisted through the forest, Christine at last brought up the topic that had made her toss and turn the past two nights.

"I have another question I should like to know."

She darted a glance his way, noting how his jaw had hardened beneath the mask.

"Go on," he said quietly through his teeth.

She took a deep stabilizing breath for courage. How silent the wintry forest was for midday! Sound was amplified, the swish and soft crunch of the horse's hooves plodding through the snow and occasional mild snort from the two beasts all that could be heard.

"What you said, that you are not responsible for the carnage of the villagers…"

She hesitated, struggling with how best to phrase such a difficult question to what would certainly result in a harsh response.

"To survive, I know you must…" Once more her words trailed off and Christine paused, searching to find a tactful way to finish her statement.

"To survive, I must feed on the blood of others," he finished for her in clipped reply. "Is that what you meant to say?"

She gave a brisk nod. "That – and, and how… I mean, well, who…"

"Christine, take caution. You seek for that which you may not wish to find."

She firmed her shoulders and her determination. "I need to know the truth of it, Erik. All of it."

"It will not endear me to you and will likely drive you further away. Is that what you truly wish?"

"You have told me a number of startling and gruesome things, and I'm here with you now," she argued in frustration. "I am not some delicate flower, ready to swoon at the first mention of blood and violence. I think I have more than proved that."

In truth, despite her recent knowledge of his secret identity and all that stemmed from it, nothing had truly changed in his character. His alluring mystique was still and had always been a part of him. His unconventional wisdom; his great affinity and spectacular talent for music and the arts - the crowning touch, his angelic voice; his love of Christine and desire to keep her safe – all of what first drew her to him remained intact. Moreover, from what Gregor let slip, Erik often battled his own kind to ensure no harm would come to her.

Even in the guise of a frightful being, he only ever acted toward her as a benevolent angel. And yet, for all that, there were those grisly matters revealed that were irrefutable and those matters only partially disclosed, the knowledge with which she was not yet satisfied.

In the resulting silence, Christine attempted to answer her own question, determined not to let the matter drop now that it had been introduced.

"You lured me from the crowd at the festival of Samhain, before knowing I was Lotte, thinking me only a stranger." She glanced his way, noting his gloved knuckles had tightened within the reins he held. "You seduced me, would have bitten me… taken that which by no rights under heaven is yours to have - my very lifeblood."

He pulled up hard on the reins, and surprised, she did the same. The horses gave little protesting whinnies, snorting puffs of white smoke into the frozen air.

Despite the freezing cold, the Count's eyes burned, twin flames behind the mask.

"Never, never would I have taken your life, Christine. I thought I made that clear."

A shiver of apprehension raced down her spine, but she did not let his quiet fury deter her resolve to know. "Is that how you gain what you need?" she insisted as though he'd not spoken, her words slowly gaining strength as a new emotion took hold. "By seducing unescorted women into solitude to do with them as you will? After recalling the passion and fire you displayed during each of those occasions with me – does it stop with a bite to the neck with them? Or do you seek to know them intimately as well?"

Bafflement blew away the embers of the Count's rising anger. It was inconceivable, and yet he heard the stiff resentment that colored her words, much like she'd spoken to him when she learned that he spent time in Lucy's company years after he left the Opera House.

Christine was jealous? That was what upset her? Not so much that he must feed on blood, but his preference of whom he had chosen to supply that need?

He shook his head a little in disbelief, recognizing the spirited fire that flashed in her dark eyes once she turned them on him when he remained silent. Her cheeks flamed brighter than the cold had made them. In light of all they currently faced and the physical distance she forged in her preference for 'time,' it was unimaginable that she cared enough what more he had done with his prey to allow such trivialities to disturb her.

Yet it gave him a measure of hope missing of late, and he mulled over his imminent response. Her curiosity was too often insatiable, requiring continual satisfaction. An innate trait of every true slayer, doubtless to aid them in the hunt. Yet what deplorable traits of his vampyric needs could he actually reveal to satisfy and put an end to this wretched line of questioning? Certainly he could not speak of the macabre details that composed his nature, not if he didn't want her fleeing back to Paris on the next train…

"I seem to have arrived at the truth," she said woodenly.

He shook his head in disgust, knowing if he did not address this now she would never let it go and likely build up all sorts of incredible and absurd notions in her mind.

"Once, decades before you were even born, that was my method of choice. You were the first woman I have approached in that manner since that era."

Christine felt only mildly reassured. "You told me that you aren't responsible for the deaths of the villagers. So if it wasn't them, who did you - or do you - hunt to fulfill your current needs?"

"Can we not table this discussion for another time?" he asked curtly.

Christine could see how grueling this was for him to talk about, it was atrocious to hear, but there was one more thing she must know –

"Do you kill your victims too?" she practically whispered.

"Damn it, Christine! Why is it so important to know the myriad horrors of what my life has become? Do you wish me to respond when to do so will only paint me into more of a monster than I have already become to you?!"

She struggled not to lose courage in the face of his burgeoning wrath.

"Yes or no, Erik…"

"I do all that is necessary to survive. Come! We have reached the clearing and I wish to return to the castle before nightfall."

Erik jabbed booted heels into his stallion's sides and took off at a swift gallop.

Despondent, Christine had no choice but to follow. She had expected such answers, they came as no true surprise, but that made them no less painful to hear, and his evasion to answer the most difficult questions spoke volumes.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Minutes later they stood on the outside stoop, awaiting admittance into Montmarte. Erik had not said a word since the debacle of their discussion that had gone so terribly amiss, and Christine felt uncertain how to break this new silence.

Raoul opened the door to their summons of the bell pull. His expression registered surprise, followed by a quick appraisal of Erik, head to toe, Raoul's gaze then shooting upward to the day-lit sky. Had the situation not been so grim, Christine could almost laugh at her cousin's clear disappointment to believe his preternatural theory of the Count to be wrong – when in truth it was so wretchedly right!

"I will remain here while you go upstairs and visit with Lucy. I have business to discuss with the Vicomte."

Her mouth parted in astonishment, and Christine regarded him with wide eyes. Erik said the words with all the careless aplomb of a gentleman out for an afternoon visit, but Christine felt the result of such an encounter between unprofessed rivals to be anything but the standard conversation over brandy and cigars. If concern for Lucy did not order her steps, she would remain to hear what business the Count could possibly have with her cousin…

Did he also know that Raoul was a slayer, fanatical in his role, and what Erik had declared in the forest to be his mortal enemy?

"Perhaps you should come with me instead," Christine softly insisted. "Lucy will wish to see you."

"Why should our cousin wish to see a man she has never before met?" Raoul asked her, his suspicious gaze settling on Erik.

Loyalty. One of three conditions he demanded of her and she had promised him.

"Introductions are in order," Christine hastily agreed. "What better time than the present?"

Raoul directed a look riddled with incredulity her way. "I hardly think it proper to conduct such affairs inside Lucy's bedchamber. Certainly there is a 'better time' than that!"

Of course he was right. In her determination to keep Erik with her and away from her overzealous cousin, Christine spoke without thinking her words through. Raoul possessed no knowledge of Erik's former acquaintance with Lucy, nor did he realize that the Count had already spoken with the girl two nights ago in said bedchamber.

"It will be alright, my dear," her husband assured, voice calm and full of meaning, his words going deeper than the mere subject of his remaining below. "Go visit with your cousin."

Reluctant to leave the two enemies alone, the mortal and the immortal, but keen to see Lucy and how she was faring, Christine gave one last look toward Erik, fraught with a silent plea – both to take caution and abstain from violence. He gave a slow, mocking nod of his head in acknowledgement before she finally took the stairs.

"Shall we take our business out of the foyer and adjourn to the parlor," the Vicomte said with stiff courtesy in the pretense of polite host.

Erik nodded and followed. The Vicomte immediately went to a table that held crystal bottles of liquor.

"Would you care for a libation?" the boy asked picking up a decanter of golden-brown liquid.

To decline might stir his never-ending damnable suspicions, so Erik gave a curt nod, accepting the glass offered and taking a healthy swallow before getting down to the business at hand.

"I understand a physician was in to examine Lucy. I wish to know his findings."

"I hardly see that it is any of your concern."

Erik gave a twisted smirk. "I beg to differ, monsieur. Due to an agreement made with the earl before taking Christine as my bride, I alone am paying the physicians their due in all matters that pertain to the girl, and wish to keep abreast of the situation."

The boy frowned. "My uncle told me nothing of this."

"Nonetheless, it was arranged between us."

The Vicomte narrowed his eyes and tossed back the modicum of brandy in his glass.

"Speak to them then if you wish it, but you will have to wait. Two physicians are presently with Lucy."

They were upstairs? How strange that the fool boy had not informed Christine since she would surely be made to wait in the corridor until they finished their current examination. As if the boy trailed his thoughts as he did all else, he spoke –

"I didn't tell Christine because I sought this opportunity to speak to you."

Erik warily watched the Vicomte set down his empty glass and cover the distance to within a few feet of where he stood. His muscles tensed as he took note of the determination in the boy's eyes.

"I don't know what you have done to Christine, what spell you have put her under to so fully succumb to your wishes and agree to wedlock after having known you only a matter of weeks - but I do know what manner of man you are. Your intentions can hardly be considered honorable or in her best interest."

The Count worked to control his temper, putting a trace of soft incredulity into his biting reply. "A spell? You think me a warlock, monsieur? If so, and I am without honor as you have stated, what is to stop me from turning you into a toad?"

The boy's mouth thinned into a white line at Erik's sarcasm.

"A monster does not need to possess the form of one, though such traits can easily be camouflaged, even hidden…" He pointedly looked at his mask. "The soul cannot be seen, monsieur. Only through actions will its true nature be revealed. You may think you hold the ace – but make no mistake, I mean to uncover the evil that lurks within your black heart and open Christine's eyes to the truth if it's the last thing I do!"

So, the gloves were off. Gone was the pretense of civility and any deception of sociability, the challenge issued…

Exactly how the Count preferred it.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

XXXIV

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Once Christine left the secretly warring rivals alone in the foyer, she hurried upstairs only to find the carved doors to Lucy's bedchamber closed with the earl pacing before it.

He stopped mid-stride and looked at her in astonishment.

"What are you doing here?"

"I wish to see Lucy." She glanced at the closed doors. "Is she sleeping?"

"No, she is not. The physician is inside, along with his colleague." He shook his head. "You should have stayed at the castle. It is the best place for you."

A prickling of unease coursed through Christine to hear those words a third time, delivered by rote, as if well learned.

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"It is the truth and the only way to keep you safe. I haven't the ability to do so…"

Before she could respond to his even stranger words, the door opened admitting Lucy's physician and another bewhiskered gentleman. The former looked none the worse for wear after his traumatic encounter in the forest with the rogue Dark One.

"Dr. MacMatthis, I am pleased to see that you are looking well," she said in relief once he closed the door behind him.

He looked at her oddly. "Why would I not be?"

"It is only after your frightful experience in the forest the other night… I – I heard you were attacked," Christine uttered the last weakly when he continued to look at her as if she should be the one given the examination.

"My dear Countess, you must have me confused with someone else. I was never attacked." He looked to the earl. "We require a word with you."

"Of course. This way, gentlemen." He moved with them toward the staircase without another word to Christine.

How incredibly bizarre... had the doctor no recollection of what had happened to him?

She curiously glanced at their retreating forms, then at the closed door, hesitant to disturb Lucy but wishing only to take a few minutes to reassure herself of the girl's well-being before hurrying back downstairs.

"Lucy…?" she whispered as she opened the door to the dimly-lit room.

Her cousin lay beneath the covers of her bed. She still appeared pale and wan, having been changed into a modest, high-necked ivory gown, the ruffles of which nearly brushed her jaw and completely concealed any evidence of a bite from her neck or a lack thereof. Daisy sat near the bed. At Christine's entrance she gave a slight nod in greeting then left the room.

Lucy seemed despondent, if tense, but no longer wild and uncontrollable, her delph blue eyes quickly traveling from Christine's face down to her bosom, no doubt looking for the talisman Christine had dropped to conceal within her bodice. Seeming reassured that it was absent, the girl visibly relaxed.

"I came to see how you are faring," Christine began. "You look as if you are feeling better." The words were more out of hope than a fact.

Lucy did not respond, glancing toward the window seat of plush satin pillows and porcelain dolls, and Christine feared her cousin might again travel to imaginary realms. With that belief, Christine carefully framed her next words.

"I heard that a second dark faerie came to your bedchamber to visit with you the other night."

This got the girl's immediate surprised attention.

"You mustn't tell," she insisted softly. "It's a secret."

"I trust he didn't hurt you in any way?"

Christine desperately wished to believe in Erik's innocence, that it was as he had informed her and he would never harm Lucy. But after all she had seen and read and now knew, Christine wasn't certain what to believe anymore.

"No, he would never do that. He is only ever so kind. He talked with me and sang me to sleep. I have missed his voice so much. He sings like an angel."

Christine understood the girl's fascination, having once believed Erik to be that celestial being.

Lucy yawned and Christine knew she should cut the visit short.

"You need your rest. I will come to visit again another day. Only Lucy…" Christine hesitated, reluctant to bring up the subject but feeling as if she must. "Please stay in bed until you are again strong. And no more visits to the maze. It's not safe."

The wistful expression drifted from Lucy's face, her eyes becoming more fixed, as minutes ago Christine had witnessed the same happen to the girl's father.

"I must remain in bed for the week and rest to recover my strength."

The words should have relieved Christine, and in a sense they did. But the soft monotone in which they were delivered presented a similar unease she had felt when speaking with the earl, the manner in which both responses given, the same.

"Yes, you do that. I will return soon."

Christine left, closing the door behind her, and returned to the main floor in search of her husband. She felt certain only he held the key to unlock the suspicion that had begun to crowd her mind.

Outside the closed drawing room doors, she heard Raoul's raised voice -

"…make no mistake, I mean to uncover the evil that lurks within your black heart and open Christine's eyes to the truth if it's the last thing I do!"

Christine gasped to hear the vitriol in her cousin's voice and hesitated, her hand on the latch. Certainly her intrusion would be unwelcome, certainly Erik could take care of himself, certainly her cousin had no idea what danger he taunted…

"Listen well, Vicomte," Erik's dark velvet voice could barely be heard from where Christine stood, the sound of it like chords of music when compared to Raoul's grating tenor. She put her ear to the door to hear more clearly. "You will desist with whatever you have planned in your foolish agenda against me, which is not even needful. Your presence is required here, at the manor, to guard Lucy."

His voice came hypnotic, even soothing, but no less authoritative.

"I must remain at the manor to guard Lucy," her cousin parroted with the same dull monotone Christine had heard once too often.

