Disclaimer: Even if I had the entire cast chained up in my basement, I still wouldn't officially own The Phantom of the Opera.

Title: Peccata Mundi

Summary: The history of a man lies behind his white mask and his devotion to those in need. Through the shadows of his past and the light of the future, he seeks to right the wrong.

Assignment 1: The Nightingale

Summary: With his night terrors growing steadily worse, Erik must find the strength to locate a kidnapped woman. Will he be able to discover and protect her before it's too late, and will he be able to correctly distinguish between the past and the present?

Author's Note: Greetings! I want to thank you for choosing to check out this fanfic. I actually had the idea for a Detective Erik series for a while, but was just waiting for the time and the motivation to execute it. So this is going to be the first out of…I don't know how many. I'll have to see how popular it becomes and how much it progresses. I received inspiration from the series Godchild, Big O, and the movies Vampire Hunter D and Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust. I did come up with Madame Giry's first name. It's just slightly random. And if anyone's interested, the title roughly means "Sins of the World." Anyway, I won't delay the inevitable any longer. Let me just say that I am up for suggestions and ideas for plots and mysteries. So please read and review and overall enjoy! Thanks again!

Section 1

- Affliction

Burning! It burned so bad!

His skin crawled with the excruciating pain. It was like nothing he had ever felt before or ever wanted to feel again. He gritted his teeth against the fire searing the right side of his face, but it was so hard. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry out in agony to whatever God was left. Every muscle in his body ached with his stubbornness. His fingernails scratched blindly at the floor, rubbing raw and creating small pools of blood.

The pain! It was too much! All he felt was the pain!

There was nothing except the pain. He didn't know where his mother was. He didn't know where their attackers had gotten to. Truthfully, he didn't care. The pain was just so suffocating. All he wanted to do was make it stop. That was all he could think to do: end the pain. Tears stained the creases of his shut eyes. They were welded closed in anguish. Ever opening them again seemed impossible.

Tired…He was so tired…His very being, his very soul…

He felt himself on the edge of oblivion. Lost in the darkness, he was hurtling headlong toward a safer world. He kept telling himself he couldn't let go. He had to finish it. He had to protect her. But simply being awake was killing him. He had never felt so much pain and suffering in his entire life. Electricity coursed throughout his body and touched on every nerve. His breath came quickly and raggedly.

That smell! What was that smell? It would never go away. That smell would never leave him: the smell of burning flesh.

He was slipping. There was no way for him to hang on any longer. He had tried to remain strong. He had tried to remain in control, but failed. Did this mean they won? In some sick sense, had they actually won? He had fought against all odds. Didn't that count for anything? There was nothing left for him. There was nothing, no one on his side. What else could he do? It was time. It was time to let go.

A scream escaped from his throat. It was deafening, expressive, jolting. It was the scream of agony; the scream of the weak.

He awoke to his own scream and ceased it immediately. His breathing was hard and fast. He couldn't seem to slow his heart down. He shot up, the blankets falling from his bare chest and into his lap. A cold sweat covered his body. He tried to relax his tense nerves and muscles, but suddenly fell into an involuntary fit of convulsions.

His shaggy black hair was matted to his face with perspiration. He brought his hand up to his face and gently grazed the scars that covered the right side of it. They were sore, and flared with even the slightest pressure. He immediately withdrew his hand to the mattress at his side. His shoulders continued to shake as tremors erupted repeatedly throughout his entire body.

Slowly, he wrapped his arms around his thin frame and hugged his knees close. He let his head fall forward and rest against his drawn kneecaps. He closed his eyes gently, wishing, praying for the spell to subside. There was no more sleep for him that evening. With the pale moonlight filtering into his room and falling harmlessly across his naked torso, all he could do was wait in the huddled position for the sun to arise and a new day to begin.

-----

Her eyes revealed the information she knew. Erik could tell by their worried expression that she had heard him screaming in the middle of the night. However, she was smart enough not to mention anything regarding it. Instead, an awkward silence filled the dining room and connected kitchen area. He almost preferred a confrontation rather than the dreadful void that had fallen between them.

