Sorry about the longer wait - but at least this chapter is longer! I have always known what would happen in this chapter. I hope you understand why too.

Chapter Seven: Freedom

It was Saturday morning.

Papa spoke through the bedroom door, wishing her a good day as he headed off to work as usual. Christine waited until his footsteps faded down the hallway before pulling herself out of bed. Her face felt swollen, her eyes puffy from crying so much yesterday. She patted her face with a cold, wet towel, trying to ease away her feelings before they bubbled up again.

She had a plan for today, and she needed all of her resolve to accomplish it. She had to harden her heart to the future she thought she had seen for herself. What she needed most right now was to aid her father with his decision to move them out of Paris.

Changing into a set of her older clothes, she tucked Raoul's coin purse into one of her own bags and bundled all of the gowns and accessories he had bought her into the large box in which her dinner dress had arrived. It took some maneuvering – and a little help from a random MASE employee – to carry the heavy parcel down the five flights of stairs, but she managed to get it close enough to an outside door to wave down a cab.

Soon, the items were loaded onto a carriage, and she spent some of Raoul's coin to be taken to a women's clothing shop – a different one than where Raoul had taken her. Jutting out her chin, she argued a price with the dressmaker and exchanged the dresses for some more practical clothes of her own. The gowns had indeed been expensive, and she had enough money left over to purchase a new suit for her father at a men's shop just a few blocks down.

She paused at a market and bought food for a decent dinner as well. Head held high, her feet lighter than that morning, she returned and spent some rounds dragging all of the bags up to the apartment. If anyone who knew Raoul saw her, they did not comment, and she ignored any employees she passed in the halls.

Offloading Raoul's gifts had made it easier for her to breathe. She made dinner, humming to herself as she went.

Charles, when he returned home, noticed her change in mood. He made little comment about the new clothes, though he did try on his new suit to see that it fit as well as his old ones, from which she had taken measurements.

They spent the evening together, and Christine listened intently to Papa's stories about St-Etienne. MASE manufactured its weapons there, and Monsieur Martel had often considered closing MASE's office here in Paris to transfer the entire company to St-Etienne. Charles thought she would enjoy the fresher air and more moderate climate there, and it was not too far from the ocean for them to take a train on holidays.

As she washed their dishes, she thought about Raoul's questioning the previous day. She glanced over her shoulder at Charles, who was flipping through a newspaper, reading by the light of the fireplace.

"Papa… Raoul asked if you had ever mentioned Monsieur Martel to me before."

He looked up. "An odd question. Most employees here have, considering he runs the company."

"It seems like Raoul does not get along well with Monsieur Martel." Christine frowned at the memories. She dried her hands and started to put away the dishes. "He also asked if I had ever seen you with a key."

Charles's brow furrowed, and he stared into the crackling fire for a moment. "I liked the Vicomte – I truly did. But his treatment of you, daughter-mine, has not been honorable. It is best that you two have parted ways." He turned back to his paper, shifting through the pages and obviously not reading any content. "Leave the rest of the cleaning up to me and go on to bed."

Christine was a bit stunned by how her father had quickly avoided the subject of the key. As she walked into her bedroom, she saw him sitting by the hearth, one of his hands rubbing at a spot high upon his chest.

Dutifully, she closed the door. Unlacing her shoes, she kicked them off and laid down upon her bed, not bothering with undressing.

She would most certainly visit Erik tonight.

Like before, she waited until her father's bustling noises faded into footsteps as he entered his own room and closed the door behind him. She knew he would not take long to fall asleep, his long work days quickly dragging him under.

When the hour had grown late enough, she slipped into her shoes, tied her cloak under her chin, and stepped lightly out of the apartment. The lantern lit her way, the shadows of the stairway now growing as familiar to her as the sounds of nighttime in the courtyard. Her breath emerged as white wisps, the air colder.

Reaching Erik's window, she tapped her knuckles upon the glass.

The black curtains faded into a dark gray, lit from behind by a lantern that suddenly blazed to life.

"It is open," Erik's voice said in her ear.

