A/N: I present you all with another chapter.

Big props to Whatanidea15 for being the first to review!

So I couldn't find anything on how long the voyage from England to Martinique would have been around 1900. What I did discover was that a transatlantic trip from England to New York (think Titanic) took an average of 4-5 days and is 3,600 mi; Southampton to Saint-Pierre is 4,100 mi. By my estimate, the journey would have been 7-10 days depending on the route they took.

Amidst the bustling confluence of ships and boats coming and going like the tide was a steamship. She was not the largest, newest, or most impressive, in fact she was quite ordinary, if a bit dog-eared. However as she steamed into the island port of Saint-Pierre and made berth, she was without debate the happiest ship the entire leeward side of Martinique. A general aura of unbridled jubilance seemed to emit from her stacks with each sooty puff. Both passengers and crew were equally gladsome to see land after a long, exhausting journey and chattered animatedly over what earthly comfort they were looking forward to most. Whether it was a hearty meal, good drink, or pretty lass, the optimism was palpable.

Somewhere nestled within the throng were two bright but bleary-eyed youths who joined in on the anticipatory revelry that had commandeered the ship.

"What is the first thing you are going to do when we reach the inn, Raoul?"

The taller of the two rubbed his stubble-coated jaw. "Shave." he replied flatly, "It itches something dreadful. I would have done sooner but my cabin vibrated so much that I'd have slit my own throat. Immediately thereafter I plan on scrubbing a weeks' worth of salt and soot from my skin, downing a proper glass of cognac or port, and sinking into a soft mattress that does not pitch and roll like its upon the back of a horse. What about you? If I am uncomfortable you must be totally miserable."

His companion fixed him with a challenging look. "And why would I be miserable? Just because you're a dandy, doesn't mean I'm bothered by the spartan amenities."

Raoul grumbled under his breath, "Oh, forgive my presumption, I wasn't aware you were so well-accustomed to going days between washes."

"I simply do not feel the need to grouse endlessly about it as do you. Anyways, the first thing I wish to do is explore the island."

"Explore?" he echoed in disbelief, "Are you in earnest? Of all the things you could do: bathing, sleeping, resting, walking on solid ground, eating more than dubious stew, tinned fruit, and stale bread, you want to explore. You are completely mad."

"Oh? And what else should I want to do, be soused and slothful like you?" Christine retorted, bristling defensively.

"Not necessarily verbatim but, you know, the usual things one does after a week cramped aboard a tottering old ship."

"Who is to say I will not? Only, I desire to investigate our new surroundings first and foremost. Professor Harding gave me some reading material on flora of the Lesser Antilles to look over and I'm eager to—"

He held up a wearied hand, shaking his head sympathetically. "While you spend tonight charting every flower and blade of grass you happen upon, I will be researching nearby madhouses with a snifter of brandy in hand in case your mania worsens."

There was a grunt of pain followed by Raoul massaging his now stinging shoulder; Christine had always known how to hit the most tender spot even when they were children. "And you, Raoul de Chagny, are a ... a detestable arse!"

"Watch yourself," he warned with mock conviction, leaning in so only she could hear, "just because you are dressed like a man, does not mean you should be swearing like one. I would hate to have to write a letter to your father detailing your newfound coarseness, I am responsible for you after all."

Christine threw him a scathing glare and he was powerless to muffle his laughter as she stormed off, mumbling about the creative places he could shove his letter and responsibility.

Thousands and thousands of miles away in a handsome Oxfordshire manor a man sat in his dimming study, rum in one hand and a rumpled letter in the other. A pitiful sight was he, clad in his dressing robe and utterly disheveled. He was seemingly oblivious to the world darkening around him for he did not bother to rise and turn on a lamp, instead letting the blackness creep in until it enshrouded him. His stomach gave a pitiful growl and was met with disregard; days without food had weakened him but still he had no appetite. Maybe luck would bless him and he'd soon waste away. Blithering dolt that he was, he deserved no less.

Why in God's name had he let her go on that accursed excursion? Never had he intended to allow it in the first place! But she had come to him pleading and arguing and he couldn't deny her. Pathetic. Pithless. Weak. His shortcomings had placed his greatest treasure in mortal peril and it merited punishment. Severe punishment. He would accept any sentence if it would but bring his sweet Christine back safely.

The letter had arrived just four days after she had set off. Anonymous and untraceable, they said: a warning to harm him and all he held dear, including his beloved angel. Though, in some small turn of potential mercy, whomever penned it had threatened a Christopher Daaé; it appeared they knew not the truth. Not yet. At least he had done one worthwhile thing in keeping his daughter solidly out of Society's spotlight, for few knew of her existence other than close family friends.

