1864

Erik stood unseen in the back of the tent while Marco the Magnificent practiced his routine. The young boy's keen eyes had spotted the tricks behind most of the illusions so far but there were still some he'd not yet figured out. He'd already asked Marco if he could apprentice under him but the 'magician' was both superstitious as well as protective of his abilities. He wanted nothing to do with the child that bore the face of a demon, the voice of an angel, and an intelligence surpassing any he'd ever known before. The illusionist knew that, should he take the boy on as an apprentice, he'd be out of a job within a year or two at the most. Something needed to be done with the little freak to teach him his place.

When Marco started packing up to prepare for that night's show, Erik slipped quietly from the tent and back to his own. He stared at his costume with distaste; split down the middle, it represented heaven and hell, angel and devil. He'd only been with the caravan a month when he picked up a discarded violin and played one of the popular melodies he'd heard every night he'd been with the gypsies. Now, he played for the coins people would throw while the girls danced. They, too, were dressed as one or the other: virginal white costumes with flowing lace and feathered wings attached to their backs or sultry, seductive red costumes that barely covered the girls' bodies as they lured and teased money from the patrons who wandered by. Erik would walk behind them as he played and, depending on which side he showed the audience, encouraged one or the other to take the lead in the dance. Towards the end of the show, the seductresses would pick a customer for the night to entertain privately and, with the angels remaining, he would sing as they danced around him. It was a good show that made a modest amount of coins. He was thankful to no longer be cleaning in the kitchens and that he'd yet to have to remove the mask that covered his face.

It was the last show before they left for warmer, more southerly climates when Marco put his plan in motion. Erik was playing while the dancers coaxed money from the men who'd come to ogle them. A sudden flash of light and puff of smoke temporarily blinded him and he felt someone pull the hood from his head and rip off his mask. As his vision returned, he heard the screams from the dancers as well as the shouts of horror from the audience.

"Behold! I, Marco the Magnificent, have revealed the demon in our midst. This creature, this child of the Devil, has hidden his true nature from you all long enough. For your safety and the safety of your wives and children, I say we cage the demon to protect us from his wrath!"

Erik struggled to get free but Marco's grasp on his thin arm was painfully tight. A cage was rolled into the tent by the magician's assistant and the young boy was harshly thrown inside. A large padlock was placed on the door and clicked shut. The audience, who'd backed away in horror at the boy's face, now surged forward to insult and taunt him. They found rotten fruit outside the tent and returned to throw them at the terrified child. Marco prodded him with his cane and demanded that Erik show his face to those he'd tried to enslave. When he refused, Marco hit him with the sturdy wooden stick. Still Erik defied him so the illusionist beat him until he fell unconscious from the pain and shock. Ripping off his robes until the boy was left with nothing but his thin trousers, the gypsy threw a rough burlap sack into the cage along with a bit of crusty bread and a small amount of water. Grinning at his triumph, Marco escorted the customers from the tent and replaced the sign over the entrance to "Devil's Child – the boy with half a face!"

1865

Spring had begun to peek through the snow filled village just outside of Stockholm but still there had been no word as to who had killed the Montfort's servants. Julien had made certain that the couple wouldn't make the Transition since that had been their wishes and they were now buried in a small mausoleum just off the path from the garden. The Rüb's daughter, Melisande, and her unbonded mate, Jöchen Heinrich, arrived a month after the couple's death and a small ceremony was held for them. Together, the two elders pooled their resources and began to search for the one responsible. The first tulips had begun to blossom when they finally got a lead on the killer.

The newspapers from Stockholm arrived once a week as a large bundle. Though this meant those at the Montfort home were a tad behind on events there, rarely had there been anything of note to make them wish to switch to the costlier daily deliveries. The men were sipping a glass of warmed sheep's blood and reading in front of the fire when Jöchen gave a startled exclamation. Three murders over the course of a few days had been reported and all bore striking similarities as the attacks on the Rübs. The men noted the addresses of those killed and moved as one to their rooms to pack. Finally, they were closer to removing a dangerous vampire from their midst.

"Julien, my love," Christine held onto the bed post and watched her lover pack an overnight bag, "I don't want you to go to Stockholm. I have an awful feeling about this…"

"Shh, it will be alright, Little One," pulling his mate into his arms, he kissed her cheeks and forehead before brushing his lips across hers. We should be gone no more than a week or two at the most. This creature has to be stopped, my love. He could endanger us all with his Hunger and carelessness."

"I know, beloved," snuggling closer, Christine held him close, unable to shake the feeling that she wouldn't be seeing her mate again. "I worry for you, that's all. Return to me swiftly, Julien, for I shall ache each moment we're apart."