Madame Madeleine Giry had been his housekeeper for nearly ten years, and they got along swell right from the get go. She abided by his strange dress code to wear only dark, conservative clothing. The neck and the wrists were not to be shown at any time. She asked little to no questions, no matter how odd the task; and, she completed each chore with precision and seriousness. She knew the right time to offer her own opinion or comment and when not to, the present being the latter.

She dropped her gaze as she set a china teacup and saucer on the long wooden table in front of Erik and swiftly pivoted to return to the kitchen. Erik didn't take his gaze off of her until she was beyond his sight, out of the dining room. He looked down into the dark, steaming liquid of his morning tea. Suddenly, ripples broke out along the surface, accompanied by a loud boom. A rushed, yet light scampering of footsteps became steadily louder as they approached the dining room.

There were only three other people he permitted to live in the mansion with him, and it was obvious which one was headed straight for him. Apart from Madame Giry, he also had a man on his staff: Joseph Buquet. Joseph acted as his carriage driver. Even though it seemed like a simple and rare task, Erik actually called upon his services regularly. The last resident was actually a very close relative of his housekeeper's. It was her very own daughter, Meg Giry. Meg had arrived about three years earlier after having finished her time in a private ballet school. Possessing huge talent and potential, the girl attended weekly lessons at a nearby Opera House, paid for and sponsored by Erik. When not in class, she assisted her mother with the various chores around the mansion. It was this other female that persisted with the ruckus.

Erik turned his head toward the doorway, waiting for Meg to appear. He was sure by the sound of her pace that her scrawny legs would be revolving quick enough to carry her jogging into the room. However, when she reached the open frame, her innocent blue eyes caught sight of him and immediately she halted. She remained peering at him for a few seconds before, like a child caught by her parents, slowly and properly walking to the second chair down one of the sides of the table.

Madame Giry, obviously informed by the running, shuffled into the dining room with a plate made up with breakfast. She set it down in front of her daughter then returned to the kitchen. Meg took no notice of her mother's presence and the food that now beckoned to her. She hadn't taken her eyes from Erik the entire time, who took a quick sip of his tea to look anywhere but back at her. After returning the cup to its saucer, he lifted up the newspaper that had been resting closed on his lap and noisily shook it open. He began to peruse the different articles, slightly amused and not really paying attention to this task.

Meg let her gaze remain on the printed barrier for a moment longer then looked down at the pile of scrambled eggs and couple pieces of bacon. She gently found and lifted her fork, and paused. She glanced up at the cover of the newspaper for just a second then stared at her food again. Sighing audibly, she stabbed a small piece of egg and brought it to her mouth. She allowed it to linger there for a moment, listening to the rustle of a turning page. She opened her mouth to take in the nourishment, but ended up closing it right away. After pausing for a second or two, she did the same motion—opened her mouth and closed it again. Fed up, she let the fork drop to the plate with a loud clang.

The clatter caused Erik to close his reading material and take notice of Meg, who was already staring at him. The curiosity and concern were evident in the creases across her forehead. It was wrong for anything to taint her pure skin like that, especially since he knew it was for him. He had to tell himself that she was young and at a fragile age of sixteen. Being ten years her senior, he had already had his fair taste of the world. He wasn't looking to worry her. The last thing he expected for anyone like him was worry.

"You'll have to excuse my outburst, monsieur, but I cannot remain silent any longer." Her voice was feminine, quiet, just what one would expect from her appearance. "I have to know what troubles you in the night!"

"Meg!" Madame Giry chided, falling forward against the table, which was the only thing standing between her and her daughter. She had bustled into the room at the sound made by the metal fork falling against the porcelain plate.

Meg brushed her off and continued with as much passion. "Though I have not kept up residence with you as long as my mother, I still value the three years I have spent here. Even if you are barely around, I still feel for you like an older brother." She rushed to his feet, kneeling in front of him. "Please confide in me! I will not be at ease until I know you are well!"

Erik looked down into Meg's youthful sapphire eyes, finding genuine sincerity and sadness. He turned his head away to finish folding the newspaper and set it down on the tabletop. Next, he took her hands in his and lifted Meg to her feet, while standing up himself. Her eyes widened in surprise, not having expected such a reaction.