"Furthermore, you are to desist in these wretched forays to seek out information -"

Christine did not wait to hear more of the Count's demands but put her hands to the latches of both doors, swinging them wide open.

Erik abruptly looked over his shoulder, his golden eyes brimming with latent fury and exasperation locking with hers. Raoul blinked and retreated a step, putting more than what had been a foot of distance between them.

"Oh! I do apologize," she feigned embarrassed remorse. "Did I interrupt something?"

"Not at all, my dear," Erik said on the bare edge of civility. His burning eyes swept to the open doors behind her. "If you will excuse me, I have matters to attend."

Christine barely registered his words before he swept past her and exited the room. A glance in that direction showed the two physicians standing in conversation just outside the door, Erik approaching them. With her husband occupied, Christine approached her cousin. He looked somewhat dazed, and she decided to put her presumption to the test.

"I am so pleased to see that Lucy is recovering," she began. "Perhaps, since the holidays have been so… difficult," she sought for a fitting word that did not discolor the moment in overly dark tones, "we might meet in the village for supper. Tomorrow perhaps? I would like to discuss the journals with you."

She used a lure that she was certain he could not refuse.

"I'm sorry, Christine, but I must remain at the manor, to guard Lucy."

She managed to keep her smile intact.

"Oh, we don't have to meet tomorrow. Any time this week I am available."

"I'm sorry, Christine. I must remain at the manor the entire week."

"Oh, but surely an hour away in the village won't matter –"

"Christine." Erik's voice came from behind, fierce, soft, and demanding. "We must go. The weather has taken a turn for the worse and we must return to the castle."

His eyes branded her then scorched Raoul, before turning toward the exit as he stalked from the room. Christine bid a hasty farewell to her cousin and hurried to catch up with Erik's swift strides.

"Erik – wait."

"There is no time for this," he bit out as he opened the door.

A sudden gale of windblown snow lifted the hem of her skirts and blew her cloak out behind her, whipping locks of hair against her face. The blizzard foretold and delayed was making its presence known.

"Stay here, I will retrieve the horses," he ordered brusquely.

Christine secured the scarf over her head and around her neck. She watched him hurry toward the stable as the doctors' carriage passed him by. Wistfully she glanced at it, regretting her decision to ride on horseback.

The snow blew heavier by the time Erik returned, leading both horses.

"Perhaps we should stay and wait this out," Christine called out over the wind that threatened to steal her voice.

His expression and manner softened. "Trust me, mon ange. I have weathered many a blizzard in my lifetime. This is not one of the worst I've seen. But if we do not leave now, we could be trapped here for days…"

Christine shivered, not from the biting cold or the unpleasant thought of staying under the earl's roof, but from the manner in which Erik delivered the words – as if he'd spoken into her ear, without a need to raise his voice. Another vampyric trick of his?

Once he helped her to mount and sat astride his own beast, at long last they made their way to the castle. Christine felt thankful for the tether Erik held as he guided her horse through what had become a blaze of swirling white, the trees all around them barely seen. She was no expert horsewoman, still learning the rudiments of the skill, and certainly would never have been able to manage in a snowstorm such as the one they traveled through now. Instead, she fiercely clung to the saddle horn then the horse's neck, praying the freezing wind would not blow her off and carry her away, her cries for help with it, as Erik led Mist through what must be forest but appeared only as a void, with a sea and sky and walls of white.

Through the churning brightness the tower of Castle Dragan suddenly and blessedly rose into view. Christine almost wept with relief, though surely any tears would have immediately frozen to icicles on her cheeks. Her gloved fingers were numb. She could barely unclench them or her arms from where they had been wrapped around Mist's neck, and she feared her legs would never again move, also having gone numb beneath her skirts.

Erik wasted no time as he pulled her frozen shell off the horse and into his arms, carrying her into the dimly lit silence of the castle and leaving the wintry beast howling behind them. He set her on his throne, near the hearth, cursing to himself to see the flames unattended, the fire no more than a few sparks and glowing red embers.

Casting a swift glance her way, he took her in from cloaked head to snow-encrusted boot tips, then turned back to the fire. With a wide sweep of his hand before it, flames leapt to attention as if suddenly and viciously stoked, the fire growing hotter and brighter and taller in that instant.

Christine's eyes widened to see this new magic; but truly, nothing surprised her anymore.

"I must see to the horses. Will you be alright while I'm gone?"

She gave a slight nod, all she could manage, her vocal chords also needing to thaw. Though she doubted she could manage any legible words through the chatter of her teeth.

Once he left and her fingers began to sting with the blood that had begun to melt and course through her veins, she slipped out of her cloak, moist from the snow, and tested shaky legs, which also had begun to sting with renewed life. Drawing toward the open fire but careful not to step too close, she held her hands out before the revitalizing heat.

Such was the position Erik found her in when he returned minutes later.

"This will help to warm you," he said, handing her one of two brandy snifters he held. He had doffed his cloak, gloves, and hat. "The servants have not yet returned. The wagon is absent from the stable."

Concern knitted her brow. "You think they are caught in this?"

"In the country from which we hail, blizzards are a common occurrence. Gregor would know well enough to remain in the village and not attempt a return to the castle."

"You didn't."

"But as we both know, I am different."

Christine averted her gaze from his direct stare, taking a moment to sip the fiery brew, appreciating the instantaneous rush of warmth it offered.

"Perhaps you might be so kind as to tell me why in the hell you were so determined to meet alone in the village with that boy."

Christine winced at the bitter heat that laced his words and took a moment to frame her reply.

"Though Raoul is family and I have no desire to push him out of my life, I had no true intention of meeting up with him either. I only issued the invitation to see if he would accept."

Erik shook his head in confusion. "And the reason for this bizarre action is…?"

She frowned and turned to confront him.

"You said that you manipulate minds to obey your will. You did so with Raoul and with Lucy, even with the earl. And I'm sure there are countless others. Is that not so?"

"It is." At her evident surprise with his easy admission, he snorted. "You know my darkest secret, Christine. I see no reason to withhold this discovery from you any longer. I compel when the need arises. In those cases you mentioned, I did so for Lucy's safety. For your safety."

She considered his disclosure but sensed there was more. He had admitted to attempting to lure her under his control to no avail, before he realized that slayer blood coursed through her veins.

"Is that the only reason you put people under your spell?"

A heavy silence descended between them. He moved to the hearth and looked into the roaring fire, taking a long drink from his glass.

"You know it is not," he said at last. "However, as I told you, I only compel if there is a need."

Before she could inquire into the details, he turned his head to pose his own question –

"Why did you not tell me that the bite wound from Lucy's neck had disappeared?"

"What…?" Taken aback, Christine blinked at him.

"The physicians were discussing the matter when I approached, finding the occurrence 'most bizarre' as they put it."

She shook her head in confusion. "Does it even matter?"

"It makes all the difference." His words were somber as he again approached, stopping before her. "Lucy has remained indoors since the boy found her. That kind of wound does not heal but by one method. You saw it when I healed your hand."

The mention of his hot tongue running along her palm made Christine feel as lightheaded as she did then. She forced her thoughts to concentrate solely on his terse explanation.

"The blood of the vampyre seals the flesh. It is used to prevent discovery or waylay suspicion. Those newly turned, without a sire to lead them, have not been taught this…"

She nodded for him to continue, though was fearful to hear what more he would say.

"There is only one explanation available – Nicolae has been inside Montmarte."

At the horror of his low words, Christine clasped her hands together, wringing them in her skirts.

"You are certain?"

"No other explanation exists. The summons must have been issued in the past, if not by Lucy, then by her ancestor of the 18th century. I assumed it essential to repeat the invitation with each new owner to take possession of the estate, but perhaps that is not the case and it works throughout a familial bloodline. I have never made the attempt nor heard of an attempt made to know its validity. I do not revisit old haunts besides my own."

Christine's brow furrowed. "What then shall we do?"

"'We' will do nothing, as there is nothing you can do."

"Perhaps we should have stayed to wait out the storm and watch over Lucy."

"Had I spent one more minute in that house than necessary I could not have guaranteed the boy's safety. He dogs my every move, like an irksome English Pointer. But I am not game to be caught, will not allow his pathetic attempts at capture, and to dwell under the same roof for even a day is unconscionable."

She swallowed hard. "Then you know that Raoul is like me."

Erik snorted a laugh. "I am no fool, my dear. I have known of the Vicomte's wretched plans to rid monsters such as myself from the earth since the day he entered Berwickshire, six months ago. He does little to conceal his true motives. Interviewing the villagers. Chasing about the forest in the dark of night…"

She said nothing, and he cocked his head in a puzzled manner.

"However, I find it curious…"

She arched her brows in question. "What?"

"He has the same blood as your ancestors coursing through his veins, purports to have the same damnable calling, but unlike you, I had no trouble compelling him to my will."

She stared at him in shock. "But… what does that mean?"

"It means that he is no true slayer, my dear. I would assume only those of your line who bear the mark of your calling are impervious to mind control. It is all that makes sense."

Raoul had lied to her?! Pretended to be what he was not? But why would he do such a thing…?

Erik slowly and purposefully lifted his hand to her cheek, awaiting a flinch that did not come. Emboldened, he rubbed his knuckles softly along her jaw as if she were made of the finest porcelain and might break.

"I tell you this only to relieve your mind, Christine. I did compel him, yes, to guard Lucy and cease to leave the manor for his little nighttime jaunts. I also compelled the maid to stay by your cousin's side and never leave her alone as she regains strength. There is nothing else I can do for her at this time."

She faintly nodded, and he sighed.

"I was going to suggest a lesson, but after all that has transpired, perhaps you would prefer to turn in early."

It was on the tip of her tongue to agree, to accept the escape offered. But to sequester herself alone a third night with thoughts that had proven to be her tormentors held no appeal. Neither did a strenuous lesson with her teacher who was so often strict when it came to matters of music.

"I would like to sing," she said hopefully. "But as we did last night. Together, in duet."

He studied her a moment, then nodded once and turned to the music room.

"Come then, when you are ready."

She did not hesitate but followed him to the piano, where he picked up a folder that lay on top of the glossy black wood. He shuffled through it, at last pulling a sheet of music from within its confines and placing it on the scrolled narrow ledge above the ivory keys.

He looked to where she had taken her place standing in the bow of the piano.

"As I have only one copy, you will need to look on to see the lyrics," he instructed, flipping out the tails of his coat and taking a seat on the bench.

Butterflies flitted madly inside her midsection as Christine drew near, but they weren't hatched from fear. The recollection of the last time they stood close and entwined their voices in song coaxed and excited her. In those cherished moments, fleeting though they were, all had felt between them as it did before she learned what she once believed only a terrible fantasy…

In those moments, such as this, while immersed in his music, it was easy to forget…

Christine watched him from the back as his skilled hands began to pick out a gentle melody. A love song she guessed, as most duets between a man and woman were. She studied the breadth of his shoulders beneath his black tail coat, his slim torso moving in a gentle sway as he became one with the chords he softly struck. Wisps of his hair had come loose from his queue, and she had the sudden urge to pull the ribbon loose and run her fingers through the straight dark strands, recalling how soft they felt against her skin…his skin scarred and smooth and icy cold, with the ability to grow warm against hers – a complex man of differing traits and talents and emotions…

Angel.

Monster.

She had met the former and was curious to understand the latter, the shock and fright of the revelation having dissolved with the never-ending desire to know more. To know everything, the good, the bad. The endearing. The terrifying…

But in this cherished moment, all she knew and felt was her Maestro, her Angel, her teacher, and the need to bring their voices together in sweet unity once more.

She drew close enough to feel the chill from his body, with only the smallest of space separating them. Christine sensed his shoulders stiffen, but he did not cease to play.

Looking over his shoulder, she read the artistic scrawl of lyrics, lyrics that he had clearly written, and she realized with astonishment that this was his own composition!

All thought fled as Erik's rich voice poured into her soul, a fluid melody of words that sent shivers along her every nerve ending.

He sang of music in the night and savoring the sensation as it caressed her soul. Christine's eyes briefly fell shut, and as her intro approached, her hands lifted lightly to rest atop his shoulders.

She felt the sudden shock of tension from her touch then the gradual give as his body relaxed and their voices entwined to lift in glorious accord. Still new to his aria, at times she fumbled, though he did not stop to correct her; nor did it mar the beauty of the melody they produced.

Once the last line was sung and the final chord played, they remained motionless, still absorbed in a shimmering aura of tranquility. Wishing it could last forever and they need not face tomorrow.

"That was beautiful," she breathed at last. "The words, your voice, our voices together… was beautiful."

"It is an inclusion to the first act of an opera I have written, which it is my hope that you will one day sing."

She dropped her light hold and walked around to face him.

"You mean it," she said with a trace of disbelief. After all that had transpired in these last two weeks alone, the thought of the normalcy of one day singing an opera seemed so farfetched.

"I still want you to sing for me," he said dryly. "That is, if you will agree to sing for a monster."

And just like that, the fantasy of peace evaporated as she was reminded of their wretched reality.

"Of course I will. I promised."

The words were hardly reassuring, mere wisps of air that vacated her lungs, and he looked her up and down critically.

"You should retire to your room and get some rest," he dismissed her as he always dismissed her when he wished for solitude. He turned back to his music, picking up a nearby quill and dipping it in its inkwell to make a notation.

"Erik…?" she said before she lost all courage.

He did not turn to look at her but halted in his task, waiting for what she would say.

"It really was beautiful, and I consider it an honor that you have chosen me to sing your opera."

He did not again look at her but gave a terse nod. She studied him a moment more, before retreating to the stairwell, all the while trying and failing to convince herself that what weighed so heavily on her shoulders wasn't the mantle of disappointment, only fatigue.

How she wished their life together could be different, that she and Erik could be as they once were before everything went so terribly wrong!

Alone in her bedchamber, Christine hesitated with her hand on the key but this time did not turn the brass metal in the lock. Wearily she undressed and slipped beneath the thick pile of covers.

Only later would she recall the unforeseen danger of her heartfelt wish, the shock of how soon it was to be granted – and in a manner too horrible to have imagined.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

XXXV

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After yet another restless night of little slumber, Christine dressed for the new day, often glancing toward the unlocked door that had never once opened.

Erik was keeping true to his word not to cross her threshold a second time and Christine realized that should she wish for his nearness she would need to make the first move. With all that they had been and all they had become to one another, it should not be so difficult.

Yet each time she finally felt that she might cross the more important threshold of absolute trust and take that crucial step toward him, he would speak of abysmal things she cringed to hear or something would happen to remind her of his dark truth, and she would refrain. Uncertain if the cause was the slayer within, repelled by the act, or the dread of such an occurrence, due to all she had seen. The horrid recollection of the carriage driver's throat ripped out was only one of many ghastly images that remained with her, a reminder of that which Erik was capable even if he had not been directly responsible for that man's death. And she wondered, as she so often did of late, just how many he had killed.

