A/N: Sorry for the long wait! There's a lot going on in this chapter, and I wanted to do it right. I also got waylaid by holiday craziness that has interfered with my usual writing times. I hope the length makes up for the wait.


On the evening of Halloween, Erik sat on the edge of the bed and forced himself to look in the mirror.

It was a ravaged face that stared back. If he squinted—enough to blur his vision—and tapped into the dark recesses of memory, he could almost see it as it once was: uninspiring, perhaps, but whole. Untouched. The layer of marred skin that lay there now looked like a weathered crust that, once scraped away, would reveal his original, unspoiled face beneath.

And there had been many times, in those early days of recovery, when he'd nearly convinced himself that such was the case. It was a matter of healing, he'd told himself. A matter of time.

The fact was, however, that his face—his actual, God-given face—had ceased to exist in those first few days following the fire. It had been cut away, that burned flesh, to stop his body's inflammatory response. To save his life.

Certainly, there had been attempts at restoration. But skin grafts were not miracle cures, and treatment had been slow and arduous. By the time he'd been taken into custody for the crime he did not commit, he'd had five surgeries, none of which were cosmetic. Imprisonment had put cosmetic surgery out of the question—but by then, he had given up on ever achieving some semblance of normalcy.

As the scar tissue had calcified, so, too, had his entire outlook.

He forced his eyes to refocus. There is no happy ending in the cards for you: he would repeat it like a mantra if he had to. This was a reconnaissance mission, not a social outing. And certainly not a date.

He put on his mask and gloves, gathered the necessary accoutrements, and headed aboveground to call for a rideshare.

Phil de Chagny's home was tucked away among the wooded hills of the town's north side, an area largely unfamiliar to Erik given that it was notoriously wealthy. His driver dropped him off in the wide circle drive out front, and a suited man with an earpiece watched him enter through double doors that quivered with the vibrations from a distant, thumping bass.

So he would have to deal with security, then. Ah, well. He had anticipated no less for a family with so much at risk.

The foyer was dim, lit only by the dozen wrought-iron candelabras lining its walls. A dry-ice fog curled around his ankles. On a staircase that curved up to the second floor, leering jack-o'-lanterns flanked either side of every step. He spotted another pair of solemn-faced men, glaring anomalies with earpieces among the partygoers who flitted through, and he knew these stairs were out of the question for access to de Chagny's office.

No matter. It had been his good fortune to find the listing information for the house and property, still cached on several major real estate websites despite Phil de Chagny's purchase ten months prior: a sloppy oversight on the part of the seller's agent. With that listing were nearly fifty photos of the interior and grounds, as well as floor plan images.

He followed a trickle of guests toward the vast living room, where servers in black circulated trays of canapés and cocktails, but then kept walking: there was a back staircase next to the kitchen, likely meant for only tenants and staff.

On the way, he located a restroom and stashed his mask—a partial skull, made of latex—under the sink, behind a stack of fluffy hand towels. He replaced it with a cloth Deadpool mask from his pants pocket, one that he'd found at a 24-hour supercenter in the early morning hours. The skull was meant to be his persona for the evening, the one Christine Daaé would be aware of should they meet. If things went awry upstairs, then ideally, security would be searching for a man in a Deadpool mask instead.

No matter that he'd never seen Deadpool. It would have to suffice.

Outside the bathroom, he spotted the stairs at the same time he spotted the security guard next to them. Instantly he spun on his heels, cursing under his breath. De Chagny's surveillance measures were bordering on excessive now. What had he walked into?

He strode back to the living room and snatched a cocktail from a tray, a hideous blood-red concoction that boiled over with a thick fog from what he assumed was food-grade dry ice. "Let the fog clear before you drink," cautioned a smiling server, as though the fog was the only barrier to drinking in a mask with no mouth-hole.

Ah, but perhaps he'd been retrieving the drink for his date! That would be far preferable to taking ownership of the vomitous red sludge himself. He pulled out his phone and faked a conversation as he rounded the corner, head down, to where the security guard was posted.