The elder ran his fingers along her spine and read her fears that she tried to hide. He couldn't deny that she might very well be correct; he'd felt the weariness close in on him ever sense she'd sensed her new mate. Though he hated to be separated from her knowing how little time they had left, Julien had to avenge his friends. So, he simply held her and murmured the usual loving platitudes and prayed that they were both wrong as to how this would all end. When Jöchen called from the doorway, he tilted her face to his and gazed down to imprint her beauty on his memory. Leaning forward, he kissed her long and tenderly. In his kiss was every ounce of love and happiness, sadness and regret, every hello and every goodbye. They both knew he'd not be returning and it tore at their hearts. With a final caress, Julien left the room with his bag, leaving Christine standing with blood-red tears sliding down her cheeks. She didn't go to the front to watch him leave; she couldn't bear it. As the door closed, she collapsed on the bed she'd shared with her mate and sobbed out her sorrow and loneliness.

1874

An autumn chill hovered in the Parisian air as a young widow exited the carriage onto the Rue de Rivoli. Nine years had passed since Julien's Final Transition and Christine still felt the pain of the loss. In the beginning, the increased pull of the new mate angered her. She didn't want to even consider another when her love had so recently left her forever and so she'd resisted its call for as long as she could. First there had been Julien's death and cremation. She'd traveled to that same beach of so many years before and mingled his ashes with the water as the sun arose. She had a feeling he'd like being reunited with the Count and his mate. Then, she refused to travel in the dead of winter citing icy rails and scarce food. And finally, there was the war that had marched on Paris; none could fault her for not wanting to risk the allure of freshly killed and bleeding bodies, right? Now, however, the Commune had fallen and Paris was in a state of renewal and Christine could resist the pull no longer. She closed the estate for the winter and purchased a small townhouse.

Her first order of business was, of course, securing a food source. There were many stockyards inside Paris but she was hoping for something a little more…refined. They would do for a while, however, until she found something a bit cleaner. Not certain of the protocol, for Julien never did get around to explaining all the strange traditions during their years together, Christine sent calling cards to the homes which bore signs of welcome and aid. Through her new acquaintances, she found a more palatable feeding house as well as an establishment that catered only to vampires. Similar to the gentlemen's clubs of London, such as White's or Boodle's, Le Rossignol kept out unwanted humans by being exclusively 'member's only.' Being a beautiful, young creature, she was quite popular amongst the members and spent many nights playing cards or simply enjoying the company after so many lonely years. So immersed was she in her newly-found social life that she almost forgot the reason she was in Paris. Almost.

Beneath the Académie Nationale de Musique, a masked youth completed the pump system that would divert the Lake Averne away from the foundations of the opera house. Packing away his tools, he walked towards what appeared to be a solid wall, pressed a specific rock, and stepped back as the wall pivoted silently on a hidden mechanism. The man once known as Erik St. John de Lune closed the door behind him and lit a lantern to easier navigate the way to his home. It had taken him years to be free of the gypsy caravan; years of jeers and screams and beatings that never seemed to end. Every day for the first month, he asked Marco why he'd done such a thing. The illusionist never did answer for he knew it would give the boy a hold over him. Four long and painful years passed before he had a chance for both escape and answers. Only when the rope had tightened around his neck had the illusionist confessed that he'd recognized Erik's potential and felt threatened by it. Disgusted, the boy quickly snapped the neck of his chief tormentor and fled into the city.

Touching another cleverly disguised button, Erik entered the sparse sitting room he'd carved from the rock beneath the theater being built by Garnier. He tossed his tools onto a table and grabbed a glass and the decanter of brandy. At first glance, he was every inch a man of the world. Elegant of dress and manners with a thin, wiry frame that hid his strength, he towered over most men at well over six feet. His face betrayed his age, however, for the left side that wasn't hidden by the white, porcelain mask was smooth and unblemished. It was his eyes that appeared old. Golden brown, they swirled with anger, hatred, and despair at a world that held nothing but contempt for him since the day of his birth. Tossing back the drink, he removed the mask and rubbed a tender spot on his deformed cheek; he would have to fix that soon or risk infection. After escaping the caravan, Erik had traveled the world looking for some place to live without fear of others. After only a year in Persia, he was again forced to flee due to the royal family's keen interest in his face and skills. He'd arrived in Paris only a month after the commune had been routed and secured a job with Charles Garnier after showing him a portfolio of his work. Together, they'd built the opera house though even his partner never knew of the rooms secreted beneath the stone. After years of dodging the hatred and scorn of humanity, Erik was thoroughly sick of it all and wished for nothing more than to live out his days in peace. Taking a sip from his glass, he scowled when the door swung open and revealed the only living soul who knew of his sanctuary.

"What do you want, Daroga?" Erik's beautiful voice had become as cultured and elegant as his mode of dress and the lissomness of his walk. Underneath the beauty, however, there was a distinct hint of steel that warned his friend that his patience was limited.

"I've come only to bring your groceries, my friend, and see how you fare in this cold, damp cellar." The Persian man had donned western clothing for the shopping trip after finding the prices to be much better than when he wore his traditional clothing and the chill in the room penetrated the many layers that made up the fashion for these westerners. "Have you gotten the fireplace working yet, Erik?"