She beheld her dismal reflection in the glass. Her face looked drawn and weary. Smudges rested beneath her eyes, which looked back at her, haunted and dark, bearing dreadful secrets she dared never tell...

This could not continue, nor did she wish it to.

Not once did he ask for her blood or use force to possess it, when clearly he had more strength and could easily overtake her. And she was determined to surpass her fears of the frightful monster he'd become to reach out to the complicated and exciting man she had experienced him to be. To try to find and tenaciously hold on to any amount of normality she could claim in this fractured life that had been thrust upon them.

Their pleasure of music would be a perfect start, each of them possessing a great love for the art and an inherent gift for the expression of its notes. Surely, as it had already begun to do, music would serve to bring them closer.

Surprised Mihaela did not come to wake her when she had been so prompt with the overture every other day, Christine went downstairs.

The girl was nowhere; neither for that matter was Erik – not in any of the rooms he favored. Upon entering the kitchen, Christine noticed breakfast had not commenced – an oddity for Mihaela. Nor was there fresh water in the bucket on the counter, which was changed out each dawn of a new day.

A more thorough inspection of the castle proved that not a single soul inhabited the vicinity. Apparently Christine had been left alone in this great fortress. Perhaps the staff had not yet returned from the village, still waiting for the roads to become passable…

Curious, she moved to the nearest tall, narrow window, which looked out over the east and the area that encompassed the stable and icy forest beyond.

The world was composed of crystalline white, though the snow did not reach as high as she assumed it should for the raging blizzard through which they had traveled, only coming a short way up the stable doors. And she noticed the furrow someone made to reach it, a path like a channel, with the snow a little higher on each side.

As she looked out over the great expanse of near-distant woodland, a smidgen of black made an appearance from within its shaded bower and into the midst of all the brightness. She intently focused on that speck, soon realizing it was a horse sluggishly making its way through the snow toward the stable…

A riderless horse.

Alarm followed closely on the heels of shock to realize what she presumed the identity of the creature and to whom it belonged. Christine wasted no time in donning her cloak and scarf, unable to locate her gloves, and hastened back down the stairs to exit the castle walls.

No sunlight shone from above, the skies a silvery steel grey. The snow came to her knees and would have been impossible to maintain a steady pace if not for the path previously laid by another. She walked in those steps, grateful that no more than a few inches of fresh snow had fallen to cover the thin furrow made.

The trodden path took her to the stable then led away again, into the forest. Before moving in that direction she kicked the snow away from the edge of the door and struggled to open it, blinking into the well of darkness.

"Erik? Are you in here?" she called out hopefully.

"He's not here, my lady," Archer's voice came from somewhere within. "He left in the night but hasn't returned. Nor have the others."

A shard of icy fear stabbed her heart to hear the grim words she expected.

"I think he might be in trouble. His stallion is out here wandering alone – will you collect the horse while I look for the Count?"

"I -I cannot." The boy's voice came small and wary, and in that instant she remembered and felt she understood the cause.

"It's alright, Archer, I know what you are." She did not waste time dancing around vague references and foolish pretense when Erik's very life could be in danger. "There is no sun in the sky to harm you."

"Makes no difference," he said after a moment, clearly ill at ease to speak with her about such matters. "Any daylight be a danger to me…"

Again, Christine wondered why the same could not be said for her husband.

"The sun could break free of the clouds any time," the lad went on defensively. "It happened before. It happened this morn – I saw it through slits in the wall."

The skies were utterly gray, not even a hint of flimsy cloud hiding a recalcitrant sun beneath them. But the boy was clearly adamant and would not budge, and Christine did not dare linger, to try to coax him or even order him from the building, considering it a lost cause. Erik could be in real trouble. The same urgency, the same inner sense that directed her to find Lucy in the maze told her she must hurry to find him.

In anxious frustration she looked out over the land, to where she'd seen the black stallion. Cesar had come nearer the building, set on his course, and she felt certain the horse would be alright.

Leaving the stable door open for the animal's approach, Christine hurried away through a slightly wider channel of snow that took her deeper into the forest.

The cold bit through her wool stockings and into her flesh, the laced boots she wore doing little to keep the icy particles from slipping into them. But terror at what she might find kept her moving as swiftly as possible through the trek previously laid. Perhaps she should have had Archer saddle Mist, though she did not feel confident enough in her unexceptional skills to ride her horse unaccompanied, having no wish to find herself thrown into a tall snowdrift.

She walked for some time, her limbs so chilled that she could barely feel their existence. Resolutely she trudged along, keeping her bare hands held beneath her armpits for what little warmth she could glean from her ice-cold body, now and then calling out his name... silently appealing to the Almighty that she would find him in time... dearly hoping that her worry was all for naught and she would come upon him, unharmed, his beast having spooked and taken off at some point after he dismounted. Or perhaps he would quite suddenly move into her path, characteristically silent, and give her a start. He would chide her for walking in the forest alone and becoming lost, once again, and she would huff a contrary little laugh and confidently state that she knew exactly where she was going...

Her slight smile faded. Something was terribly wrong; she could feel it deep in the core of her soul.

A dusting of snow began to fall, quickly transforming into a heavier powder, and Christine shuddered to realize that her tracks would soon be covered. She could indeed become lost in this icy wilderness of trees and snow - could very well freeze to death. Yet the frightening realization did not cause her to surrender in retreat, only making her grim in her determination that she must push forward.

This time, without him to find her, the tables now turned – for though she strongly wished it, she did not think he would suddenly appear. And she did not consider herself much of a savior and less and less of one as the minutes elapsed without success of finding where he could be…

And then she heard it.

Christine halted suddenly on the path. There! Beyond the copse of trees to her right came what sounded like an animal's low cry but might have been a moan, barely discernible, and she noticed the shallow ditch she walked veered in that direction ahead.

Christine…

Stunned to hear her name whispered into her mind, she hurried onward, taking the bend along the channel of snow that looped around a patch of tall trees – and stopped dead in her tracks at the horrific sight before her.

In the distance, piles of gray ash littered the disturbed clearing of pristine white, and at its center, close to three of those piles, a cloaked figure lay prone. But it was the thick stake of wood protruding from his chest that shaped true terror inside her soul, the snow beneath his back weeping a dark, horrific red.

"Erik," she exclaimed softly, the talons of the terrible revelation shredding through her heart which felt likewise impaled.

He gave no response to her desperate plea, not one twitch, not one uttering of word or sound.

Motionless.

Lifeless.

Dead…

In horror, she slowly shook her head. NO!

She inhaled sharply.

No – he could not be gone! Were his kind not supposed to live forever?!

Yet the grisly picture laid out before her eyes mocked all fervent hope.

"Erik!" she cried out in despair as the shock evaporated enough that the need to act brought her swiftly to his side. She dropped to the ground on shaky knees beside him.

Beyond the leather mask, his eyes were closed, and fretfully she brushed the thin crust of snow from his still face, noting the blood that had dribbled from his lips. Her own eyes filled with tears that burned their way down cold cheeks.

"Please, please – no, no, no, no, no…" The mantra continued to slip from her trembling lips, gaining intensity, as Christine desperately pressed her palms against his blood-soaked chest. "Please, God, please! No, no, no - ERIK! Please don't be dead! Don't leave me!"

She abruptly moved her attention from his masked face and stared with a revulsion that made her want to retch at the wood jutting from his chest – a thick limb buried deep. Her vision impaired from the stream of tears that never ceased to fall, she angrily wrapped both hands around the loathsome branch. Exerting the same mystifying strength she once used to bury a dagger into a tree, Christine pulled the ghastly column of wood from his body and threw it far from her with a little snarling whimper.

In the next instant, the impossible occurred: His eyes flew open and he sucked in a ragged inhalation of breath.

"Erik?" she breathed in astonished disbelief, a glimmer of joy turning up the edges of her lips in the beginnings of a smile. "You're alive?!"

He blinked a few times then slowly shifted his eyes to her face.

"Christine…"

His voice was weaker than she'd ever heard it, but never did it sound more beautiful.

"You're alive," she repeated the wondrous truth, moving her hands to tenderly cup his jaw. "But how? There was a piece of wood - a branch - buried inside your heart!"

"Wood… not silver… only paralyzes," he said with difficulty.

Her eyes briefly slid shut in gratitude of that grim detail.

"But how did this happen?" She hesitated then asked, "Was it Raoul? Did he do this to you?"

"No." He scowled, and she sensed his reaction was not solely from the incredible amount of pain he must be feeling. "I need…"

When his words trailed off and his eyes slid shut, she moved her face closer to his. "What, Mon Ange? What is it you need? Tell me."

"Gregor… Bring him to me."

In dismay she shook her head. "They have not yet returned from the village."

His eyes shot open, golden orbs now rimmed with a fierce bright red that made her own eyes widen with shock to see the change. His breath came in a soft, slow exhale.

"Erik?" she prodded, a new wave of worry besetting her.

"Return… to the castle. Wait for him there. Send him to me."

She stared at him in disbelief. Did he truly expect her to leave him lying there in the snow, helpless and gravely wounded? To abandon him to the possibility of whatever danger might still exist?

Oh, but why was he still so weak?! Why did he not heal as he had done before – what she now realized must have happened in past days. She had watched him return her torn hand to normal, had seen his pale waist devoid of any wound that the blood on his shirt earlier depicted. Days ago, when she followed him to his bath in worry and waited for his appearance -

Then he had healed quickly.

But now the terrible hole in his chest did not appear to be closing, his blood still seeping slowly and maliciously to the ground, and she shook her head in confused dismay to see him so injured. So wretchedly weak and vulnerable…

"I am not leaving you, Erik, don't ask it of me," she said, determined, though her heart pounded in a flurry of fear. "Tell me how I can help you. Tell me what to do."

His eyes again closed, and it seemed an eternity before he answered.

"You know."

He did not again look at her, and at the shock of those two soft words finally uttered, she did know.

With one last miserable glance to his blood-soaked waistcoat and the gaping wound, Christine understood what must be done to keep him alive and with her –

And that was all that mattered.

She would be hanged if she would lose him again!

As a child, the loss had devastated her; as his wife, it would destroy her. Her world, absent of Erik, wasn't a place in which she wished to dwell – and she realized this with a force that blew away all cobwebs of doubt and dread that had invaded her heart and clouded her mind since she had learned his ominous secret.

Hurriedly she scanned the area, spotting what she needed nearby. Breaking the small stick to make a sharp edge, she dug it along her palm, wincing in pain and letting out a nervous but thankful breath to see red trickle down to the cuff of her sleeve. Nothing like her lost dagger would have accomplished but acceptable. Without hesitation, she brought her split skin to his lips.

His eyes still closed, he recoiled slightly, as if in surprise, and then she felt his tongue trace the tear she'd made. The sting fled and she realized with a sinking heart that once again he healed what she had cut.

"Erik!" she said in soft protest.

"I need more than this."

A shiver of apprehension to realize what he meant and what that would entail warred with her earnest desire to help him.

He had promised to love her, never to harm her, vowed that he would not turn her, and every day since they'd met – in her childhood, in her womanhood – he proved those words true. Even at his worst, he remained faithful to his word. He may have become a monster to the world, but he was truly and always had been her angel…

Christine swallowed hard for courage, tamping down a sudden burst of nervousness and any inherent slayer tendency to recoil. The words came easier than she would have imagined.

"Take what you need."

An anxious heartbeat, then –

"Christine…" His voice was low in its uncertainty, and as his changeable eyes flickered open she could see that more red had infiltrated the gold. "You are sure? I can wait… for Gregor…"

She doubted that. The snow had not ceased to fall. The frozen air chilled her to the core; she could barely feel her limbs, and she knew that neither of them could remain in their present state much longer. He may not be vulnerable to the biting cold but was clearly growing weaker with each moment that elapsed at the horrific loss of blood, which ran more freely since she had removed the stake of a branch from his chest. Soon, very soon, he would bleed out and truly die…

She pushed her wrist against his mouth forcefully. "Take it!"

Still he hesitated, and she furrowed her brow in dismayed confusion when he pushed her arm away a fraction though still held to her sleeve.

"Close your eyes."

At his words, more somber and firmer than before, she wished to ask why but refrained.

Obediently, her eyes fell shut, her heart hammering against her ribs with what was about to occur, what she had been greatly averse to encounter but now, for his sake, for his life, chose to allow...

"Stop me if it becomes too much."

She felt his leather gloves grasp her by the elbow and the hand to hold her arm steady, though his own grip trembled as his command had done. And then - two pricks like needle points elevated into sharp stabs of pain Christine gave a small cry of anguish to endure.

The swift rush of blood that flowed from her wrist into his mouth stunned her. Deeply he suckled, like a starving babe at its mother's breast, perhaps a bizarre comparison for her dazed mind to make in light of the circumstances – she, his wife, and he nothing close to a child. Yet the parallel seemed apt, for both gave life. And though he took from hers, the most incredible sensation coursed through Christine's veins. A strange buoyancy lightened her awareness, a mild euphoria she was stunned to experience that chased away the dark snippets of fear that had lingered.

As if from a distance, she heard him drink of her very essence, each hungered swallow, and soon found it difficult to form lucid thought. Her fingers tingled and lightly curled around his hand holding hers in a futile effort to remain steady. Gradually she swayed toward him, her bones seeming to melt, and vaguely wondered if he sucked life from their marrow as well. Unable to hold herself up to sit, her head found its way to rest against his chest, a peculiar warm haze overtaking her so that she began to feel separate from this realm of existence, all former concerns a dim memory that evaporated as her consciousness began to follow…

Barely aware when his fangs abruptly withdrew from her wrist, she felt him shift her limp body. In the next instant he surged to his feet while lifting her in his strong arms and bringing her closely held against him…

Powerful once more.

"Erik," she dazedly managed to frame his name as a grateful whisper on her lips.

"Christine," he crooned in a gentle melody, his cool lips touching the lobe of her ear. "Iubirea mea, Ingerul meu... pentru totdeauna ești a mea."

Too weary to lift her weighted eyelids, she felt a strong rush of air swirl around them, blowing her hair into her face. Almost immediately this was exchanged for the feather-softness of a mattress beneath her prone form. As if floating from a distance, she sensed her cold and damp clothing being removed. A thick fur coverlet spread over her chilled and stinging flesh, encasing her in soft warmth up to her neck. A warm wet cloth moved against her face where she had lain against him.