Powerless and panicked he had phoned an old chum from youth who had risen through the ranks to secure a position in the Foreign Ministry. Howard Watson had patiently listened and promised to reach out to his contacts. The next morning Gustave received word that someone (a soldier or detective) had been dispatched to escort Christine back to England. He kept the truth from Watson as well, that Christopher was actually Christine and had no intention of revealing otherwise, mainly because he could not suffer through the judgment and ridicule.

Currently he carried guilt enough for twenty men and what cut him deepest of all, sliced through artery and vein, was that she was oblivious. His poor, darling girl hadn't a clue of the danger she was in, that he had placed her in. And for what? Some fantastic notion that he could make the world a better place? He should never have entered politics, he should never have been so arrogant, so presumptuous to think that he could alter society like a poor imitation of a god.

She would reach Martinique soon, either tomorrow or the following day; she would step off the ship with no thoughts in her head but those of botany and would pay no heed to the gathering miasma waiting to engulf her. Unless this man, the one whom they had sent, could alert her in time. Which would prevail: light or darkness? Would these villains strike forthwith or later? Would they anticipate the cavalry and dispose of her guardian to get at her? So many questions and only one certainty: the game was out of his hands.

Now all there was to do was pray and wait.

"Mr Daaé?"

There was a soft knock before the door opened bringing with it a flood of light from the hall. He had never felt more like a creature of darkness then in that moment, like one of the characters from his angel's Gothic novels; he fought the urge to hiss and slink back into the shade.

"Supper is ready, sir. Will you take it in your study?"

No response. Mrs Burns might have thought the room empty had she not heard the faintest sound of paper crumpling. Swallowing, she decided to persist, albeit with prudence; it wouldn't do to offend or come off as impertinent when her employer was in such a way.

"Mr Daaé, sir, did you hear me?" she ventured.

"Is there no peace to be had in this thrice-damned house?!"

Whatever she had been expecting from the master, it was certainly not an outburst of temper. Mr Daaé was as mild as a spring morning and gentle as a lamb, he was as constant as the sea breeze. One would be hard-pressed indeed to find a man of a kinder disposition or more even temperament. But there had been an alarming change in him over the past couple of days. Gone was the glib, amiable man who treated his staff like people instead of mere chattel put on the earth to serve his whims and who frequently asked after them and their families from the butler to the lowest scullery maid. In his place was this changeable creature who hardly spoke, barely ate, refused to sleep, and drank to excess. In two days he hadn't left his study or even changed out of his dressing gown. This made his second fit of rage; the first had come yesterday morning when a little maid by the name of Jane had come in to build a fire. The poor child hadn't realized the master was present and had received such a subsequent fright that she was nigh inconsolable for hours afterwards; Mrs Burns had to excuse her for the remainder of the day. Any other time she would have chastised the man, social superior or not, but she knew such a move at present would prove foolhardy.

"Sir?"

"TAKE THE BLASTED TRAY AND LEAVE ME BE!" he roared.

Still reeling, the housekeeper did as she was told without hesitation, closing the door at the same time a glass shattered against the wall. Something was horribly wrong. At first she and the rest of the servants had assumed that this irritability and melancholy stemmed from Miss Christine's departure. He had been similarly withdrawn when his daughter had journeyed to America for school but now doubts were beginning to brew. With a sad sigh, she returned to the kitchens to pass the news along to the cook, Mrs. Reed; the latter would be displeased, none recalled the last time the master had taken nourishment. Starting down the stairs, she made a note to offer an extra prayer for Mr Daaé during her nightly routine. Perhaps the good Lord might achieve what mortals could not.

Saint-Pierre - Late April 1902

Christine eyed herself in the small, dingy looking glass of her room, carefully taking in each of her features, from the large brown eyes to the chestnut curls that now brushed her shoulders, swept back and tied into a neat ponytail at her nape. So far her secret had gone undiscovered. Not that any member of her expedition paid her much notice and old Professor Harding was half-blind. Both things had been a godsends in of themselves because they guaranteed she needn't speak much; it was one less potential for suspicion.

Days in the field were arduous and spent clad in loose-fitting khakis in the shadow of a mighty, smoking mountain. To everyone else she was just another toff barely out of boyhood—perhaps a touch of a coxcomb—thirsting for adventure before settling down to assume his birth right. Raoul had grown surprisingly accustomed to Christopher, though he couldn't bring himself to call her by her nom de guerre and settled on referring to her as 'Chris'; he had joked that while her real name was two syllables, her assumed one was just one too many to pronounce.