"Yes, dear," he said loudly. "Yes, I did get your drink, but I cannot seem to locate you." A pause. "Well, I wish you had been more specific. Honestly, I have no idea where I am now, and—" He collided forcefully with the guard and sent the red liquid splattering onto his suit. The man muttered a short chain of expletives as he surveyed the damage.

"Oh, sir, I apologize profusely. I can hardly see a thing in this mask. Might I get you a towel? Some club soda, perhaps?"

The guard waved him off irritably. "No, just leave it. I'll find a bathroom."

"I believe there is one down that way," Erik said, directing him to the farthest restroom he could think of. "Down that hall, a right, and then another right."

He waited until the guard had disappeared from view, and then he dropped the empty glass into a potted plant and launched up the stairs.


Christine should have expected the valet service at Phil's party. Nevertheless, it caught her off guard, reminded her of how out of her element she was. She walked into the soirée a timid and nervous wreck, afraid of tripping over her own two feet, if not the hem of her dress.

The chiffon gown was unlike anything she'd ever worn. She did not have the long legs or svelte frame that these long, flowy dresses seemed to demand, but she'd fallen in love with the color gradient, an inky blue that bled into purple at mid-thigh and then, gradually, into a soft, saturated rose-pink at the hem. It reminded her of twilight: that fleeting symmetry between light and dark, when everything was soft and magical. With the aid of professional alterations and a pair of strappy heels, she'd managed to make it work. And the ornate silver stars-and-moon mask, once she'd spotted it online, had been an obvious choice to pair with the dress.

Her hair had been straightened and pulled back into an elegant chignon, with soft strands left out to frame her face. The ensemble, combined with the professional hair and nails, had cost a small fortune—but she needed this. When had she last spent money on herself, anyway? She could hardly remember the last time she'd gotten a haircut, or bought a pair of jeans.

It was her first time dressing up since her college musical days, and in true clichéd form, she felt like a princess.

She'd done it for herself, but she had to admit that the prospect of Erik's attendance made it all the more worthwhile. A pang of nervousness lanced her stomach at the thought of his discerning eyes and mouth, his long-legged and brooding form. What was it about him that made her so desperate to win his approval?

Christine left her wrap at the coat check and walked toward the thrum of voices and heavy bass that reverberated throughout the house.

The first room she found was packed with cocktail tables and guests; servers wove among them with trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres held high. She moved to grab a cocktail until she saw that it was vibrantly red and emitting a thick fog, at which point the bar at the back became more appealing.

"Something sparkling, please," she told the bartender, "if you have it." As though he wouldn't. He rattled off three options, in fact, and as she waited for him to uncork and pour her selection, she turned to take in the splendor.

Everything in this room was black and ivory: ivory tablecloths with overlays of delicate black spiderwebs on the narrow hightop tables; bouquets of ivory roses, with black spiders perched on the blooms; ivory pumpkins swathed in sheer black lace. And working his way toward her, in a black naval officer's uniform, was Raoul.

He grinned and held up a hand in greeting. "I hope you're not drinking the red stuff," he said as he joined her at the bar. Behind the counter, the bartender handed her a champagne flute and flashed Raoul an acerbic glare.

"Sorry," Raoul said. "Just a whiskey for me, thanks." He turned to her as the bartender filled a rocks glass with ice. "I'm glad you could make it. You look amazing."

She smiled. "You cleaned up pretty well yourself, Captain." His double-breasted jacket boasted two columns of gleaming buttons, and the cuffs were trimmed with gold stripes. Completing the ensemble was a white-capped naval hat with black visor.

He took his drink from the bartender and raised it in her direction. "I thank you, my lady. Shall we check out the ballroom?"

She blinked. "There's a ballroom?"

Raoul grinned and offered her an elbow. "Come on, Daaé."