"Rest," he quietly ordered, and Christine felt his lips brush her brow before she obediently slid into the deepest of slumber.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Once more, the Count stood and watched his young bride sleep – torn by all of what had occurred, stunned by her actions, astounded by her sacrifice…

He had not been as cautious as on former hunts, Christine as ever on his mind, expressly their conflict so recently endured, and a slim part of his beleaguered soul had fleetingly anticipated death and to end this curse – before the beast roared to the surface and fought mightily to thwart his dire agenda. But there had been too many of them, better fighters than those of nights previous. Overtaken and impaled, his saving grace – if he could call it that – had been the dawn.

The rosy orb of the sun had topped the horizon, brief but effective, as those newly-turned instantly combusted and burned down to twelve piles of foul ash. Their end effectual, if not how he planned.

Erik had lain there helpless, unable to move for the crude stake inside his heart, aware that despite the ring he wore, prolonged exposure to daylight coupled with the incessant loss of blood would soon mark his conclusion as well… and in what he believed his final moments, he desperately wished for the impossible – a second chance at a different life, a life of mortality with Christine.

With his dying thoughts saturated in the memory of her beauty, her touch, her voice, he had reached out for her one last time, if only within his mind…

And suddenly, unbelievably, she was there and had come to him.

Even more astounding, she had given of herself without hesitation, and he had taken all that he required of her precious blood to recover and more than he should have done, for her sake.

She had returned to him his strength by giving all of her own. No one had ever sacrificed so much for his sake, ever sacrificed for him at all.

"Christine…. why?" he whispered with unsteady emotion to her unconscious form.

He failed to understand, when she had been distant toward him all week, fearful and wary of that which she demanded of him minutes ago. And oh, how sweet her taste!

Now, as she lay there, still and fragile, he sank to the edge of the mattress and ran his curled index finger against her silken cheek, paler than he had ever seen it, no rosiness to flush the skin.

She would recover, in time. That he did not doubt. Bed rest and the proper sustenance would aid the process, he would see to all of it…

But her willing sacrifice confused and baffled, even humbled him.

So slender of frame, so gentle of heart, so delicate of feature – and yet she had an abundance of strength and courage, moreso than any woman he had known throughout the entirety of the centuries he inhabited. Different than all of her kind, gloriously unique, and certainly unlike any other slayer in existence. How many times had he thought those things of her?

Her remarkable actions today only magnified his assessment, a hundred times over, and tenderly he spoke the words in English that he earlier whispered to her in Romanian:

"Christine, my love, my Angel… forever you are mine."

As he stood to his feet to go, her dark eyes wearily flickered open. And though it was impossible, his lifeless heart seemed to lunge a few beats as he looked into their questioning depths.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

XXXVI

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

"Forever, Erik?"

Her voice came as a wisp, denoting her hesitation and the fear to which she would not admit. It resounded like a gong inside her mind; nor did the pregnant pause that followed put unspoken concerns to rest.

He stood beside her bed, once again hale and fit. His eyes shimmered in gold behind the sockets of the mask as they regarded her. Solemn. Assured. At the same time perhaps a bit remorseful.

"Forever, Christine, until death us do part. Even then, even after you slip from this mortal coil and enter the realm of angels, I am convinced my love for you will remain throughout the ages that I continue to walk upon this earth."

He answered the question she feared to pose without referring to what they both knew she truly asked: Had she become like him by allowing him to sink his fangs into her flesh? He once told her it was much more involved than that. Yet upon hearing his tender endearment as he thought she slept, she worried that she had indeed crossed over from his consuming her blood to the point that she'd lost all consciousness, that perhaps such was the method by which one became vampyre.

Even still, had that indeed been the case when she discovered him lying at the point of death, even had she known what would occur…

"Why, Christine?"

His quiet question came as more of a command and abruptly jolted her from conflicted thoughts. She looked at him in confusion, having not spoken but two words to him, a nervous query he only just answered.

"Why what?"

"Why did you do it?" This time, he was the one to look mystified. He sat down on the edge of her bed and stroked gentle fingers along the pale skin of her slender wrist and the blue veins there, now without any sign of the two puncture wounds that earlier marked it. "Why did you put yourself at risk to save me? Why did you not simply let me go?"

"Why?" she repeated with incredulity and shook her head against the pillow. "Erik, how can you ask me such a question?"

He chuckled dryly. "How can I not? You have borne witness to the monster I am, yet intervened, regardless, and with clear uncertainty of how your sacrifice might have affected you."

"I told you," she replied emphatically, pushing herself up to sit. "What you have become does not change how I feel…"

Her last words left her in a forced whisper as a rapid wave of exhaustion rushed over her, instantly draining what little energy she regained. Her arms no longer would support her as with a groan she fell back into the pillows like a limp doll.

Concern tightened his lips. "You should not be overtaxing yourself, my dear."

"Overtaxing?" she complained, again finding her voice. "I only tried to sit up!" She could not recall ever feeling so weak in her entire life. Was this what Lucy felt?

"Any amount of needless physical energy should be curtailed. You must not tire yourself by engaging in talk that can be put off until a later date. I was remiss to introduce the topic." He stood to his feet. "Once the staff returns, I shall instruct Mihaela to bring you meals that will aid in your recovery. You must eat the entirety of what she brings you."

"What kind of meals?" she asked suspiciously.

"Calf's liver, for a start. I will instruct one of the servants to visit the butcher in the village."

Christine scrunched her nose and squinted her eyes, weakly crossing her arms over her chest in a show of rebellion. "I detest liver."

He almost chuckled at her childish display, reminded of the tiny slip of a girl who had the same reaction at having to dance an extra rehearsal as Madame's punishment for being tardy, despite that her feet hurt as she had then claimed. Yet again he asked himself how he could not see from the start that Christine was his Lotte.

"Nonetheless, you will eat what is provided because it is the best remedy for you," he proclaimed softly in a voice of authority, demanding her compliance.

As if her thoughts also took her back to a simpler time when he acted toward her as both teacher and guardian, she responded with a sigh, "Yes, Ange."

He did smile then, experiencing a slight twinge in his cold, black heart that she could still call him by such an exalted and undeserved name.

"I will instruct Mihaela to make a sauce to complement the meal," he amended.

"Liver is liver," she grumbled.

Whether or not he heard, he gave no sign.

"But what I was trying to say earlier -"

"You must rest, my dear," he cut her off, moving toward the door. "There is healing to be found in slumber."

And then he was gone.

Christine turned her head on the pillow and looked in frustrated disappointment at the empty doorway. She sensed that he forbade further talk and left, more to escape their previous conversation than anything else, perhaps fearing to hear an explanation though he'd asked for it. As much as she wished he had not made such a hasty departure, her physically drained condition brought her into dreamless slumber before she could form another lucid thought.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

For the next three days Christine did nothing but remain in bed. With the staff returned and given their new tasks, she grudgingly ate the reprehensible meat Mihaela brought her morning and night, (only slightly more tolerable with the white wine sauce made to go with it), along with some horrid, thick green potion that reminded her of a witch's brew and tasted just as vile, and slept heavily for long periods of time.

Surprisingly, not once did Erik visit after that first occasion – or if he did, Christine did not know it.

The thought troubled her.

As soon as she stirred to wakefulness and was able to rise to her feet and walk without feeling her legs were fragile crusts that might easily crumble, Christine donned her wrapper and slippers and went in search of her husband. A glance outside her bedchamber window signaled that nighttime again descended over the land, but the late hour did not deter her.

In fact, it propelled her determination.

Despite that she finally had regained all equilibrium, she moved slowly, clutching the carved handrail, not wishing to misjudge her competence and pitch headfirst down the stairs. No servants were on the lower level for her to question. She peered into the music chamber, not locating Erik there. Concern hastened her steps as she next tried the library, and she released an audible breath to find him behind his desk, busy at work.

Hearing her approach, he looked up and closed the folder of whatever contents he was reading.

"You're here," she said in relief before he could speak.

He leaned into his wing-backed leather chair and spread his hands wide with nonchalance.

"Where else would I be?"

"I feared that you had gone back out there to fight them again."

There was no need to clarify of whom she spoke.

"That is the plan."

"Erik, no…"

Christine covered the distance between them but instead of stopping before his desk, she went around it, to his chair. Sinking to her knees beside him and folding her legs beneath her, she covered his cold hand that rested on his thigh with her hand and felt it slightly quiver beneath her touch. His eyes behind the ebony mask regarded her with curious surprise.

"I beg of you, forget this vendetta."

He considered her, his gaze somber. "I end them to safeguard you."

"And what of you, Erik," she insisted. "What of the risk to you?"

He shrugged, and fiercely she shook her head.

"No, don't do that! Don't behave as if your life is of no account."

"I would gladly surrender my life to save your own."

"And I am grateful for your protection, but I have no wish for you to put yourself at unnecessary risk night after night. As I now know that you have been doing. Please, just let this go, Mon Ange. I cannot bear to come upon another nightmarish scene as I did when I went searching for you that day. You could have died. I thought you were dead…." Tears glazed her eyes.

He shook his head softly. "I am still astounded you took that risk, not knowing what might occur," he admitted. "And you, a slayer."

She thought about that, had thought of little else, and spoke of what she had come to realize, grateful that he was again allowing what needed to be said and not putting a swift end to their conversation.

"I think I told you, but if not, I have made the choice not to follow that calling. Apparently we are given a choice. And while it is true that I do not wish to become a Dark One either…"

By the movement of the mask, his brows lifted at the name.

"It is what my mother called your kind in her journal," she gave the hasty explanation. It seemed far kinder than other terms Raoul and her unknown ancestor had used.

"Please know, Erik, that even had I believed my actions to save you would have changed me into that, I would have responded no differently."

His eyes regarded her with awed curiosity. "Again I ask – why, Christine? Given that you have been predisposed to initiate as little contact with me as you could withstand this past week, I cannot help but wonder… "

She stared at him in disbelief. Did he again need to be reminded that he had lain at the point of death? Did he have so little regard for his own life that it did not even bear consideration? Had he never had anyone to care? Never had anyone express concern or interest in what happened to him? Never been shown a token of affection or consideration when it came to his well-being?

In recalling his testimony of the multitude of years he had lived, suffered and endured, she knew the answer without having to pose the question.

"I love you," she said, putting her heart into her words while bringing her other hand to clasp his hand in both of hers. "More than I can ever say, more than you will ever know. You are my world, Erik, and always have been."

His eyes of gold regarded her with tenderness, but she saw skepticism written there as well.

She had poured out her heart of all that begged to be spoken, and still he doubted her?

Christine recalled his earlier question, posed twice. Why? Why had she saved him after having shown little more than apprehension and fear of what he had become?

"Why?" she repeated as if he'd spoken the question a third time. "Because when I saw you lying there with a branch protruding from your chest, with your blood pooling all around you in the snow, I felt as if I, too, had died. I wanted to die! To realize you were not dead brought home to me just how much I want to be your wife, how incredibly thankful I am to be given this second chance…"

She lifted one hand to cup his face, while still holding tightly to his hand.

"Please forgive me, Erik. Forgive my foolishness. Forgive my delay in coming to a decision when there was only one to be made, only one my heart wanted. Please don't be upset with me any longer –"

She was given no further voice to plead as his hands moved suddenly to grasp her to him, lifting her from the floor, at the same time his mouth sought hers. So long starved of his intimacy, Christine whimpered and wrapped her arms around his neck, swept away within the fierce tide of his passion.

He pulled her fully up onto his lap, never ceasing to kiss her, his tongue boldly demanding what she was only too happy to give. Soon she was floating and sinking within a whirlpool of buoyancy that made her want to drown inside its vortex and be lost forever.

With tender measure he broke away, pressing his masked forehead to her smooth one.

"Careful," he rasped softly, "Such coveted words from those beautiful lips, and I might be persuaded to believe you."

"I wish you would," she softly implored, clinging to him as though she might fall, though his strong arms held her close and disproved the notion.

His darkened eyes noted her weakened reaction. "You still need to regain your strength. I should give you more time."

"I wish you would not." Even as she said the words, she felt the shy heat of their brazen implication steal over her face. But her eyes remained steady, challenging his.

Despite the mask that covered most of his face, she sensed his surprise.

"Nonetheless -"

"Erik." Once again, she pressed her hand to his cheek. "I promise to go back to bed and obtain further rest, but only if you will lie with me."

No longer a veiled suggestion, she boldly stated what she wanted.

"My dear, I promise that if I surrender to your delightful entreaty, you will get no rest."

Tingles prickled through her at the exciting candor of his seductive words.

"I think you will find that I am much recovered."

He stroked his finger against her blushing cheek. "Christine, you are sure?"

Rather than attempt to persuade him with words, she brought her lips back to his.

The kiss, as before, quickly grew more passionate, more intense, both of them starved for the deep affection they had coveted and missed. Suddenly, he gathered her even closer in his arms and rose to his feet, tightening his hold and lifting her with him but never taking his mouth from hers.

Lost in his kiss, Christine was barely aware of the whirlwind that swept around her, believing it composed only of the frenzied sensations he aroused, brought on by her increasing need. She pulled away to catch her breath, stunned when she realized he no longer stood inside the library but within her bedchamber, her eyes widening further as she caught sight of the window. The curtains had not yet been drawn, and over the treetops, the moon filled the night sky, incredibly large and full. But what bewildered her was its hue.

Erik, too, brought his attention to where she stared and walked with her still in his arms to the window.

"A blood moon," he said pensively.

"A what?" Startled, she looked at him.

He dropped his somber gaze from the window to her eyes. "You have never seen one?"

"No. I would have remembered a moon as red as blood." Indeed, it glowed almost crimson in the dark canopy of sky, emitting a faint hue of similar color upon his black mask.

"A night of magical phenomenon, wherein the remarkable is conceived, but evil is also imbued with greater power…"

She shuddered slightly at his quiet words that held an ominous ring to them. Gently he set her to her feet then moved toward the tie that held the drape bound.

"No, wait," she said before he could free the curtain to close it.

He turned to look at her in question. The room was dark, no candle or lamp lit, the sole light coming from the window faint, but bathing her bed in a dark, rose-toned glow.

"I want to see you." Before he could deny her request, as she was sure he would by the sudden tightening of his jaw and tensing of his shoulders, she hurriedly added, "I know what you are, Erik. Is there truly any reason we must remain concealed in absolute darkness? Can we not let the moon be to us a source of light? It is still quite dim."

Dimmer than when it glowed a brilliant white, but it was still more favorable than pitch black, and she could at least discern shapes and shadows...

He hesitated so long she thought he might refuse, but at last abandoned his task and retraced his steps toward her. His eyes held her in hypnotic gold as his hands moved to untie her lace-edged velvet wrapper and slide it from her shoulders to puddle to the ground, leaving her in her loose chemise. Just as in Paris, he began to undress her, pulling the ribbon free at her neckline, and just as in Paris, her hands were not idle.