She pushed harder upon the window pane and found half of it easily gave way, opening inward. She was becoming more and more accustomed to these movements – the squeezing of her many layers through the small window, the crouching upon the table until she could slide to the basement floor. Erik had never offered his assistance, but she found she preferred he did not, instead trusting her own capabilities in climbing up and down.

She reached and tugged the window closed behind her, then turned to face the room.

Erik sat on the edge of his bed, long-fingered hands clasped in his lap. His metal chains snaked along either side of him. His golden eyes gleamed within his full black mask. His black suit was not as pressed as it had been days ago, showing the lack of care he was able to take in his appearance.

"How…" She hesitated, wishing not for the first time that she could read his expression. "How are you?"

"As well as can be expected," he replied. "Forgive me for not rising. My guards were more enthusiastic than is typical."

She had known they had visited him last night, of course she had. But for him to say it plainly aloud – she winced, stepping closer. "I am so sorry, Erik."

"Why are you apologizing? You did nothing wrong."

"Even so. Is there anything I can do to ease your injuries? I have a medical kit upstairs. I-I could help." She so desperately wanted to help in some way. Lately, she had simply felt useless.

His head tilted to the side, his yellow eyes focused upon her. "Sweet songbird… They are careful to leave no lasting damage. I am worth much more alive than dead from an infected wound or internal injury."

She swallowed thickly at his frankness and knew not what to say to that. Her fingers toyed with a fold of her cloak as she stood awkwardly in the long pause that followed.

Then Erik unfolded his hands and placed each on his thighs, straightening to regard her with more earnestness. "You were crying last night."

"Yes." She lowered her hood and tossed her hair off her shoulders. Her jaw flexed, her chin slightly raised. "I was upset."

"Indeed, you were." His golden eyes flicked away for a moment before alighting on her once again. "And yet even then, you thought of me. I am unused to such… kindness." He stretched out one of his hands, palm upward.

Christine stared at that long-fingered hand, poised as though to shake her own. In some way, he seemed to be asking for much more than her own hand in return. Steeling herself, she placed her hand into his, starting a bit when he curled his fingers around hers to grip it. His touch was cold, his skin rough with callouses and dry patches.

He flexed, bringing his hand forward his body, and she had to take a step toward him to keep from pulling her hand free. To her amazement, he raised her hand upward and pressed the bottom curve of his mask to her knuckles. The material was a rough linen and surprisingly warm. Although she could not feel his breath, she imagined what it might be like – as warm as the mask?

Her lips parted in an unwitting gasp. He had just kissed her hand, pressing his mask to her knuckles as surely as he might have pressed his lips. In that moment, she wondered what he appeared like under the mask, if he would allow her to remove the black covering to get at the face beneath. Surely, he had a face of his own, of some kind, a face with features such as lips with which he could kiss her hand properly… What were they shaped like? Would they feel as rough as his palm did against hers?

As soon as he loosened his grip, she jerked her hand away with more insistence than she meant. He only straightened and gazed up at her, golden eyes sleek and deadly in the dim light. "You did a dangerous thing, coming here last night. What if my visitors had not yet left and caught you?"

She roused herself, trying to follow his new line of questioning and shake the other thoughts from her head. How much should she tell him? But she was through protecting Raoul, through with keeping up any pretenses.

"I saw both of those men somewhere else," she admitted, "when I was on my way back here. I knew they had gone."

The dark gray skin around his eyes tightened, narrowing his stare. "Where?"

"Erik." She shifted on her feet, trying to hide her discomfort and likely failing. "They were entering the home of a friend of mine. He was waiting for them to return." Erik's attention was intense, and she glanced away to the floor. "He is not who I thought he was, but I suppose I should be used to disappointment by now. Papa wants to move us away from here."

The last bit she added to see what kind of reaction she might glean from the man before her. They had known each other for such a short time, and she should not come to expect anything from him, this faceless person in chains. And yet, she found herself yearning for some sort of response from him – what, she could not yet say.

Erik only nodded. "This is advisable."

She blinked. "What is?"

"Moving away, little bird."

"You advise me to move away?" Feeling her face grow hot, she moved toward the fire in the other corner of the room, turning away from Erik. The shift was more to hide the burn of tears in her eyes. How easily she fell apart nowadays; her mother would have wanted her to be stronger than this.