The room was amply sized, enough for a dance floor packed with couples and a platform that supported a live band. At the mic, a tiny blonde in a scarlet mini dress belted out a cover of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' "Heads Will Roll." And overhead, filtered lights cast the ceiling in ominous shades of blue and purple, among which silhouetted bats were suspended from wires, poised in flight.

Once comfortably situated on the outskirts of the dance floor, next to the wall, Christine took a large gulp of her wine. "So your brother's really into Halloween, huh?"

"No more than any other occasion," said Raoul. "Any excuse to schmooze and impress. You know how it is."

She didn't, really. She was used to gatherings where music blared from an iPod at best and guests filled the fridge with six-packs, gatherings where the fare consisted of chips and salsa and maybe a frozen pizza heated at midnight to soak up the evening's libations. But as awkward as she felt, she was determined to take advantage of such over-the-top hospitality while she was here. At the very least, she'd have a pleasant buzz and a great tale to tell her coworkers tomorrow.

"Speak of the devil!" Raoul announced.

She looked up to find Phil skirting the edge of dance floor, his hand joined with that of the radiant dark-haired woman who trailed behind him. He was crisply suited, with no costume, whereas she was an actual princess: a pink cloud, all soft lines and confectionery sweetness. Her dress was cut with a low back and a sweetheart neckline, with a skirt of layered tulle that made her seem to float across the floor, and in the hair curled and piled high atop her head there nested a silver tiara.

Phil had been eying the exit, but he stopped short when he spied his brother and Christine along the perimeter. "Well, hello!" he greeted her. "Nice to see you again, Christine."

"Thanks for letting me crash your party," she replied. "It's amazing."

"Nonsense. You're always welcome." He set a hand at the small of his date's back to move her in closer. It was such a small but intimate gesture, his fingers curling tenderly against exposed skin, that Christine felt as though she was intruding. "Though it's this lovely lady," he continued, "who I have to thank for all of this."

"Well, the party planner had a huge hand in it," replied the princess, beaming. She extended a hand. "Lisa Sorelli."

Christine returned the greeting and the introduction. "I saw you on the field the other week," she said. "You're a wonderful dancer."

"Oh, thank you!" Lisa replied. "We were on our way out for drinks; did you want to join us?"

The song was wrapping up, bleeding into a cover of "Toxic," and it was difficult to hear anything below shouting volume. Christine and Raoul exchanged eager glances. "Happily," she said, and they followed the pair back to the bar.

She kept a lookout for a masked and lanky shadow on the way, but she was starting to suspect that he wouldn't turn up. She could not imagine that someone so prickly and reclusive saw any merits in attending a Halloween party, even if he were to blend in for once.

The four of them stood and chatted among the crowded cocktail tables until one opened up, allowing them to set down their drinks and enjoy an assortment of canapes that Phil requisitioned. Christine found him as difficult to converse with as ever, but Lisa was a different story: she eagerly sought out Christine's interests and, once the topic of musicals came up, started discussing all of her favorites and her pilgrimages to Broadway, driving Raoul and his brother off into a side conversation.

"We've actually met a few performers at some of the parties that Phil's been invited to," Lisa informed her. "Just last month, actually, I flew out for one and we saw—oh, what was her name?" She tugged at Phil's sleeve until he looked over. "Who was the Broadway actress we met at the thing last month?"

"I can't remember. Patti something, I want to say?"

"Not Patti LuPone?" asked Christine.

He shot a finger gun in her direction. "That's the one."

"She was hilarious," Lisa added, and Christine could do nothing but gape in response.

Phil opened his mouth to speak again, but quickly closed it as he pulled a vibrating phone from his pocket. "I need to take this in my office," he said, frowning at the screen. "Excuse me."

Lisa offered a thin smile as he slipped away. "He's not always like this," she said. "It's just...been drilled into him, since childhood."

"Sure. I get it." Christine took a sip of wine: her second glass, disappearing quickly. "The burden of the de Chagny lineage, I guess." It was a weak argument; she knew very well that Raoul was nothing like his brother. But then, she supposed, he wasn't the firstborn, either.