That night had been the onset of their physical consummation, but tonight, too, felt like a beginning. For they were coming together, bared to one another, with no secrets to hinder…

All but one.

She stripped him of his ascot and waistcoat then unfastened the three top buttons of his shirtsleeves. The entire time he stood silent, watching her. Only when she pulled the hem from his trousers and lifted the billowy linen garment did he move to help her rid himself of it.

For the first time, Christine cast intrigued eyes upon her husband as he stood naked to the waist. With her eyes adjusted to the darkness, her perception was made clearer. Happily she saw no sign of his former travail, not even a scar to announce a wound once existed. She took a moment to appreciate his lean strength. His waist was narrow, making his shoulders and chest look wider, his arms and body toned without an ounce of flesh to spare. His skin shone white as alabaster, even in the dim light, the rose hue of the moon casting one side of him in its faint glow. If not for the patch of fine dark hair that lightly furred his chest, he could be made of marble. Indeed, like a statue he did not move, and that strengthened her confidence to press onward in her discovery…

She lifted her fingers to trace midway down to his ribs, the path they took ice-cold, as was all his flesh. Curiosity led her to begin a slow circle around him, running her touch along his naked skin as she went. She stopped in horror when she saw the rippled flesh of his back. Often in the darkness her hands had mapped out their cruel marks, but to actually see the depravity of men, that they would so viciously malign another, the one she loved with all her heart, brought tears to gloss her eyes.

"I don't understand," she whispered as her fingertips gently followed one of the many lines crisscrossed there. "Why did you not heal?"

"Those hideous scars obtained before the Curse took hold remained on my body."

A few tears spilled over, and she faintly pressed her lips to a patch of lumpy skin between his shoulder blades, feeling as well as hearing his quick indrawn gasp. She saw nothing ugly about him, the sole ugliness lying within the act itself.

With her free hand she whisked away all dampness from her cheeks, knowing he would see it as the pity he deplored, never taking her other hand from his body as she completed her circle to again stand before him.

She noted the question in his eyes, the wary suspicion as she lifted her hand to cup one side of his head.

"And this?"

"What of it, Christine…" He spoke the words with a hint of steel as if he knew her meaning without having to ask.

"Must this remain between us?"

"It conceals the most hideous scar of all, also failing to heal and attain any degree of normalcy. My face…" When she did not remove her hand from his cheek, he moved his own hand to cover hers and continued, "It is not a pretty sight, my dear. I have used my face to frighten many a victim before the kill."

She shuddered at the reminder of what he must do to survive but frowned at his stubbornness. "Erik, I have seen your fangs – you have taken my blood. I have seen your eyes glow red in the darkness. Do you truly believe that your deformity will frighten me away? Besides, you gave me a description that night in Paris."

He had called it the face of a beast, abnormal and twisted… and winced in remorse to have told her that much.

"Can that not be enough?"

"No. I do not want the mask to forever be a barrier between us, like the darkness you enforced. Please, let me see all of you this night …" She did not try to remove her hand from beneath the pressure of his, keeping it helpless and trapped against his mask.

He frowned. Another taut moment passed between them as he studied the determination in her eyes. Suddenly he released his captive hold, giving a curt nod.

"Go on then, if you must. You have been warned."

Surprised by his abrupt permission, reluctant though it was, Christine traced nervous fingers to the band of leather that held the mask in place, tied beneath his hair, most of which now hung loose from the black ribbon he often wore at his nape. The knot was too tight, likely in his fear that it should come undone. To fully remove it, she needed first to slide the ribbon that bound his hair, which she easily did. Now she needed only to pull the mask from his face and away…

His lips tightened at her hesitation.

"At last, do you now understand and agree with my efforts to protect you from this – " he began, raising his hand to motion in disgust toward his face, his words cut off when with one swift but gentle movement, she tucked her thumb beneath the black leather and pulled the mask away.

Erik grimaced and closed his eyes, dropping his hand back to his side like a dead weight, unable to bear what surely must be her expression of horror, disgust, or pity. Even after centuries of growing accustomed to men's hurtful responses, he was unprepared to behold it in the woman he adored. He waited for her little cry of fear or perhaps gasp of revulsion, but the deafening silence remained, becoming almost intolerable…

And then like a butterfly's wings he felt the softness of those blessed fingers light upon the part of him no individual had dared touch, before or after the Curse, could bear even to look at. They curled slowly inward, allowing fingertips to trace down to his clamped jaw, followed by the warm press of her soft lips against his warped cheek. He did not realize he was quietly crying until those gentle lips kissed a trail down to his mouth, and he tasted the salt of tears…

Or perhaps they were hers.

Christine had known what to expect from his bitter accounting in Paris. There was no shock, no surprise. And though the muted glow cast by the blood moon gave little by which to see, the enormity of his disfigurement was easy to discern. Twisted ripples of discolored flesh darkened the right side from forehead to mid-cheek, the left side bone white, his perfect features on that half no counterpart to the portion of his face he detested but an utter match to his personality:

One side monster. One side angel.

And, in whole, her husband and the immortal to whom she entrusted her life…her beloved who had never ceased to fight to prevent her death...

He moved, suddenly and swiftly, grabbing her around the waist and deepening the kiss she'd begun. With a little whimper, she lifted her hand from where she had been cupping his flawed cheek and wrapped both arms around his neck, pressing her body against him. The shock of his chill moved all through her, but the heat surging through her veins quickly dispelled the discomfort.

His hands spread to bunch her chemise in tight fists at her hips, as if in a desperate attempt at control. In a sudden frenzy he pulled away, swiftly lifting the garment over her head. Gladly she aided him, her hands going to his trouser fastenings as he again pulled her to his body. Lips pressed to lips, and tongue sought tongue - desperate to merge. By touch alone she impatiently undid small buttons, almost ripping them from their threads, then grabbed his trousers by the waist, insistently pulling downward.

Once more he stepped back, hurriedly shedding the remainder of his clothing, then grabbed her to him again, the warmth of her nakedness meeting the icy-coldness of his own. A shiver went through her at the contact, but she anticipated that their imminent union would melt the chill, as it had in all times past, and his skin would soon retain the warmth of her love.

His hands spread over her buttocks, lifting her to him, and she wrapped her legs around his narrow hips, feeling the throb of his desire, hard and demanding, between them. Without ceasing to kiss her, he walked with her to the bed she'd left unmade, falling with her to the cool, rumpled sheeting.

His ravenous attentions moved lower, striking an answering chord of hunger in her blood as his lips and tongue sought the most sensitive areas of her tingling skin and played havoc with her senses. He drove her to the edge of madness as she clung desperately to his head, his shoulders, urging him to areas his mouth eagerly traversed that sent little shocks throughout her body, bringing every nerve ending blazing to life.

Erik swiftly moved over her and lifted her beneath the thighs, joining her body to his and sinking so deeply inside her core. Christine gave a breathless little cry of thankfulness mingled with ever-increasing need. Realizing in that moment just how much she had missed this, missed him…

Once more he bent his head to suckle her breast – when abruptly he stopped, swiftly releasing her nipple and rising slightly to lower his head further in toward himself while arching his back. The strands of his dark hair hung free, the ends trailing her skin, with no part of his face showing. His hands clutched tight fistfuls of the bedding on each side.

Wrapped within veils of the heated desire he created, she stared at the top of his head through eyes glazed with passion, noting how still he'd become. Still buried inside, but having ceased with his intense strokes. Other than his labored breathing, having ceased with all movement entirely…

And she remembered: on every occasion they made love he had undergone a similar reaction, having suddenly been seized from her grasp, though he'd never left her embrace, somehow lost to her in the darkness and leaving her floundering in uncertainty.

It never lasted long, but never failed to occur.

And finally she understood.

This night, she had ventured through doors that held the most vulnerable of his secrets. Looking upon his scars, looking beyond his mask. Confidence in her achievement led her to speak one last time and venture through another, what she felt must be, the final door ...

"Erik," she whispered in husky tones, her hands reaching for and grasping both sides of his bowed head. "Look at me."

Still he did not move.

"Please," she cajoled, gently trying to tug his head upward and meeting with resistance as he remained fixed. "Please, let me see…"

He appeared to be waging a private war within himself, but she did not remove her hands from cradling his temples. And at last he lifted his head only enough so that she caught sight of his eyes, peering upward…

Blood red and glowing as brightly as the crimson moon. The pupils nearly as small as pinpoints and barely noticeable.

She gave a soft indrawn breath to see him in such a state, though she was unsurprised and did not loosen her hold. Instead, she tugged at his head again, still gentle but more firmly than before, and lifted his face to see all of it - her startled gaze dropping to the fangs that protruded from beyond his upper lip stretched into a grimace.

His scarred and twisted face did now indeed bear a monster's attributes, amplified by his disfigurement and truly a terrible sight to behold even in the near darkness, and his grim words returned to her of how he unmasked his face to his enemies before the kill…

Still, she did not cease to stare. Nor did she recoil or push him away.

You are in union with a vampyre! the innate slayer in her screamed, "Are you mad?!"

But her heart had grown stronger through the peril of their travails and she smothered the cry, quick to defend – he is my prodigal Angel and my newfound husband. I love him….

As if to stress her silent proclamation, she slowly brought one hand toward his face, which loomed so close that she felt his rapid breaths as they met and mingled with her own.

Oddly enough, he was the one to shrink back in hesitation, though he did not leave her body.

She continued to bring her fingertips past his smooth cheek until they brushed one long white incisor down to its point in a sort of horrified wonder. She felt a sting like the prick of a needle and winced. Instantly he licked the beaded drop of blood from the pad of her finger then grabbed her wrist, violently thrusting her hand away and holding it captive on the mattress. His mouth, which had given her such pleasure, had become a weapon, while his blood-red eyes seemed to penetrate through to her soul…

She shook her head against the pillow. Why did this happen, why now, as they made love? Why could he not prevent the emergence? For clearly he did not instigate or welcome the change, or he would not have tried to hide from her - not now when she knew and had seen the full truth of what he was.

She only uttered, "Why," but he seemed to read the myriad of questions that related to that one word in her eyes.

"Passion arouses the beast," his voice came as a low silken growl, unlike and yet similar to his own timbre.

Her gaze remained fastened to his fangs. "You want to bite me," she whispered the words that had once been spoken with fear and trepidation.

"I swore to you I would never do anything to harm you," he hissed.

"I believe you."

Christine continued to stare, from his mouth, then to his eyes, and back.

He had bitten her, and she recalled the wealth of emotion that had flooded through her, especially the pleasurable sensations that she never once would have imagined as he drank of her blood. What she had not understood, she once feared. But he had opened the door to her awareness, also showing her the enigma of his true character, and in doing so, eliminated any remnant of terror.

Her heart in her eyes, she gave a small nod against the pillow as if answering a silent request, then turned her cheek into it, exposing the long column of her neck to him.

She heard his swift intake of breath and felt the shock ripple through his entire body. It was another moment before he responded.

"Christine, no…" He bent to brush his lips beneath her jaw in a tender kiss. "You are not yet ready. You need more time to recover. I took much from you."

Surprised by his low refusal and, in turning to face him, to see that his fangs had somehow disappeared, she again brought her fingertips to his parted lips.

"How…?"

Once more he understood without her having to finish the thought and gave a twisted smile. "Centuries of the Curse have taught me to control the urge when it is needful. At times, when we are intimate, it takes longer to rein in the beast."

She nodded softly, recalling the first time they made love and how much longer it had taken him to return to her from the darkness that had gripped him. If any doubts remained to trouble her soul, they were obliterated after seeing how determined he was to sacrifice his innate hunger for her well-being. How he always had done so, even when she had not realized…

"I love you," the profession of her heart burst from her lips, startling him by the manner in which his glowing eyes, still more red than golden, briefly widened. She nodded again. "I do, Erik, I love you. Forever and always. That will never change, no matter what face you wear..."

With a swiftness that took her breath, he brought his mouth down to hers, the desire that had been held at bay but ever simmering again roaring to flame. She matched his every motion, every kiss, every touch and stroke, moving with him in their intimate dance of the flesh, losing awareness of all but him as together they reached their exclusive plateau of sensual nirvana –

Even the room itself seemed to have brightened its rosy glow that enfolded them in ethereal rays.

Through hazy eyes she caught a glimpse of the red globe of the moon now filling the window and beaming down upon their entwined bodies. It seemed to shimmer with waves of heat as she reached her summit of ecstasy and he quickly followed her into a state of satisfied bliss.

Later, they relaxed with Christine stretched out beside Erik, cuddling to his now warmed body. Her head lay against his chest and his hand stroked her long, damp curls. She knew from experience that all too soon the ice cold chill would return to his flesh and wished she knew some method to prevent the recurrence.

"Is there, perhaps, a cure?" she broached the possibility.

"A cure?"

"A way to break the Curse."

He thought a moment. "Even had I known the identity of the Romanian gypsy witch to find her and ask, she is long since deceased. I learned that she passed from this world into the next before I was afflicted. Vlad Drăculea made certain of that in his thirst for vengeance."

A shudder passed through Christine at the knowledge of the certain violent death the woman must have suffered, and she tightened her arm across his waist.

After a moment, a small smile lifted her lips.

"I can hear your heart beating," she whispered; it gave her a sense of stability and safety.

His hand in her hair halted mid-stroke. "That is not possible."

She drew her brows together in puzzlement at the emphasis he placed on the words. Her smile still intact, she craned her head upward to study him.

"Why is it not possible?"

"I would have thought it obvious," he said, without criticism, "I am undead. My heart has no life in it to beat."

Even as he spoke, she felt the barely perceptible thuds against her cheek and heard them in her ear. Faint, but there….

"I assure you, Mon Ange, I am not imagining it."

He shook his head pensively, his eyes skeptical that she was indeed believing what did not exist and only in what she wished to occur.

Yet on this night, magical, as he'd told her, and one of new beginnings - were not all things possible?

She lay there, content in his arms, but did not try to convince him of the reality, not wishing to cause any further conflict between them, however small, wishing only that this moment of utter tranquility could go on ad infinitum.

"I would request a favor," she said after a moment, exhaustion beginning to take hold.

"And what does my Countess desire?"

Christine smiled to hear her new title spoken as an endearment.

"It is only that on every occasion I have awakened after we have lain together, you are not there, and I feel your absence strongly. Will you remain, so that when I open my eyes in the morning I may have you with me?"

Something then occurred to her, and she shifted again to look up at him. "Do you sleep?"