She heard the heavy give and take of his chains, and then felt his momentous presence behind her.

"Yes," he answered, voice quiet. "This place is too toxic for one such as yourself, this building full of shadows and secrets. How much longer do you expect to visit me in the dead of night, little bird, without consequence?"

She spun around to argue with him, but what she saw in his eyes throttled her hasty retort. As she watched wide-eyed, he brought up a hand to spin one of her brown curls around a finger, the heavy manacle dangling from his pale wrist.

"Does your Papa say where you will go?" he asked.

It took her a moment to respond, riveted as she was on the feeling of her lock of hair tugging gently along her scalp. "Y-Yes," she said, struggling to keep her breathing even. "St-Etienne. He intends to work for Monsieur Martel."

The spell broken, Erik dropped his hand back to his side. "Martel is the master of this business. I have heard he is a good enough man, honorable enough for the position he keeps. I have never met him, but Plamondon detests him, so he must keep better company."

Raoul's words floated through her memory. The worry she had felt earlier began to resurface. "Erik, have you ever heard of a key?"

"Key?"

"Some important key. My friend asked me if I had ever seen or heard about a key that Martel had. It seemed like something he wanted to know more about or locate if he could. Truthfully, I do not know the importance of such an item, but he seemed to care about it."

Erik folded his arms, turning away slightly as he considered her question. "Would you tell me the name of this friend of yours? These questions he is asking, and the men who you say ventured to his residence last night – these details tell me that you should keep far away from him."

She remembered the way Leclair had reacted when she had mentioned Raoul's name. She gathered her courage. "He is the Vicomte de Chagny."

"Vicomte?"

She started at the sudden vehemence that darkened Erik's tone, the near way he hissed the word. When he hands came up to clutch her shoulders roughly, she could do little more than stare up at him in shock.

"E-Erik?"

He tightened his grip almost to the point of pain, fingers like bands of metal cutting into her upper arms. "The Vicomte is young and blonde, yes? The same man who recently became chief of this faction of MASE?"

She nodded, and he released her, shoving her in the direction of the window with such force that she almost fell backward.

"You must go, Christine. Wake your father, pack up your belongings, and go."

"Erik-"

"I said go!"

His command snarled at her, causing her to stumble further toward the only way out of his room. His sudden shift in temperament startled her and sent her heart racing. Just when she thought she could grow used to this towering shape of a man, he changed his demeanor. He all but dashed to the window, throwing open the pane and spinning back around to scowl at her. He was… panicked, in a way she had not seen from him.

"Best you leave your things – no time to pack that which can be replaced. Fetch your father and leave this place, Christine. Both of you, hail a cab and take yourselves far beyond the reach of Paris!"

The table pressed against the backs of her thighs. Still, she hesitated. His next words were thick, low and draw from the base of his throat, an almost animalistic whine.

"Why are you not leaving? You told me you would listen."

"If I ever bid you to leave again, it will be because your life is truly in danger. Will you listen then?"

She did not speak, did not nod her agreement. She wanted nothing more than to go to him, to wrap her arms around his slender waist the way she had before, to feel those cold hands touch her hair. Instead, she turned to face the window and climbed onto the table. She could hear harsh breathing that was not her own. No rough sounds of chains met her ears as though he was rooted to his spot in the room.

Christine climbed back into the courtyard, her breath immediately coming out in quick white tendrils. She did not look back, could not look back, lest she break her word and return to him.

On her way back upstairs, she did not let herself think much about what was happening. Her legs felt jittery, her pulse fluttering wildly beneath her skin. She focused upon placing one foot before the other until she reached the apartment door.

She did not bother removing her cloak once inside. Her mouth opened to call for her father, to wake him, but she snapped it shut.

Charles, fully dressed, rose from the chair before the fire.

"Papa!"

"I heard noises outside my window and woke to find you gone. No note to say where you were, Christine. No sign that you were safe."

"I-I am sorry, Papa."

His face darkened in anger, his voice trembling in fury. "What am I to think about my daughter disappearing in the middle of the night?"