"Meg," Erik started slowly, "you must trust my word that I am well. I ask nothing of you, except diligence and growth in your dancing." He paused, smirking slightly. "Which, by the way, you seem to be late for." He saw panic flare in her eyes. "So, please, do not let another thought of last night enter your mind. Focus, practice, and live up to all of our expectations." He released her limbs. "Now, hurry up or you'll get scolded."

He watched Meg hesitate, nod, then run out of the room. She was young with so much to still learn. He couldn't help feeling livelier with her in the mansion, though. She definitely brightened up the otherwise dreary atmosphere. Erik turned toward Madame Giry, who had corrected her posture and composure. The smile had disappeared from his face. It was time to get down to business.

"Madame Giry," he addressed.

"Monsieur?"

"Please gather my top hat and coat, and call my carriage. I'm late for an appointment."

"Yes, sir."

Madame Giry bowed her head and glided out of the dining room. Alone at last, Erik resumed his seat and basked in the gentle ticking of the grandfather clock from the hallway and the otherwise silence. He sighed, already slightly exhausted. He reached for his cup and held it up to his mouth. Staring straight ahead, he seemed lost in thought, taking in a few breaths before tipping the cup to his lips. Instantly, he withdrew it, puckering his lips in distaste.

"Ooh, cold."

-----

Erik felt uncomfortable in the small sitting room. The two men burned holes into him with their ceaseless staring. He couldn't help being reminded of an interrogation. They were the questioners and he was the enemy. He was used to the critical glances, though, because of his appearance. It wasn't his expensive black suit or recently shined shoes. It wasn't his tidy greased down hair or his delicate, yet experienced clean fingers. The only unsettling aspect Erik possessed besides his quiet, inquisitive demeanor that was evident to the public was the white porcelain mask that covered the right side of his face.

Upon entering, Erik couldn't help but notice how shabby the state of the small flat. The furniture was worn and tattered. The air was musty and smelled of the sick. Even the upkeep had failed to impress. Books and papers littered the surfaces of little side tables he had seen in his trek from the front door to the next room. Like a good guest, though, he didn't comment or show his repugnance. Erik's gaze stopped wandering around the room and finally landed on the odd couple in front of him.

The old man in the wheelchair seemed to be the source of his being present. Past the wrinkles and slightly yellowed skin, there were definite strong, handsome features. His green eyes radiated a powerful, commanding presence. The other man, standing behind him, was much younger. He even appeared to be a few years Erik's junior. He had a healthy body of dirty blonde hair and blue eyes that were much too serious for someone his age. The suit he wore was tailored nicely, but was obviously a creation of lesser value. Overall, he seemed controlled and well put together.

"Monsieur Daaé?" Erik inquired of both gentlemen.

"Yes," the old man spoke up. "I'm the one who requested your presence."

Erik focused in on him. He nodded, as if signaling for a continuance.

"I'd like to hire you and your services, monsieur…" He trailed off, expecting Erik to fill him in on what to address him by.

"Erik, just call me Erik," he informed swiftly. His "business" wasn't necessarily on the record, so it was normal for clients to not even know his name. In fact, the public wouldn't even know how to contact him without prior knowledge from previous customers.

"Monsieur Erik, something of great importance to me has gone missing. I want you…" Monsieur Daaé paused, looking down, and clucked nostalgically to himself. "No, I need you to recover it." He looked back up, and Erik distinctly saw tears forming in the old man's green eyes. "I am old and I am sick," he continued dejectedly. "I cannot hope to rest peacefully until I know it's healthy and safe."

Erik readjusted his position on the couch. "Well, monsieur, I take any job as long as it meets my…requirements." It was obviously uncomfortable for him to speak of payment under such poor conditions. He didn't want to come off as a pompous ass, but he had to support three other people than himself. He had to live, somehow, too.

"Money is no object, believe me," Monsieur Daaé reassured. "This is too…too precious to me. I'd trade anything to retrieve it."

"I'll take the job, monsieur," Erik announced. "Don't worry about the payment. I won't charge you dreadfully." There was no change in his employer's disposition. Obviously, he was telling the truth. Money didn't matter. Erik cleared his throat. "So, tell me, what is it that has been taken from you?"

"My daughter: Christine Daaé."