Erik chuckled softly. "It is not needful, unless I am weakened, but that does not happen often. Though to sleep would rob me of the sight of you. Perhaps I shall lie awake all night and bask in your angelic beauty as you slumber."

A flush of embarrassment came over her face and she smiled, laying her head back down upon his chest.

"So you will stay?"

"If that is your wish, how can I refuse, when to do so awards me a night in your arms?"

Yet it was not a slow stirring within her husband's tender embrace that gradually brought Christine to consciousness, as she would have wished, but an abrupt awakening caused by the insistent banging outside the castle doors.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter XXXVII

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Christine startled to sudden consciousness at the banging of the massive doorknocker on the castle gate, the disquieting sound carried in the stillness of the night. Erik was already moving swiftly to stand. In the next instant, he lit the candle by her bed with his magic and strode, naked, to grab her chemise from the floor and toss it to her lap, reminiscent of their morning escape from Paris.

"I advise you to put that on, my dear, and quickly, to save you any embarrassment by what happens next."

"What happens next…?" Christine parroted in confusion.

She sat up and stared at him, the dread of the moment dampening any shyness she might feel to see her husband fully unclothed in the candle's pale glow. He stood at an angle to keep the flawed side of his features from her sight and pulled his shirt over his head, where it fell mid-thigh. He then plucked his mask from the floor and slipped it over his head.

"You know what this is about, don't you?" she insisted nervously, clutching the blanket to her bare breasts. "You know who is out there."

In all the time she had been at the castle, no one had come to visit the Count, save for her great uncle and his thugs on the day of what turned out to be her wedding, and certainly never in what must be the middle of the night. A quick glance showed that darkness still filled the window.

He sighed and somberly shook his head. "Get dressed, Christine. Soon we will know."

She had just donned her chemise and Erik had reached for his trousers when a knock – not the usual scratching – sounded at her bedchamber door. Christine turned her head that way in confusion. Why would Mihaela wake her before dawn and why would she approach her room and not Erik's?

"Enter!" he commanded, Christine seeming to have lost her tongue with the apprehension of what news the maidservant would bring.

Mihaela walked in, her face blooming with sudden color. With her bed wrapper tied around her, the girl also roused from sleep, she averted her eyes to the floor.

"Begging your pardon, Master – Mistress – but there is a servant sent here from Montmarte who insists on speaking to my lady. He would not say why."

"Thank you, Mihaela," Erik said quietly. "You may go."

She gave a slight curtsy, still not looking at either of them, and quickly left the bedchamber, closing the door behind her.

"Erik…?" Christine could not disguise the worry in her voice. "From Montmarte?"

He closed the distance, holding out her dress and woolen stockings for her to take. "Get dressed, my dear," he said, his voice gentle, then sat on the edge of the bed, putting his back to her to don the remainder of his clothing.

For whatever reason he was not inclined to address the matter, though Christine worried that she already knew the cause of this nocturnal visit. Her hands shook so much, she fumbled while trying to fasten her corset and felt grateful when he silently stepped up and nudged her hands away from the hooks, swiftly managing the task.

Once they were downstairs, a young man she had never before seen awkwardly stepped forward. Dressed impeccably in dark, common clothes typical of Montmarte's servants, he held his hat in his hands. He bowed his head when Erik and Christine approached.

"My lord, my lady," he said. "The Vicomte de Chagny sent me here to bring the Countess to Montmarte. I am the earl's new driver."

"But why would he send for me in the middle of the night?" she asked apprehensively. "Is it Lucy?"

"I'm sorry, I wasn't told."

Christine shook her head in frustration at the mystery yet unsolved. "I must go," she said, more to herself than to anyone else.

"Christine, wait."

Erik put a staying hand to her arm. She looked at him in confusion, and he shook his head slightly then moved directly in front of the young man who appeared now as if he trembled in his boots.

"Tell me," Erik inquired, his voice soft like rich velvet, "who are you?"

"I am the driver for the Earl of Montmarte."

"Why are you here?"

"The Vicomte told me to come."

Christine moved to stand beside her husband.

"For what purpose?" he insisted softly.

As he spoke, Christine watched him, shocked to note the dark pupils of his eyes shrink to mere pinpoints within the gold of his irises then enlarge greatly before returning to their normal size.

"He did not say, only that the Countess would not refuse, that she asked to be kept informed."

Christine pondered the boy's words. Perhaps Lucy had asked for her – but why at so late an hour? Unless she had taken a turn for the worse.

"And there is no other reason you have come?"

"No, my lord."

Erik nodded and looked ready to step away, then added, "While she is in your care, you will do nothing to harm my wife, even sacrificing your life for hers if need be."

"Erik…"

"I will do all you have said," the lad replied as if under a trance, and Christine knew he was.

Erik broke the compulsion and stepped away, ordering the driver to return to the carriage and wait. He took her cloak and scarf from Mihaela, who had silently approached and stood behind them.

"If our country goes to war, the leaders of the army would greatly benefit from your faultless tactics with their enemies," Christine said as he drew the woolen cloak around her form then brought the scarf around her neck.

She was determined not to allow the dread that lay heavy on her shoulders to overtake her, but he saw through her light quip to the concern that filled her heart.

Cupping her face with one hand, he stroked his thumb against her cheek.

"When it comes to you, my dear Countess, I take every precaution. Under compulsion, one cannot lie. You will be safe."

His words suddenly registered and she wrinkled her forehead in dismay.

"You're not coming with me?"

"Rest assured, I will follow. I wish to take Cesar, so that we have transport back to the castle and will not have to rely further on Montmarte hospitality."

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask why he could not just magically transport them both home in the blink of an eye – but of course he could do no such thing without creating suspicion. For them to suddenly disappear from Montmarte without a driver to take them would breed all manner of questions; Raoul especially would take note of it. And she began to realize how difficult Erik's life must be always to live within a masquerade, only able to let down his mask when in the safety of his home. Literally and figuratively.

"Go," he reassured. "I shall be directly behind."

Clasping her shoulders, Erik kissed her forehead then slipped a hand to her back and escorted her to the carriage, helping her to alight and waiting until she was settled before closing the door and heading for the stables.

The entire ride to Montmarte, Christine struggled to keep at bay her thoughts of what terrible new malady must have arisen for Raoul to request her presence at so inconvenient an hour. Now and then, she looked over her shoulder through the narrow back window, hoping to see Erik on his horse galloping to catch up to them, but the forest was too dark to see anything but shadows and black silhouettes on the snow. Nor did any of them move.

Once the carriage arrived, Christine did not wait for her husband to appear, the driver escorting her to the front door and opening it for her, eliminating the need for Christine to ring for the butler.

She pulled the hood of her cloak from her head and looked about the foyer, her heart skipping a beat to hear a woman's quiet sobbing in a nearby chamber. She feared to know but suspected the truth, even as she spotted Raoul walk slowly down the staircase. His face was white.

"You're too late," he said barely above a whisper. "She's gone."

"Gone?" Christine refused to believe what had become apparent. "What do you mean 'gone'? Where would she go? She has never left Montmarte!"

"Not absent for a time, Christine." He shook his head sadly. "Gone for all eternity. Lucy passed away only moments ago."

"Passed away…?" she repeated, shaking her head and lowering her gaze. "But – how can that be? She was doing so much better!"

"I cannot conceive what went amiss," he said as if speaking to himself. "I kept watch outside her room all night, every night since you were last here. I rarely left her unguarded and always made certain a maidservant was with her during those brief occasions. The window in her bedchamber is fixed into the stone, not designed to open…"

"Window?" Christine shook her head in confusion, feeling suddenly lightheaded with the horror of it all. "What in heaven's name are you talking about?"

She took a shaky step backward, feeling as if her legs might betray her and she would sink to the floor, when strong hands suddenly clasped her shoulders from behind, keeping her upright. She glimpsed the flash of a familiar ring on her savior's finger and turned quickly into his arms, wrapping her own around his waist, beneath his cloak.

"Oh, Erik, she's gone," she sobbed against his chest. "Lucy's dead!"

With one arm he held her close, his hand smoothing the back of her head in comfort. When he spoke, his voice came gruff and she did not feel his words were directed to her.

"How did this happen?"

"I am uncertain what this has to do with you."

Christine turned her head in angry disbelief to address her cousin. "He is my husband and that makes him family."

Raoul averted his eyes at her quiet chastisement but did not reply.

"I want to see her," Christine decided, breaking away from Erik but taking his gloved hand in silent appeal for his company. He nodded and together they took the staircase, Raoul thankfully offering no refusal, and coming up behind them.

At the bedchamber door that stood ajar, Christine hesitated. Erik slipped his hand from hers and moved it to her back in support. As they walked inside, she noticed the little mutt lying at the foot of the bed, his shaggy head sadly resting on his paws as if he understood what had transpired. At the sight of Erik, Topsy jumped to his feet with a fearful little whimper and scampered from the room.

By the dim glow of the bedside lamp, Lucy lay upon the bed with eyes closed, her face and lips as snow white as the pillow upon which her head rested. Her flaxen hair streamed as silver floss all around her. In death, she appeared like a winter angel. So silent, so still, never to whisper and giggle to her dolls again or look out at the world through those otherworldly and innocent delph-blue eyes.

None of this seemed real. Ever since the banging at the door had awakened her, Christine felt as if she was trudging through some bizarre nightmare…

She brushed the tears from her lashes with her fingertips and drew closer, dully noting that Lucy's neck above the lace bib collar was without blemish. Touching her ice cold hand which lay by her hip, Christine gently nudged it aside and found her wrist untouched, as was the other.

How could this be? It made no sense…

"There are no marks on her," Christine observed somberly, putting thought into words. "Did they also heal as before? Was she not again attacked to be so unnaturally pale?"

"Christine," Raoul said in mild warning from the other side of the bed where he stood. "This is not the time to speak of such things." He darted a glance toward Erik, then looked back at her. "We will talk of this when we are alone."

"There is no need," Christine said, weary of all of it, especially the secrets. "He knows, Raoul."

"Knows?" he repeated warily.

"About our family legacy, about…" She glanced at Erik. "…the Dark Ones."

"You told him?!"

"Yes, yes I did," she said somewhat testily, but kept her voice low as he also did, as if they stood in a cathedral. "My mother told my father. He even helped her, from what I read in her journal. Why should I not do the same with my husband?"

"Tell me, monsieur," he responded to Erik, "with what you have learned, assuming you even believe it, do you plan to help my cousin?" The snide way he said the word left it clear that he doubted in the Count's ability to do so.

"I do not answer to you, Vicomte, but for Christine's sake…" He slid his hand down her back and around her waist, drawing her closer. "I will do anything I must."

His words and touch were a comfort, and she tilted her head to rest it against his shoulder.

"And do you believe there are monsters afoot?" Raoul quietly insisted, unwilling to let the matter drop.

Erik gave him a twisted smile. "There are always monsters in a world so dark."

Beneath the soft, sardonic words slithered a deeper meaning, one that by Raoul's narrowed eyes, he understood well.

"It fails to matter," Christine said, "I have told you, cousin, I have no desire to fight the Dark Ones."

"It is your legacy!"

"But it is not yours."

Her soft accusation took him aback. He stared at her in uncertainty. "Why would you say such a thing?"

"It was in my mother's journal," she explained. In all the trauma of this past week, she had overlooked what should have been apparent and what Erik pointed out on their return home the night of the blizzard. "She penned that I am the only one to bear the mark in our family. She did not have the mark, nor did your mother, nor did you, though you led me to believe you were one of the chosen."

Raoul pressed his lips together, not bothering to deny her claim.

"I did not lie, Christine. I may not bear a physical mark, but the desire to fight and rid the world of their evil is deeply ingrained inside of me, a part of who I am, as it was for your mother and for my own. I wanted you to join me."

"That is not going to happen," she said firmly.

"No, I don't suppose it is…" He looked away in disappointment, flashing a disparaging glance at the Count before turning his attention back to Lucy.

If Erik noticed he gave no sign, and Christine was ready to let the matter drop. There were matters of far greater consequence to deal with at the moment than to give heed to petty rivalries.

Christine's heart felt as heavy as a millstone to see her young cousin lying there, so still, as if carved from white marble. Something then occurred to her, something she realized with a guilty stab of conscience and should have brought up when she first heard the dismal news.

"Our uncle, how is he faring?"

Despite the bad blood between them, Christine knew how devoted the earl was to his only child and that he must be devastated.

"Grief-stricken, of course, but he had resigned himself that this might occur. He is in the study with the physician, who is writing out a certificate of death. He ruled it as acute neurasthenia." He shook his head at the absurdity.

"The physician is here now?" Christine looked at him in surprise. "How long ago did this happen, Raoul?"

"He was here when she passed, had actually come to check on her – and found her near death. It was then that I sent the driver to collect you."

Christine sadly nodded. "I will stay if you need me and do what I can, of course. The servants should be instructed to prepare the parlor for the visitation. I have some experience in these matters, after Mama Valerius's passing. And my parents, though I was too young then to do anything but watch Madame Giry manage the proceedings."

"There is no need," Raoul stated, his words quiet but firm. "There will be no wake."

"No wake?" Christine blinked in shock. "But - what of family members who would wish to come and see her before she is laid to rest? Will the earl not object?"

It all seemed so bizarre, so unnatural to stand at her young cousin's bedside, with her lying there, absent of life, and discuss the minutiae of her death.

"We are all the family she had. Due to her…condition, there are no friends to visit."

Christine reflected on his words in dismay. Lucy had experienced none of those things that should have been hers to enjoy – love, marriage, children. Friends. Though Christine supposed her cousin had known a twisted kind of happiness, trapped inside the madness of her fantasy world with her porcelain dolls for company.

"I have already discussed it with Uncle. Once the doctor leaves, tonight we will say a few words at the crypt and lay her to rest there."

"What?" Again Raoul surprised her with his seeming desire to quickly wash his hands of the matter. "So soon?"

"It is best for all involved."

Christine hardly thought it best for Lucy's father to send off his beloved daughter without a proper farewell. "She must have a priest say rites over her, Raoul – she must." Before he could argue, she added, "The priest who stayed at the castle while he recovered from his wounds – Father Kiley – send a servant to the village to ask if he will come."

Raoul hesitated as if he might refuse but gave a tight nod. "I will go and see to it."

Once he left the bedchamber, Christine melted against her husband's side, grateful for his strength.

"Oh, Erik. How could this happen? I thought the worst with Lucy was behind us."

She kept her voice soft, hoping he would not interpret her question as an accusation. Days ago, he assured her everything was under control; she only wished to understand how it could have all gone so wrong so quickly.

She felt his chest slowly rise and fall in a resolute breath. "The blood moon."

"What?" She looked at him. "When you said the remarkable can occur?"