"I am sorry." She stepped toward him, Erik's words of warning echoing in her head. She needed to convince Charles that they had no choice but to flee at once. "I only went to the courtyard on the lower floor, the one in the middle of the building. I-I have been going there to sing."

He shook his head incredulously. "Not only have you been sneaking out from beneath my roof every night, but you have been acting against my wishes?"

"Papa, I only wanted to practice."

Grabbing onto his arm, she tried to pull him toward the door. He shook her off. "I have tried to sympathize with all that has happened, Christine, tried to understand your moods and lingering sentiments about the past. But enough time has passed that you stop these childish ventures."

His words cut her deeply. She swallowed her rising tears. "I understand that you are disappointed, Papa. Can – can we talk about this on our way? We need to leave tonight." She took up his arm again. "Please, I think we are in danger. We need to leave!"

He stumbled as she tugged him. "What is going on with you, Christine? I already told you that we are leaving as soon as I work things out with Monsieur Martel."

"No, it must be tonight. Please, Papa!" She could hear her own panic coloring her voice, which was rising shrilly.

She could see Charles's thoughts warring with his own frustration with her. His blue eyes flitted away for a moment as he considered. "How do you know this?"

"I just do." When she yanked him toward the door, he followed more obediently. "I will explain everything – I promise." And she would. She would tell him what she had been doing in the courtyard, tell him about her suspicions about Raoul, tell him about Erik. And eventually, once they were far away and safe, she could tell the police and send them to free her friend.

Charles took his coat from the rack by the door and began to shrug it on. "Let me grab the rest of our coin from my room, and we will leave." Christine nodded, relieved. He opened their front door for her. "Head downstairs and flag down a ride if you can find one. If not, we will go on foot at first."

"Yes, Papa."

Christine was about to step into the hall when Charles snagged the back of her cloak and yanked her back into the apartment, slamming the door closed once again. She did not have to ask why – she had seen them at the same time he had.

Plamondon had appeared around the corner of the hall, at least two other men with him. They all carried pistols in their hands.

Charles bolted the locks, then grabbed onto a kitchen chair and jammed the back under the handle of the door, while Christine stared in shock. Then he grabbed her hand and pulled them both into his room, closing that door as well. It did not have a lock. He fetched a small purse of coin and shoved it into the waistband of her bodice without comment.

"Papa-"

"Christine, listen to me." He bent, taking hold of her shoulders in the same manner that Erik had done only moments earlier. "My bedroom window opens next to the roof. You can swing yourself over, all right? Cross the roof and find the hatch that opens on the other side. This leads to another set of stairs."

She began to tremble. "Papa, why are you telling me this?"

"Take these stairs all the way to the bottom floor, Christine. They lead directly to the city street, all right? From there, you can head to the gendarmerie." He cupped her face, his own expression serious. "Do you remember when I showed you where the nearest station is? Good. You can do this. Take the stairs to the outside, then find the gendarmerie."

What sounded like a fist banging upon the front door caught their attention for a moment. Then Charles pushed her toward the window. "Go, daughter-mine!"

She grabbed onto his hand. "Not without you!"

Beneath his thick beard, he offered a small smile. "I will follow as soon as I can."

He tugged loose his tie and unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt, giving him access to a chain that hung around his neck. Lifting the chain free of his shirt, he held aloft a small golden key that dangling between them.

"Take this. Keep it safe for me, Christine."

Not waiting for her reply, he looped the chain over her head and lifted her hair to settle it against her throat. Then he tucked the key safely into the collar of her dress, the metal warm from being against his own skin.

In a mimicry of Erik's earlier actions, Charles opened the tall window and ushered Christine onto the narrow balcony, barely wide enough for her tiptoes. The harsh winter wind blew against her cheeks. She could see the street far below, and the roof that jutted off to one side at a gentle slant.

She swung her head around. "Papa!"

He had already moved back to the door, bracing it with his shoulder. More banging erupted from the living room.

"Go, Christine!"

Gulping in pants of air, struggling against her panic, she grabbed onto the railing and swung one leg over the edge. Here on the corner of the balcony, she had little chance of falling – the roof sloped under this portion. She yanked her skirts over the railing and leapt onto the roof, falling to her knees on the cold metal tiles.