"No. I'm waiting for the opera's furnaces to be completed." His golden eyes followed the older man into the pantry and watched as he placed the items on the shelves within. The kitchen was one of the first areas he'd completed and was far better equipped than most in Paris. He'd even managed to divert a small amount of the icy water from the underground lake through the pantry so that the things that needed to be cold remained so.

"You know I have a spare bedroom, Erik. Why don't you stay there until you can get some heat in this place? This can't be good for you."

Erik sighed and poured another drink. Every week they had the same argument and every week the Persian returned to his apartments alone. Why did the fool continue to pester him about it? He wasn't meant to be part of the world of men; he'd learned that early in life when he'd taken money from a gypsy in order not to break a woman's heart. He sighed heavily as he thought of Cecile and Marguerite Giry. He hoped the war with the Prussians and the mess with the Commune hadn't affected them and that they were still living happily in that little cottage in Rouen.

"I remain so I can work on my home when the other workers have left for the day. You know this, Daroga, so why do you continue to pester me so?" Erik watched the dark-skinned man close the pantry doors and sit in the chair across from him.

"I pester you, as you call it, because remaining in this dark, cold, damp place is unhealthy."

"Unhealthy? So, what do you suggest, Daroga, a small house along the Avenue des Champs-Élysées? I'm sure the neighbors would just love living next to a monster." The Persian winced at the sarcasm in the young man's voice. He was far too young to hold such anger and despair and total hatred for humanity.

"You are not a monster, Erik." His quiet statement was left unanswered except for a single, unflattering snort of disbelief. He decided to try another tactic. "What will you do once the opera house is completed?"

"I shall live out my days in peace I hope." The look he gave his companion made it clear as to what, or rather who, was currently preventing that from occurring. "Beyond that…?" Erik shrugged one shoulder elegantly. "Who knows? Every good opera house should have a ghost, should it not?" The masked man's laughter was far from joyous and sent a shiver of dread down the older man's spine. Feeling he'd tested his host's limits enough, he rose and repeated his offer of the guest room. When there was no reply, he simply bowed and left his troubled friend staring into the unlit fireplace.

Alone once more, Erik sighed and sat back in the chair. He knew his Persian friend meant well but the world above was not for the likes of him. And yet…there was something that had drawn him to Paris. He'd thought it was the opportunity to once again work in the field of architecture and build beautiful things instead of structures with no soul and little dignity. He'd enjoyed working with Charles Garnier; after the first meeting, the man never again looked at the mask and had never asked about it either. He'd felt more human in that moment than ever before. Then construction started and the workers couldn't seem to stop looking at it which put him securely back in his place. That was when he began working on his home and connecting the rooms to the Communard's tunnels. However, even while working on the opera house, he still felt this strange pull. His sleep, when it wasn't filled with nightmares of his life before, held dreams of the vague figure of a girl who called to him. The longing to be with her was so strong that he began to see the dreams as just more nightmares for they showed him what could never be. Throwing the glass into the hearth where it shattered most satisfactorily, Erik stood and retrieved his tools. If he was only going to dwell on unpleasant things, he might as well work while he was doing so.

Time and seasons marched on in the Paris above but Erik paid them little heed. The opera house was complete and there were talks of a gala to celebrate the grand opening of the Académie Nationale de Musique - Théâtre de l'Opéra. Charles had been trying to convince his partner to attend opening night with him but to no avail. The masked man had grown comfortable in his solitary home, away from the condemning stares of others, and had no interest in exposing himself in such a way. He told the architect to enjoy the accolades of his peers; he'd received all he needed already. Charles' steady look and nod of acceptance had Erik wondering if the man knew of the tunnels beneath the opera house but nothing was said concerning them. They met for the last time atop the grand building they'd created; Erik in his usual black evening suit and Charles in grey and silver for the premiere. The pair remained silent for some time simply gazing out at the lights of the city. In that silence was all the conversation that'd ever been needed between the two. They each held a vast amount of respect and fondness for the other but realized that it was unlikely for their paths to cross again. At the sound of the orchestra warming up for the night's performance, Erik shook the hand of the only man who'd ever treated him as an equal and disappeared from the rooftop like a ghost. Charles remained only a few more moments wishing things could be different for the brilliant young man.


Académie Nationale de Musique - Théâtre de l'Opéra - this is the official name of the opera house built by Charles Garnier and what would have been used during that time. Unofficially, it was known as the Paris Opera or the Garnier, after the architect.

Avenue des Champs-Élysées - during this time period, this street was home of the ultra-elite. Most nobles from France and England had homes on the street that were normally used only during the "Season" when all of the balls and parties took place. They would then retire to their country estates during the height of the summer as Paris wasn't pleasant at the time. Summer heat + open sewers = yucky. lol