His expression was somber. "And evil is given greater power. If Nicolae already possessed an invitation to Montmarte from a previous era and it does not expire with the owner who gave it but lives on through his descendants, then there would have been no stopping him in his vile agenda."

"But she was being watched continually!"

"By those who are not impervious to being compelled."

At his reminder that Raoul was a slayer only by desire and not through design, Christine nodded in grave understanding.

She could not be compelled. She bore the mark of the chosen. The fiend's magic would not have worked on her… perhaps if she had stayed at Montmarte during Lucy's all too brief recovery, perhaps if she had used the silver dagger to fight him off when he approached, as she had done before, instead of so foolishly burying its blade in a tree…

"Stop it, Christine."

Snapped out of her dismal ruminations, she looked away from Lucy to her husband. Beneath the sorrow mirrored in his eyes, the gold burned fiercely.

"You are not to blame for this," he answered her unspoken question. "This pre-dates centuries, to the original Council of the Dragon and Nicolae's thirst for vengeance. There was nothing you could have done, especially with the emergence of the blood moon."

She sighed in resignation. "It is only that I'd just begun to know her. We developed a rapport of sorts, as much as could be experienced with her under the hypnotic persuasion she suffered as a child, always living within her fantasies." She shook her head sadly. "And now, it's too late."

"Perhaps not."

Alert to his words, her heart skipped a beat at the implication, and she hurried to ask, "What do you mean? Is she…?"

Erik put his finger to his lips, and Christine's query faded into nothing. In the next instant, she heard more than one set of footsteps approach.

Frustration warred with a fearful sort of hope, that she correctly interpreted the meaning of his reply. Yet until they could speak alone without fear of being overheard she dared not risk airing the question.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

The moments that followed blended into a blur as obscure as the pall of thick night surrounding them. By the dual chimes of the grandfather clock the time was two hours past midnight, and it stunned Christine to note there were still hours to go before the dawn. The moon, tinged in blood or otherwise, had disappeared behind dark clouds, and they used torchlight to travel through the darkness.

Despite the late hour, Father Kiley had only just returned to his vicarage from visiting a sick parishioner but upon receiving Christine's message immediately accompanied the earl's servant to Montmarte.

Raoul walked near their great uncle and led the way, carrying Lucy's lifeless body, the folds of her white nightdress trailing to the ground. Behind them, Erik walked beside Christine, who carried one of Lucy's favorite dolls, the priest taking up the rear of the small and somber procession.

The family crypt was located on the north side of the maze, tucked snugly within a bower of tall trees, almost hidden from view. Two identical life-sized statues of male angels with heads bowed, each with both hands clutching swords held down before them, flanked the front of the stone mausoleum, as if standing sentinel and protecting the souls of the dead that lay at eternal rest within the tomb.

With the manner in which everything was so rushed, it did not surprise Christine to see through the closed gate that an open casket had been set on a nearby slab of stone. Raoul earlier told her that the earl prepared himself for such a tragedy ahead of time, and apparently that extended to preparations made. The suggestion of tiers of shelves and rectangular shapes in the darkness beyond the flickering torchlight were suggestive of Lucy's predecessors laid to rest.

With no servants in attendance, the staff having been ordered to remain indoors, the earl opened the gate and set the torch in a holder while Raoul gently laid Lucy inside the oblong box and crossed her wrists over her chest. Christine stepped forward once he retreated and tucked the favored doll beneath Lucy's arm.

The earl had been stalwart in his grim acceptance of his daughter's death, displaying no outward emotion since Christine's arrival to Montmarte, but at her farewell gesture, he bowed his head low and swallowed hard. She despised him for his indifference in his cruel attempts to manipulate her future, but witnessing his grief she could not help but reach out and lay a gentle hand of comfort upon his drooping shoulder.

Father Kiley was eloquent with the funereal rite spoken, his voice both gentle and kind. In the strong torchlight, Lucy appeared even more like a winter angel cast in white, like those statues outside, her face and hands bloodless, as if carved from the same smooth marble, her lips now a hint of faded blue, while her moonlit-fair hair glinted in the torch's flame.

Once the brief service was concluded, Christine cast one last sorrowful look at her young cousin then walked with Erik out of the crypt, leaving the earl behind for a private moment with his lost daughter.

Outside, Raoul stood a short distance away with a torch he'd taken and lit from the few that had lined the walls inside, and spoke to Father Kiley. The vicar turned once Christine emerged from the crypt.

"If I might have a word with you, Countess?" he inquired, before Erik could steer her past the men.

She sensed her husband's unease as he also stopped alongside her. For the first time that night she realized how difficult this must be for him, to be in such close proximity with one of God's ordained ministers, along with a self-professed slayer zealous to rid the world of all of his kind.

"I wish again to convey my gratitude toward you, and of course toward you, Count cel Tradat, for all you did to aid me during my stay at your castle."

Erik gave a curt, almost uncomfortable dismissive nod.

"My housekeeper shared with me news of your recent visit, my lady, and spoke of your generous donation. I want to assure you that the food was distributed to those who most needed it, including a young widow with three small children to feed. Her husband was one of the victims of the most recent animal attacks." He hesitated, looking both to Erik then Christine again. "And I wish again to express how deeply sorry I am for the sudden loss of your cousin. It is a terrible tragedy."

There was a question in those brown eyes, and she wondered what, if anything, Raoul told him. That he immediately spoke of Lucy after having referred to the attacks and the emphasis he gave the words suggested the vicar knew how she truly died. Though no one had spoken of the harsh reality, tiptoeing around the truth that lay buried in a quicksand of silence.

Christine nodded her acknowledgement, afraid to respond and say too much.

"I wish to extend the invitation to consult with me any time you wish," he went on compassionately, "and I hope to see you at morning services in the near future. The door is always open." He looked at Erik then Raoul. "For all of you."

Christine sensed her husband's discomfort escalate and gently slipped her hand into his.

"Thank you, Father Kiley," she said, with a faint smile, "and especially for coming here tonight, despite the late hour. Your assistance was greatly appreciated."

"Of course, my child. I was happy to oblige. May God bless and keep you."

"Our driver will take you back to the village," Raoul put in. "I'll walk you back." He looked at Christine. "You should go home and get some rest as well."

"But –" Christine glanced toward the crypt. "You don't mean to leave the earl here alone?"

"I will return once I have escorted Father Kiley to the carriage. Uncle told me earlier that he wished for time alone with her before…" He broke off abruptly, seeming to change his mind about what to say. "Before she was laid to rest."

Christine nodded but couldn't dispel a niggling sense of unease – a feeling that increased and would give her no peace on their return journey to the castle.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter Text

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Chapter XXXVIII

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

She rode in front of Erik, with her back resting against his chest. He kept one arm secure around her middle, as if to protect her from any creatures that lurked in the night, and with her dark Angel so close, she felt safe. He did not hurry back, keeping the horse to a brisk walk. It gave Christine time to consider the night's erratic upheaval of emotion. From elation and bliss in reuniting with her husband and the triumph experienced to win his trust by allowing her to truly see him as he was, at last - to despair and grief at the loss of her young cousin. It was so much, too much to conceive…

Yet there was one matter that would not be silenced in her mind as she recalled previous words spoken.

"Earlier, in Lucy's room when I said it was too late, you said…"

"Perhaps not," he finished for her.

Christine turned her head though could not see his masked face clearly in the darkness.

"Do you think she has become like you?"

"It is impossible to tell without knowing all that led up to the final moments of her death. She was drained of blood, that much was evident. If she has been turned, her thirst will be tremendous when she awakens."

Her thirst…

Christine briefly closed her eyes at the abject horror of his words.

If Lucy had become vampyre, she would crave mortal blood.

And if she had not, she was still lost to them through death.

Either way was too terrible to contemplate, but at least with the first, Erik could help her.

"How soon would it occur? The change."

"When the moon is full."

"But – that's tonight!" She looked up at the dark skies, no sign of the sun yet apparent, if one would dare shine on so grave an occasion. The moon of blood had slipped away, having done its worst.

"I mean to return to the crypt, once I see you safely home, and will wait there until the dawn. If it is as I believe, I will bring Lucy with me back to the castle. There, I can aid her in all she must know."

The relief she should feel by his somber declaration was weighted by the constant apprehension that altered into a grim omen of certainty – a knowing in her spirit.

"Erik –" She tightened her hand on his sleeve. "We must go back. Now. Something is wrong, I can feel it."

"You should rest after all you have endured. Do not fear, Christine. I will take care of the matter, I give you my word."

"I cannot rest, the need to act will not let me," she tried to explain the insistence burgeoning within her soul that would give her no peace. "Please, Erik, I am well recovered, as those moments we shared in my bedchamber should attest…" Her voice softened at the reminder, though her heart did not beat any less frantically due to the urgency that propelled her determination.

"Something is wrong," she repeated, "I know it, I can feel it."

His entire body tensed against hers and she thought he might refuse and continue their course to the castle, close enough now to see through the covering of tall trees, but he turned the stallion's head to retrace the path taken, bringing Cesar to a faster gait.

She wasn't sure he heard her whispered thanks, but she did hear his low warning –

"Take care, Christine. If Lucy has become as I am, she will be changed in more ways than one. You might not like what you find."

Christine assumed his grim counsel was connected to the little girl he once turned who could not reason or exercise caution, and that he feared with Lucy's childlike mind locked into eternal fantasy, she might become even more twisted, like Daria. It was a sobering notion but did not alter Christine's hope that Lucy might at least be given a second chance to live…

Upon their return, the crypt was dark, the gates not only closed but locked, and Erik's caveat proved horrendously true.

The snow on the ground barely reflected enough light toward the front of the crypt and the slab where Lucy's coffin lay, the lid still sitting to one side. Christine could only discern shapes in the darkness – and she gasped in dismay to recognize what was unquestionably a stake standing upright from within the coffin.

Erik growled beneath his breath at the sight and gripped the iron bars. Locks were no match for his vampyric strength, and once he wrenched the gate open, Christine rushed inside.

"Christine – wait!"

But her hands had already wrapped around the column of thick wood and, with what she now knew must be her own slayer strength, pulled out the stake that had been hammered into Lucy's chest. She recognized the tool of the slayer, the sharp, pointed stake Raoul had used in his teaching demonstrations, and in disgust Christine flung it away, across the chamber.

In the next instant, Lucy gave a sustained, painful inhalation and sat up abruptly, her pale eyes wild.

Christine's relief was tempered with wariness, to realize that her cousin was indeed one of the newly turned and therefore extremely dangerous…

"Christine," Erik ordered, coming up quickly behind and clasping her arm, pulling her back, "Step away."

Lucy shook her head slowly as if trying to make sense of what had happened. She gripped the sides of the casket.

"Nanny Beth," she whispered. "He hurt Nanny Beth!"

"Who? Lucy, what do you mean?"

Her words were ignored as Lucy bolted from her casket and with the speed of the vampyre escaped the open crypt.

"Erik!" Christine cried in concern.

"Wait here," he clipped.

Before he could turn to leave, she grabbed his arm. "I cannot do that."

She did not again explain the restlessness that compelled her to act but did not need to.

He swore fiercely beneath his breath and swept her up in his arms. "Hold fast."

Before she could question, he sped outside and toward the maze, as if knowing exactly where to find the newly awakened vampyre. The world flew past in a blur of black and white that sucked the breath from Christine, and apprehensively she tightened her hold around his neck. Within seconds, he came to a halt in the center of the maze and set her to her feet.

Lucy paced on the snow ahead, bare of foot, her back to them.

"Dead," she said frantically, though Christine sensed her cousin was unaware of their presence. "Dead! Here - it was here. I know it! I saw it!"

"Lucy!"

Christine moved toward her but before she could reach out, the girl spun around and hissed in threat, showing her fangs.

Christine fell back a step in shock to see her in such a changed state, and Lucy took the advantage to attack. Christine barely moved aside in time with the same speed and agility she used in the Paris alleyway, but Lucy came at her again immediately and with such force they flew back into a tall hedge. The serrated leaves and twigs scratched Christine's exposed neck and jaw and brought with it stinging pain.

With a strength inborn, she managed to stave off Lucy - who relentlessly lowered her head, fangs exposed.

"Strigoi!" Erik's voice boomed. "Moroaica!"

At his commanding words, Lucy flew back with a whimper and huddled to the ground, her hands covering her face.

"Please!" Her words trembled through her splayed fingers, "do not harm me. I don't understand what's happened or how I got here."

Christine exchanged a concerned glance with her grim husband, who did not appear as confused as she felt. Warily she approached her cousin a second time and slowly lowered herself to crouch beside the girl.

"Lucy, do you not know who I am?"

Apprehensively she lifted her head from her hands. Even in the scant light reflected by the snow, Christine could see Lucy's eyes glowed crystalline, almost colorless, her pupils mere pinpoints. The tips of her fangs were still apparent beneath her upper lip.

"You are the Master's wife," she said. "Christine."

Erik stepped forward. "Then you know who I am."

Lucy's manner took on a more humbled appearance. "You are my prince."

Christine looked between them, dazed by the course of events. The girl did not call him a dark faerie as she had in days past or even the Count. Lucy's evolvement into becoming a Dark One evidently gave her an innate sense of understanding their kind, and she recognized him as her sovereign.

"Do you remember anything else?" Christine asked.

"He killed her," she whispered, a tear rolling down her cheek. "He killed my Nanny Beth."

Christine looked up at Erik in surprise. "She remembers?"

He gave a tight nod. "Her entrance into vamyprism broke any compulsion previously experienced as a mortal."

Lucy shook her head in distress. "I don't understand. What has happened to me? I feel so cold. And confused, as if I've been walking in a fog for ages. Why do I feel so strange?"

Erik stepped closer to her. "We will save this discussion for when we return to the castle." He held out his gloved hand. "Do not be afraid, my dear, I will teach you all that you must know to survive. But we should leave here at once."

Lucy nodded like a little child and laid her hand in his glove. He helped her rise from the ground, while she continued to look at him in awe, then she glanced at Christine, as if uncertain.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me. I didn't mean to… you have always been kind, that much I recall."

Christine smiled faintly. "It is alright, Lucy. We're family. Everything will be alright."

She hesitated then stepped forward to embrace her.

Perhaps if she had waited to offer reassurances, perhaps if she had allowed Erik to take them swiftly back to the castle, perhaps then, fate might have been kinder and the night could have turned out differently. Christine would never know what her restraint might have allowed – only what her decision would now cost them.

Lucy's arms lifted to return her hug. At first Christine failed to notice how the girl's small hands tightened against her spine. With her flesh chilled from the cold, did not realize that her neck was bleeding…

Unable to curtail the thirst, having never learned how, a wild thing newly born with a hunger too powerful to suppress, Lucy's hold constricted as she again reared her head back with fangs distended.