Wait for me, Papa, she thought. She would run to the gendarmerie and beg for their help, no matter how long it took.

Her fingers, grasping onto the rough shape of the shingles, were already turning numb as she crept her way across the roof, the wind tugging on her cloak and batting her hair in her face. Charles had shut the window behind her. She had to focus on moving closer to the hatch on the other side of the roof and not on the danger her father could be facing.

Finally, she made it across, her fingernails broken from grasping onto the tiles, the palms of her hands scraped raw. She pried open the hatch and caught sight of a narrow staircase that twisted down into darkness. The space was enclosed enough that she could place one hand on each wall, and so she felt her way downward, guiding herself by the curve of the walls and feeling each span of each step after the moonlight from outside faded into nothing.

Her hands found the door before her before she bumped her nose upon it. She felt blindly for a handle, found one, and twisted the knob. She stepped onto the sidewalk, but she could not take off running the way she had planned. She heard a man's voice mumbling just around the corner.

Christine pressed her back to the building's stone surface and sided her way to the corner to peer around it. Leclair was bent over, one foot raised onto the step of a carriage as he tied his boot. These men were already in the building, already coming for her father, and she had no time to walk in the dark to the police, who would have to believe her story before they would hurry to help.

Her heart pounding, Christine pried up a loose cobblestone. Leclair cursed, untying his laces with drunken movements. As she crept closer, she could smell the stink of alcohol on him. He must have finally noticed her in his peripheral vision because he swung up to see her just as she brought the heavy stone crashing atop his head.

With a grunt, he slumped to the ground. He was not fully unconscious, slowly writhing as he groaned, so Christine acted quickly. She knelt beside him and rolled him over enough to dig into his coat pockets. It was easy for her to find the lump of keys, and once she had them in her possession, she fled.

She was terrified that she would meet someone else as she went back inside the building, but the first floor was deserted. She had only ever entered Erik's room through the courtyard window, but she knew it was accessed through the basement. The minutes passed in slow agony, each door having to be unlocked with a different key. She found storerooms of firearms and office supplies until she reached a narrow door in the back with a black wooden rod propped beside it.

Feeling sick at the sight, Christine fumbled with the keys, desperately trying to find the correct one. When it clicked into the place and sprung free the lock, she almost sobbed at the sound. She tossed open the door.

Erik leapt to his feet at the sight of her. He had been sitting on the edge of his mattress facing the door, the position he took whenever Leclair and Plamondon came to roughen him up. Bile rose up in Christine's throat at the thought that Erik had mistaken her for them. With a cry, tears streaming down her cheeks, she threw herself against the man.

"Christine, what are you-" The impact of her slight body against his cut him off with a soft exhalation of breath. "I thought you were leaving."

"Oh, Erik!" She hid her face against his shirt, allowing herself only a moment to breathe in the damp scent of him before she stepped back. "I tried, but before Papa and I could get out, Plamondon showed up with t-these other men. I saw Leclair outside too."

His eyes widened inside his black mask, the whites showing around his yellow irises. "Did he see you?" At her nod, Erik placed a hand along her back and pushed her back toward the door. "You have to leave. Get as far from here as you can by daylight. If he catches you here-"

"I cannot simply run away. My father is upstairs all alone! I have to do something." She held the ring of keys in her palm. "Will one of these unlock your cuffs?"

"No." Erik shook his wrists at her, the chains whipping against the stone floor. "I have tried many times to pick them. After I managed the first set, they had these specially made."

Christine despaired. Both Erik and her father expected her to just run away and save herself while leaving them both in danger. Why was her life considered greater than theirs? She could never face herself again if she left now, she could never live a happy life knowing she had put herself above them.

"Then I will have to go back upstairs on my own," she said.

"No, Christine!"

She deafened her ears to his protests, moving back to the doorway where he could not reach her. Erik lurched toward her, jerking the tall bulk of his body in her direction while his manacles held his hands behind him. His eyes blazed with desperation.

And then gunshots rang out, the sounds muffled. One, two, in quick succession.