It had been a fortnight since the balmy afternoon of their arrival. And what a two weeks it had been! She had learned an unbelievable amount in such a short span of time, much more than she could have ever hoped to absorb from textbooks. There was just something matchless about field studies, just as mastering a language under a tutor was nothing to being immersed among native speakers. Though her sketches had been admittedly little improved, she was too preoccupied to be overtly distressed. This land was every bit as exotic as she had envisioned, from the billowing, quaking stack of Mount Peleé to the abundance of flora flourishing in the tropic sun, it was extraordinary. The volcano frightened her at first—she had never seen one before—but upon a multitude of reassurances that it hadn't erupted in hundreds of years (at least majorly), Christine ceased to pay it heed.

Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall, coming to a halt in front of her room. Startled, she froze hoping whoever it was would move on. Maybe they were drunk and looking for their room, it wouldn't exactly be novelty around here. She tried not to dwell on any other possibilities induced by her overactive imagination.

While she had not mentioned it to anyone (including Raoul) about a week ago she had been struck with an odd, portentous sort of feeling. Despite being unable to quite place it she knew it was there either by intuition or instinct: an inky cloud of potent energy, both comforting and precarious, watching her, lurking at the fringes. Christine rolled her eyes when she heard the familiar voice, muffled by the wooden barrier. She breathed a sigh of relief, it was only Raoul.

"Good Lord, Chris! Are you going to spend all day admiring your reflection or are you going to come out with us? The others grew impatient and left already."

"Yes, yes, Raoul. I am coming!" she called.

He smiled as soon as she stepped out of her room. "Well, I am immensely gladdened to hear this news. For a moment I thought I might need to start calling you Dorian."

"Dorian Grey admired himself in a painting, not a mirror. Narcissus was the mirror… or more specifically a reflecting pool. Did you ever pay attention to your studies?" Christine retorted cheekily.

"I have no need with you for a friend."

"You flatter me, Raoul."

"What can I say? I am but a humble ignoramus eclipsed by your limitless brilliance, my lord." Raoul gave her a mock bow.

She cuffed him smartly on the upper arm in reply. "Ouch. I've no idea why I invited you, all you do is belittle and abuse me."

His complaint went unremarked. "Where is it that we are going and why with such haste?"

"It is a bar frequented by sailors, fishermen and laborers." Noting the way her nose wrinkled, he continued, "Under normal circumstances I would not set a foot into such a place either, but Hammond told me of how he overheard some workers discussing it. From what he's caught, there's this chap who has been in there every night for the past week. Every evening he appears, orders straight spirits and plays the piano in the corner for hours."

"And why exactly is some miscreant drunkard banging away at an off-key piano worth our attention? I daresay you can see much of the same back home were you to hang about most every public house after a certain time."

Raoul scowled, "Precisely for the fact that this isn't merely some drunken clout. The rumor is that he is a former concert pianist flitting through the islands to escape a scorned lover, that he's a true virtuoso, comparable to Mozart or Chopin, and that his music is a gift from either angels or the devil."

"Why, Raoul, I had no idea you were such a romantic!" she teased.

"My family is French, after all. It's in my blood."

And so, the duo continued towards the fabled bar and its mysterious attraction like children in search of pirate's gold, the sounds of their exchange still audible as they walked on. From the light affability of their ribbing it was apparent that neither had the slightest inkling they were presently under scrupulous study.

Darkness shifted and rippled, birthing something truly formidable. A wraith, perhaps. It was impossible to say, anyone who caught a glimpse of it might deduce as much once fear's grip released their mind and the chill subsided from their blood. Whatever it was, spectre or figment, it stalked from the shadows like a great black feline. Watching, scrutinizing, waiting for the perfect opportunity to pounce. None would be the wiser until the eleventh-hour was upon them, until they were staring into the creature's burning eyes.

It would come tonight.

He could feel it from the change in wind, the restless shifting of air. Tonight he would strike after an endlessly protracted, empty sennight of loitering. Head and body were ready, both coiled tighter than the rope stashed up his sleeve. The operation had been set in motion and promised success.

Fortune evidently approved of diligence and planning as she was in his favor tonight. Everything would be less complicated than ever anticipated. Yes, fortune had indubitably blessed him, for tonight prey would unwittingly seek out predator.

A week had passed since he had landed on the island of Martinique: a lush, green picturesque paradise. Really, it was a pity he was there on assignment not holiday, else he might enjoy it; though he would certainly never own it. Utopia or no, he had not time for leisurely appreciation.