"LUCY - NO!" Erik shouted.

In the horrifying shock of the recurring moment, Christine went strangely numb. She couldn't think, couldn't reason or even attempt to ward off the attack – and she squeezed her eyes shut as Lucy brought her head down swiftly to her neck.

The bite never came. The sudden thud of Lucy's body pushing hard against hers as if struck from behind sent Christine back into the bushes a second time and brought her eyes open in confusion…

And her mouth parted wide in a silent scream.

Thin black lines branched over Lucy's pallid face, quickly spreading to encompass all of her skin. The glow in her crystalline eyes faded and she let out a soft, prolonged whimper.

"Lucy!" Christine cried out in horror.

She hurriedly shifted her arms, barely catching her cousin as she fell and sinking with her to the snowy ground. A crossbow bolt protruded from between Lucy's shoulder blades. Steam poured off her back.

"I…" she whispered, struggling to keep eye contact. Her skin darkened to the color of ash. "Chri-stine…"

"Shh, Lucy, it's alright," Christine reassured in a trembling voice, though they both knew the words to be a lie. "It's alright. You'll see. We'll take care of you, I promise..."

Lucy seemed barely aware, her gaze strangely distant.

"He can no longer hurt me... don't cry. At last… I am free…"

And with the exertion of those final whispered words, the light behind Lucy's eyes dimmed and completely clouded over. She gave a soft exhalation of breath and went limp in Christine's arms. Tears splashed down her cold cheeks as Christine lifted a hand that shook. With thumb and forefinger, she closed her cousin's eyes forever and gently lowered her to the snow.

"Be at peace, sweet Lucy," Christine whispered.

She whisked the tears from her eyes with her fingertips then lifted her head to glare across the enclosure. Fury hastened into alarm when she saw that her husband stood behind Raoul at the entrance of one of the tall hedgerows. Her cousin clutched a crossbow in one hand that hung down near his leg – the other was clamped over Erik's wrist, trying to pull away the gloved hand clutched around his throat that threatened to squeeze the life from him. Her heart jumped in horror to see what her cousin could not – the sharp tips of Erik's fangs.

"Erik - no!" she cried out, awkwardly hastening to her feet. "Please, I can take no more!" she added when it did not seem as if he would acknowledge her plea. "It is all too much!"

His eyes flashed toward her, and she could see the crimson glimmer within the gold. He emitted a disgusted growl and forcefully released the Vicomte with a push then whirled away, putting his back to her cousin.

Before Raoul could attempt to retaliate, she marched across the snow to stand before him.

"Why?" she insisted, her voice wobbling with her demand to know. "This goes beyond the pale - even for you!"

"How can you ask me that, Christine? You saw. She had become one of them," Raoul affirmed grimly, though she discerned a sheen of tears in his own eyes. "I thought I ended her before, but..." He shook his head in confusion then his expression grew darkly righteous. "She was going to bite you! I had to do it!"

"She was family!"

"She was a monster! -"

Anything else Raoul might have said was cut off as Christine's arm hauled back and she slapped him hard across the cheek, leaving three distinct scratches. Erik turned at the sound. He did not intervene, and she sensed his approval.

"She was one of the sweetest and most innocent girls I have known," she countered bitterly. "She had feelings!"

"Becoming a vampyre changed all that!"

"No, it did not. You are wrong about that, as you are wrong about so much else…"

His eyes narrowed. "You seem to know a lot about the undead for having just this night accepted the truth you denied all these weeks…" His voice rang with skepticism. He turned suddenly to face Erik, who thankfully had brought himself under control, fangs retracted and eyes again glowing golden behind the mask. "Perhaps due to you. With regard to all you witnessed here, you seem strangely unsurprised to be confronted with the immutable proof of monsters that prowl the night."

"I read what my mother wrote in her journal," Christine said quickly to divert Raoul's suspicion away from Erik. "She had much to say about the Dark Ones and believed they could feel pain and sorrow and joy – and every other feeling that mortals experience."

He snorted. "I had thought her more intelligent. At least you have finally come to accept the truth. I did what I did tonight to save you."

"She would not have hurt me," Christine insisted.

Lucy's fangs might have pierced skin, but Erik would have stepped in before any true damage could be done.

"You're a fool if you believe that."

"I would rather be a fool than what you've become!" she almost shouted back, beginning to lose her grip on control as the reality of what just occurred pierced through the protective wall of shock. "How could you be so damnably heartless?! She was our cousin, Raoul. Our flesh and blood kin!"

"Not any longer," he persisted. "That girl died in an upstairs bedchamber."

She ignored his stubborn excuses and swiped at the tears now rolling freely down both cheeks. "After this, I can tell you most assuredly - I want nothing to do with the Van Helsing curse! Ever!"

"Christine –"

"No," she took a step back when he attempted to reach out to her. "And from this night forward, I want nothing to do with you either!" she concluded harshly. "I never want to see you again."

"You can't mean that," he said in disbelief, the hurt vivid in his tone. "Christine, please…"

"Leave her be," Erik commanded.

In wounded frustration, Raoul turned on him. "I don't answer to you. She is my family!"

"And I am her husband. By choice, she wants nothing more to do with you and I intend to honor her wishes."

"Because you have put some sort of spell over her so that she cannot see things clearly -"

"STOP IT!" Christine screamed.

Both men went silent and turned to look at her, but she was beyond caring how hysterical she might appear.

"I cannot take any more of this! It is all too much – just – both of you – leave me alone!"

With her eyes swimming in tears, she could hardly see, but hurried past them and away, stumbling through the maze.

The Count swore fiercely and locked eyes with the fool boy's.

"Once Christine and I leave this place, you will forget we were here. You will return Lucy to her coffin and seal it, afterward forgetting all of what just occurred, only recalling the first time that you staked her corpse."

"I will forget," the Vicomte said in a dull monotone.

The Count snorted in disgust. The meddlesome boy deserved death and had come a hairsbreadth close to becoming its unwary recipient, but Christine would never forgive the violent act, however just. Of that, Erik was certain.

With the compulsion complete, he swiftly took off after his wife. She had not gotten far in the maze, thrashing about in the dark, hands slapping the tall bushes for balance as she went. Her quiet sobs wrenched what claim of a heart he had left.

He came silently up behind and swept her into his arms, ignoring her feeble protest as the air swirled around them in a violent whirlwind while he never ceased his rapid stride, transporting them back to the castle within those few steps.

Standing motionless, he held her close until her tears ebbed, then set her gently on her feet in the bedchamber they had so recently vacated what seemed a lifetime ago.

Wearily she sank to the bed. Erik remained fixed, watching her.

"She's gone," she whispered then looked up at him. "She truly is gone this time?"

He could not bear the inkling of hope that filled her voice and lit her damp eyes that perhaps she was mistaken, that some magical ritual existed to bring her cousin back from the dead a second time…

The crossbow bolt was silver-tipped, apparent by the desiccation of the girl's flesh, something Christine must realize deep within her soul yet struggled to accept –

It was final. There was no return from the second death.

He gave a stiff nod. "She is gone."

Christine sighed heavily and shook her head.

"It is all too much," she said for the third time that night.

In concern he noticed how she seemed to wilt where she sat, like a rose deprived of the nurturing it needed to exist.

"You must rest. Would you like me to send Mihaela in to draw you a bath?"

"No," she whispered and moved to recline on the unmade bed. She lay down on her side, still bundled in her cloak, and curled her knees up into her body with her hands clasped beneath her chin.

Erik hesitated then slipped off her shoes and brought the blanket up over her form, kissing her temple. She gave no response, only stared numbly into the distance. He considered sitting in the nearby chair, to watch as she slept, but decided to give her solitude since she had not asked him to stay.

~~~⊱⊱~≼†≽~⊰⊰~~~

Downstairs, Erik sent for Anton with instructions to take the wagon and retrieve his horse from Montmarte, taking care not to be seen. He then put his churning mind to troublesome matters of which he had been informed were taking place in his homeland. He wrote two letters of correspondence with his instructions, stamping them with his seal and setting them aside to give to Gregor to dispatch on the morrow, which was not too far on the horizon.

Concern for Christine prevented him from doing much else. That she was grief-stricken was understandable. Death had become a common word to him over the centuries, but he, too, felt distressed over the loss, and there were very few mortals for whom he cared enough to be moved by their demise. Yet this went far deeper, a change in Christine's manner, a brittle emptiness as if she had reached a point where she might soon shatter…

And he feared if that were to happen what remained of her pure and trusting soul would be unsalvageable.

Pulling his lips into a grim line, the Count poured himself a stiff drink and walked to the music room and the window there. He stared out over land and forest, watching as the dismal surroundings lightened to gray then altered to blue, stepping away only when the red disc of the unwelcome sun filtered through the black silhouette of the trees. Releasing the sash that tied up the heavy drapery, he allowed it to swing to the floor and block out the intrusive daylight.

He sensed her movements before he heard her footsteps, so attuned to the fluctuating rhythm of her heart, even from a distance. And he knew she had gained no further slumber, her heartbeats never having achieved a slow and steady pace.

When he turned, he registered no surprise to see Christine standing in the doorway, still wearing her cloak. Nor did he experience shock to see the carpetbag she clutched in one hand.

Slowly he set his empty glass down on a nearby table. She stared at him, uncertain.

"So then," he said at last, his voice calm, a masquerade to the whirlwind of chaotic emotion coursing through him. "You are leaving me."

Her expression grew troubled, and she averted her gaze to the floor.

"I always knew this day would come," he went on dryly, "though I was foolish not to expect it so soon, and give our union the one full year agreed upon."

This brought her attention swiftly to his. "I am not leaving you, Erik, not really, not in the sense of putting an end to our marriage. What I told Raoul doesn't apply to you. I want to see you again."

"But you are leaving?"

He narrowed his eyes in suspicious question, and she walked further into the room, closer to where he stood, setting down her carpetbag beside her.

"I cannot stay in Berwickshire, not after all that has happened. I need to return to Paris and my life at the theatre, to return to some semblance of normalcy. Otherwise I fear I may lose what hold on sanity I have left."

He had only just pondered the threat to Christine's soul and certainly did not wish to see her suffer further. Curtly he nodded, agreeing with her decision – his own backlog of work be damned.

"Very well. We will leave for Paris on the afternoon train."

"No, Erik…" She hesitated when his eyes sharpened on her. "I wish to go alone. Please do not misunderstand, I love you," she added hastily, "but I need time away from all this."

"From me," he bitterly corrected.

"From all of it," she insisted. "The constant interaction with vampyres and slayers and all that constitutes what I once so foolishly believed a fairy tale. Another dark story of the North." She gave a wobbly little laugh devoid of humor and he heard the tears that lined the fringe of it. "I recently learned that I lost my mother and father to that life. Days ago, I found you staked and so damnably near death – and last night my young cousin died – not once, but twice! – and as I held her in my arms, unable to do anything but watch, her sweet, lovely face withered before my eyes!" Her last words hitched on a sob.

He swore softly and exhaled a harsh breath, moving forward to embrace her. She did not resist but burrowed into him, allowing more tears of grief and confusion and pain to wet his waistcoat.

"Why?" she whispered. "I don't understand..."

To what she referred, he did not ask, only held her tightly.

After a time he pulled back to withdraw a black silk handkerchief from his pocket and dab it gently against her lashes and cheeks. "There, there, my Angel. Forgive my thoughtlessness. I told you at the onset of our union that when you wish to leave I'll not stop you, and I will abide by my word. But Christine, you are not going alone. I will send Mihaela and Anton with you. It is too dangerous for you to travel unaccompanied."

She nodded, albeit reluctantly, and he turned up her chin with his curled index finger.

"I shall make the arrangements, and you will visit the weapons room and procure something suitable. I have a dagger mounted on the wall there that bears a blade of pure silver, its hilt encrusted with rubies. Take it to replace what you have lost."

Once more, she gave a small resigned nod.

His eyes dropped to her bare neck and the ruff of the collar at her throat. "Your medallion, you did not have it on last night, did you?" He knew that sometimes she tucked it beneath her bodice.

"I prefer not to wear it when I'm with you. I didn't feel the need."

"And now there is one. Wear it at all times. Promise me."

Grudgingly, she gave a third nod.

"Do not fear, Christine…" He brushed a knuckle along her cheek. "All will be well."

This time she did not nod, only looked at him, her red-rimmed eyes wide and glistening and fraught with trepidation that his words might not prove true.

"You will be safe within the Opera House. This I know."

The urge to press his lips to hers one last time proved too powerful and he inclined his head slowly, hesitant lest she move away. Instead, she lifted herself on her toes to meet him, their kiss becoming more passionate as she clutched his lapels and drew her body closer to his while he buried his hands in her thick, loose ringlets…

Erik pulled away suddenly, lest he strip and ravage her on the spot, the sofa readily available – the beast inside begging him to make use of it – but he did not believe she would welcome such intimate advances, not at this time.

A prudent decision, when only seconds later, his manservant entered the room.

"Forgive me, Master," he said somewhat gruffly, averting his gaze beyond them. "The missive you have been expecting has arrived. I laid it on your desk."

"Thank you, Gregor. Has Anton returned with Cesar?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Excellent. Tell your nephew and niece I wish to speak with them in the library."

With a deferential nod, Gregor left.

"I shall go and see to the necessary arrangements," Erik said, this time depositing a tender kiss to her brow.

"It won't be forever," she whispered, "I promise."

He gave her a faint, cryptic smile. "On that, we are of one accord."

The Count left Christine staring after him and hurried to embark on what promised to be a long day's toil, with more than one set of vital preparations to be made…

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Chapter Text

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 PART THREE - Curse

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XXXIX

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Christine sat before the vanity dressing table, her thoughts completely interwoven within the past few days. The languid strokes of her brush were made more to relax taut nerves than as a necessity to smooth hidden tangles. She, who always deplored brushing the long, thick ringlets with their multitude of snags had run the brush through her hair so many times, it was surprising she had not brushed much of it out.

The long journey by train had taken well over a week, nearly two, with a silent and dour young man and his quiet sister for companions. Anton, when he did make eye contact, glared at her until she squirmed in her seat. And Mihaela, though she never came across as resentful, also did not speak unless spoken too, and then her utterances were uncharacteristically monosyllabic with little more than a yes or no in reply. Often darting glances toward her older sibling, as if taking her cues from him.

Upon delivering her to the Opera House three days ago, brother and sister immediately retraced their tracks to return to the train station, and Christine, exhausted and emotionally in tatters, entered the office of a surprised Madame Giry and fell quietly weeping into her arms.