Christine screamed, heart seizing in terror. "Papa!" She had left her father all alone in their attic apartment, facing his assailants without her.

"Christine – wait a moment!"

She swung around to see Erik straining against his bonds. He had taken one of the chains within his hands, the length stretched taut, the metal digging into the space where his wrist met his hand. His broad back heaving, he put his weight into it as he tried to yank the chain free from the wall.

Realizing what he was trying to do, Christine joined him, grabbing onto the chain in front of his fists. Her palms were already raw from the metal shingles on the roof, but she ignored the agony, ignored the way the old, rusted metal scraped her skin. The chain was bolted into the stone wall – how could they ever hope to –

A growl rose up deep within Erik. She stared at the exposed line of his throat between mask and shirt collar, watched him swallow against the pain. Blood welled up from where the metal bit into his wrist, and still they pulled. Christine's muscles began to burn, and then suddenly, a link in the chain gave way, tossing them both to the floor.

"Again," Erik said.

They scrambled to their feet, grasping onto the second chain in the same manner as the first. Christine's hands cramped, but still she pulled with all of her strength. Erik's feet slid across the grimy stone floor and he dug in his heels, his body at an angle. Yells rising from both of them, they heaved backward. The chains were worn from overuse, left to weather for far too long, and weakened by Erik's own tinkering. They had found a weakness in the first chain – they could do the same with the second.

Christine's muscles ached, and she could feel the blood pounding in her veins. She thought of her father all alone upstairs, of the gunshots, of the promise of freedom, and she pushed past her anguish to yank with every bit of power she possessed. She heard a grinding sound of metal separating, and the second chain split in two.

Erik was free.

Blood dripped in red splatters onto the floor from both of his damaged wrists. The manacles now hung loosely from his wrists, and two lengths of shorter chain still dangled from each of his hands. He straightened to his full height, his eyes blazing madly from within his dark mask, his chest heaving.

For a moment, fear flashed through her – fear of him, for what did she actually know of this man except the little he had revealed to her? When he stepped forward, she backpedaled, but he only strode to the door. He paused, tilting his head over his shoulder to speak to her.

"Whatever happens, follow close and always stay behind me, never in front. Do you understand?"

"Y-Yes."

As he stepped across the threshold of his prison, she heard his quick exhalation, his breathing out the memory of this place. Her mind flitted back to that night she had demanded to know why he was imprisoned.

"I have seen much in my lifetime, Christine. I have done much. But while I am responsible for my own destruction within this stone prison, I will certainly not be responsible for yours."

He strode forward on long legs, and she had to scurry to keep up. Even though he had existed only within that tiny room while she had known him, he seemed to know exactly where to go.

They flew up the flights of stairs, and on the third floor, they overtook Leclair who had also been on his way up. Leclair was bleeding from a gash along his hairline from where Christine had hit him. His head wound along with his drunken state made him slow to react to the sudden appearance of Erik.

"Who the fuck let you out?"

Not answering, Erik leapt smoothly behind him. He fisted one of the chains still hanging from his wrist and pulled it taut around Leclair's thick neck.

Christine cried out and ducked behind Erik in time to avoid the shot Leclair fired from the pistol in his hand. She now understood what Erik had meant by staying behind him, she understood why he had wanted her to stay close. She understood that and so much more.

"There are some answers that you do not want to hear."

How naïve she had been when she had asked what he had refused to do for those men. She heard Erik murmur into Leclair's ear, his voice void of emotion.

"The day you laid hands upon me was the day you chose how to die."

Leclair tried to squeak out a reply but the chain tightened around his neck, cutting off his air. Erik leaned back, and Leclair rose upon his toes until he was unable to support his own weight. Christine clenched her eyes shut, but she could not hide from the sound of silence coming from Leclair's throat, nor from the sound of chain squealing against chain.

Then she heard the thud of a body falling to the floor.

She knew, she knew, the truth that Erik had refused to give her about himself, about his role in all of this. She knew why he had been chained in that tiny room. She knew why he had not wanted her to know. And yet, she did not regret letting him out of that hell, and she was terrified by the fact that she did not regret that he had now killed a man.