Days were spent planning, preparing, and procuring while nights were spent seeking, spying, and scheming. When he wasn't hoarding supplies and mapping out the terrain, he looked in on his target. Upon first glance he surmised that the boy was everything he predicted: foppish, frail, bookish, and slight. It would be a miracle if he didn't have to carry the dotard the entire way. Judgment turned to resentment and then to dislike. From a distance, he seethed and hated and pondered. Would the world truly mourn another dainty weakling strutting about from Club to opium den in his flamboyant frippery?

Sleep-starved meditations told him no. Let the will of nature preside without interference. Perhaps he could stay here and settle himself, wake up each morning to the calling of seabirds and warm sunlight. Extremely tempting. But alas, the splendor would eventually wear thin and that volcano left him distinctly unsettled. Intuition alerted him that disaster was on the horizon and he preferred to not be near when it hit.

Still, more than once he envisaged botching the mission. Easily done enough. He was not the only one with eyes on the boy. The enemy was there also, lying in wait, gathering for an ambush. They would strike soon. Better that he did first.

Terribly amateur as they were they proved offensively effortless to follow. His second night trailing them had led him to the bar. Squalid and seedy, it was an ideal spot for whores, thieves, gamblers, and ruffians. Neither he nor the gang of thugs stood out amidst the sordid crowd. He had overheard a plethora of information from his place behind the neglected little piano, information on their numbers, plans, names of leaders, and location of operations. It appeared his task promised to be a pathetic farce.

C'est la vie, he supposed as he continued along, his destination silhouetted in moonlight. Already he could hear the tawdry laughter of prostitutes, ribald conversations, and raucous shouts of brawls. Tonight could not be more desirable. A keen leer twisted his lips. There was no need to rush, he could spare time to savor the hunt. He was a patient man when the situation necessitated it. Besides, he had a few things to do yet, he could afford to return within the hour. His competition would be absent, awaiting a shipment of weapons and further instructions from their puppeteers. Fate could not have chosen a better moment.

The boy was inadvertently walking into his trap, lured by the music of some bizarre performer, by his music.

And disappoint, he would not.

o o o

It was the type of establishment she had read about in books but had no idea existed in reality. Although, she presumed writers took inspiration from somewhere. Dingy, debauched, and rife with the sort of crowd one might find in London's most despicable slums, it was an alien world. The stench of stale, acrid smoke hung thick in the air alongside the smell of cheap perfume, rum and sin. Layered grime of indeterminable color and origin seemed to cover every surface like a greasy film.

"I cannot believe you actually wanted to come here." she hissed at Raoul as they took two seats at a shabby, isolated corner table; she pursed her lips, "I don't suppose they'll have anything of a decent vintage."

He indicated to a barmaid, who sauntered over and bent at the best angle to display her ample bosom. Christine looked away but Raoul grinned slyly. "Two tankards of ale, please, lovely." The wench gave a saucy wink and returned with the order, as soon as she had left again he turned, "Come now, Chris, where's your sense of adventure?"

"Far from this wretched hive of amorality, I assure you."

Her discomfiture grew as the night wore on, made more so by the realization that every single woman in the room was a... well, harlot. If papa discovered she had visited such a place, the shame would be unbearable. A proper lady would have turned and ran; this was no place for her. Ah, but it was an acceptable locale for a boy, for strapping, young Christopher.

"I don't hear any legendary musical prodigies, unless you count that redhead singing over there as one." Christine stated tartly.

"Oh, he'll show up, I wouldn't expect he keeps a schedule." he chuckled, "Besides, we've not yet been here for an hour, try to relax. How is your beverage?"

"Tolerable, I guess. I've not had anything other than wine before."

"Excellent! A night of memories, then. You know, it's not so bad here. There's a kind of appealing freedom to it all." Raoul said contemplatively, looking around the room.

"The appealing freedom of being a reprobate or strumpet?"

Raoul shook his head, nursing his second ale, "You, my friend, are much too austere; ease up and you'll find life more enjoyable."

"I do enjoy life, admittedly not every aspect but—"

The rest of her words were lost in the gust of music that tore through the room, extinguishing voices like candles. It was not at all the typical bawdy tune one might expect in a port-side sump, yet not a soul complained. Christine would not have been surprised if the world itself had completely halted on its axis, the entire bar appeared to be under a spell, charmed by the music like snakes or children following the Pied Piper, instead business went on as before, albeit at a calmer, quieter pace.