"Keep your eyes closed," Erik said, softer now. His fingers touched hers, gripping, tugging her away. Once they had passed the scene, he let go. "You live in the attic?"

She could only nod, and they hurried onward. Leclair's shot had drawn notice. Erik's arm shot out, knocking Christine against the wall behind him just as someone fired at them. Two men Christine did not recognize cut them off.

"Oh God!" one of the men cried out, seeing Erik's dark form on the stairs, a shadow rising out of the darkness. "Heaven have mercy!"

Christine focused on matching Erik's movements, skirting behind him as he shifted.

"Good girl," he said in her ear, even as he ringed a chain around one man's neck and aimed a confiscated weapon at the other.

Papa, Christine chanted in her head. She had to reach Papa. Nothing else mattered.

They made it to the top of the stairs, everything around them falling silent. Seeing that the door to the apartment had been kicked open, Christine darted around Erik, but he caught her arm.

"Let me go first."

He nudged the door open wider with his foot, and Christine saw a body sprawled across the floor of the entryway. She knew from the boots that it was not her father, and she recognized Plamondon's graying hair as she stepped into what had been her home. Erik bent down to press two fingertips to the man's neck, but Plamondon was staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling, a gaping wound in his chest no longer seeping blood.

"Papa?" she called.

Erik moved further into the room, eyes sweeping around. She had left her father in his bedroom, so she stepped around to head in that direction. Erik's heavy hand upon her shoulder brought her up short, but he was not looking at her, his attention instead directed toward the dark interior of her father's bedroom.

Christine looked up at the man beside her, the man she had freed from his prison, who had just killed three men in front of her. From this angle, he could see into the bedroom while the angle of the door blocked her view. He still held a confiscated pistol in one hand, his wrists caked with drying blood.

"E-Erik, where is Papa?"

His yellow eyes swiveled down to alight on her. "Oh, little bird."

She could not stomach the sorrowful note that colored his voice. When she ducked under his arm, he did not prevent her this time.

Charles lay still upon the floor of his bedroom, just beyond the doorway. Her body felt light as she made her way to his side and sank to her knees. Her trembling fingers touched the splatter of red in his ribcage, and then she was ripping the ruffled hem of her skirt off so she could ball up the fabric and press it against his injury.

"Erik, he is bleeding!" She glanced at him as he cast his shadow into the room, filling up the doorframe. "Go get a doctor! There has to be one nearby, right?" She brushed the hair from Charles's forehead, and his skin was clammy.

"Christine," Erik said.

"Why are you just standing there? Help me!" She clasped her father's hand, squeezing it gently. His broad hand was limp within hers, and she bent forward to kiss his knuckles. "Wake up, Papa, please wake up!"

"Christine."

She was getting tired of Erik just standing there, saying her name. She tried to glare at him but her vision was blurring. Erik crouched at her side.

"There is nothing I can do, little bird. We must leave. Someone will come to investigate the noise, and we must be gone when they do."

She scrubbed at her face, her fingers sticky with blood. "I cannot leave him. I already left him once."

"You must."

Charles lay still before her, and the more she stared at him, the more she saw the truth for what it was. She fisted his clothes, shaking him. "No, no, no, Papa!" Her ears were ringing – who was shouting? She could not seem to do anything but kneel there on the floor. Her throat was beginning to scald like she was gulping boiling water.

Dimly, she felt Erik's cold fingers slide through her hair to cup the base of her neck. His other hand calmly came up to cover her mouth and nose, forming a solid seal between her lungs and the air.

"Forgive me," he said, golden eyes glowing in the hazy light. "This will only take a moment."

She tried to pry his fingers from her face to draw a breath, but she could no more prevent what he was doing than she could bring her father back to life. Her tears flowed freely over his fingers. She felt dizzy, her mind drifting upward as though untethered from her aching body. For a brief moment, she thought this was not such a terrible way to die, surely with less pain than the way her father had passed.

She heard the ringing in her ears fade to nothing, and soon, her vision formed a fuzzy blackness that swallowed her whole.

And thus ends what I consider to be the Part 1 of this fic.