Tchaikovsky, maybe, but she could not say with any surety. As quickly as it had come, the aural pleasure was at an end and dozens of patrons breathlessly awaited the next blissful dosage.

Thus the trance persisted for hours, melody after melody, composition after composition. This was the music of the swell, of opulent concert halls and palaces: Liszt, Chopin, Saint-Saëns, Beethoven, Grieg, Haydn, and countless others she couldn't name. Christine was exceedingly familiar with music, she had been raised on the folk tunes of her papa's violin and favored piano herself. Most of these pieces she had heard, even played, before but never had she witnessed them played like this. It was as if this person understood each individual variation, coda, arpeggio, accidental, each element of the music on an intimate level. She wondered what business someone of such enormous talent had in, what for all purposes, resembled one of Blackbeard's favored haunts. Perhaps he was yet another wayward soul trapped in this spirit-soaked purgatory. Queerer still was that with each note, each chord, each crescendo her feeling of watched magnified until she was suffocating, that prickling, needling sensation wherein every hair rose on end and every muscle stood, tense and at attention.

Was this what her early ancestors experienced as they foraged in the midst of savage, prehistoric fauna? Just like they must have been she was hit with the sudden instinct for flight. Minutes (or eternities) passed and the pounding inside her ears reached a dizzying pinnacle, wrenching her stomach and threatening to loose the bitter ale she had drank. One thing was abundantly clear: she had to get out, had to leave posthaste before she crumbled into powder and mingled with the dust on the floor. She stood up so quickly that she nearly lost her balance.

"Is there something the matter?" Raoul regarded her with a tiny frown.

"I just... I've a terrible headache and am in need of some air."

"All right, let me finish my drink and we'll go back to the inn." Even through the concern she could detect a hint of disappointment at cutting the night short.

"No, it's fine, really. You stay here and I will go."

"Ridiculous! Do you think I'm going to let you walk alone at this hour? I made a promise, no ... oath to your father that you would come to no harm and I intend to keep to it."

She pinched the bridge of her nose. Men and their misplaced chivalry; she hadn't the tolerance for it. "Who is going to molest a man on a midnight stroll? If you're that concerned, lend me your pistol."

"My what?"

Narrowly resisting the urge to scream, she forced a civil tone. "Did you not think I'd notice? Loan it to me, it should deter any criminals; I'll leave it in the drawer of your room."

Had he not already imbibed a tot of rum in addition to his third ale Raoul would have refused her request, but his eyes had grown glassy, his speech had begun to blend, and he was yielding to the alcohol. Therein ensued several tense seconds before he relented and handed her the weapon under the table.

"Careful to stay in the light. Our little secret." he said, putting a finger to his lips.

"Our little secret." she repeated with a smile, tucking it into her belt before slipping away from Gehenna and the music that sought to drain her soul. If she had stayed to listen, she would have noticed that the melody ceased nearly immediately after she departed.

Finally able to breathe freely, she sucked a gulp of delightful night air and set off towards the modest, little inn. Five minutes into her trek she quickened her pace. Rather than comforting as it had been initially, the evening started to close in all around her with solid, tenebrous walls. She was almost running now. Panic stole in and took ahold of her every sense. Here was a monster beside that building; there was a savage beast behind that gas lamp; everywhere she looked was some creature hungering for virgin flesh.

Christine then became acutely aware she was being followed. Deep down she knew it was useless to flee from whatever foe dogged her. Fighting was the only option. Steeling herself all the while, she hustled down an alley making a handful of sharp turns through the winding back roads Saint-Pierre, eventually ducking into an abandoned empty shed and the welcoming arms of darkness. Her web now spun, she lay in wait for her prey like a clever black widow.

o o o

Where had that blasted boy gone?

This infernal brat was more trouble than he was worth. Erik moved ahead soundlessly, carefully keeping to the shadows. He stopped next to a shed to recollect his wits. There was still no sign of his quarry and the soil was far too dry for tracking by moonlight.

Damnation! How could the boy have escaped? It was as if the lad had disappeared into thin air. Perhaps he wasn't the only illusionist present and then again... His eyes flew back to the wooden structure he had overlooked. Played for a fool; the deception dawned on him mere tenths of a second before the dull thud and sharp pain in his head that gradually increased in intensity until the world around him melted away.

It technically was a meeting so I didn't lie. ;)

Don't worry, the dialogue and action follows directly. I mean, unless that blow to the head killed him, then it would be a short story indeed. Kidding.

Oh, and might want to take note of the aforementioned volcano (Mount Peleé) and the date (spring 1902); they might become relevant later.

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