Beside her, he snorted. "Yes, we're all so horribly afflicted," he muttered.

Lisa, mercifully, did not hear. "When Phil and I first started dating," she said, "he'd fly in on the weekends, no matter how busy I was. And if I had to pull an all-nighter, he'd order food and grab me coffee and give me neck massages." She smiled warmly as she stared into her glass. "He's busier lately, but he does what he can. It'll be easier after the spring, once I finish my master's degree and my work study."

"And dance team, and volunteer work," Raoul reminded her. "But I'm sure you'll find a way to be even busier in New York."

"Good lord," said Christine. "When do you sleep?"

"She doesn't; that's the secret. She's a cyborg."

Lisa waved him off. "Oh, you're one to talk, Mr. Law-School All-Star."

As Christine watched them banter about their respective schedules and commitments, she found herself longing for the days when she could relate. When she'd had ambition.

She tried not to think about how desperately she anticipated Erik's final thoughts on voice lessons. He'd been her one and only attempt to get back on track, and she didn't dare consider what would happen if he turned her away again.


He had come equipped with a small, slim roll of electrical tape should he need to block off a security camera, but he was pleasantly surprised to find that there were none on the second floor: not in the hallway, nor in the unlocked office.

A security force downstairs, yet no surveillance or protective measures where de Chagny presumably conducted business at least part of the time: what kind of operation was the man running?

The desk filing cabinet, at least, was locked. Erik withdrew and unraveled the last of his carefully concealed tactical items: a thin, cloth-wrapped bundle of assorted lock picks.

His gaunt fingers trembled as he extracted the first and most widely used of the tools. He had practiced with them at home for weeks now, but a controlled environment was never the same as the real thing. He could only hope that it wouldn't take as long as his most challenging rehearsals had.

He was, admittedly, not sure what he hoped to discover. It seemed safe to assume that the elder de Chagny son was carrying on his father's longstanding tradition of bribery. The issue was in the evidence: Erik had none, apart from his own word, and a fat lot of good that had done him before. If he could find just one thing—a check stub, a sticky note, anything—that got him farther than he'd been the day before, then it would be easier to build a case based on more than just his word and happenstance.

Miraculously, he managed to jimmy the lock open within ten minutes, and he set to poring over de Chagny's papers.

None of what he found was sensitive material, let alone relevant to him. The words and pages began to blur together, spelling out nothing but a frustrating waste of time.

And then there it was—no guarantee of evidence, certainly, but a beacon of hope: the recent transcript of a single student athlete. A football player.

Ah, de Chagny. What need, exactly, did a hedge fund manager have for student transcripts? Erik smiled smugly to himself.

Approaching footsteps sounded just as he slipped the folded pages into his jacket. Swiftly, he shut the cabinet drawer and clambered under the desk to hide.

It was, decidedly, the worst place he could have chosen outside of plain sight. He was bound to be caught.

There were snippets of conversation now, a male voice speaking with intermittent pauses—a phone discussion, perhaps? The voice grew louder until he could finally make out the words as they were spoken in the doorway to the office.

"Look, you do whatever you want to do on your end, but I didn't have you call so I could get your blessing. I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to do it. I have to pay what they're asking."

A long pause followed. "Yeah, well, the FBI hasn't done shit. I can't wait around for them to get their heads out of their asses. Did Armand tell you I got another message?" There was a shuffle of shoes as the voice drew closer, deeper into the office. It had to be de Chagny.

With a stab of panic to his gut, Erik realized that he'd left his pick in the lock, and the remaining tools next to the cabinet.

"Well, this one mentioned Lisa," de Chagny continued. "Not by name specifically, but there was a reference threatening 'loved ones and dance captains.'" Another pause. "Yeah. No. Well, I made some last-minute calls and I've managed to have the house crawling with security tonight, but this can't be a thing, Richard. She can't get dragged into this."

The voice had traveled all the way to the side of the desk by now. Any farther, and the lockpicked drawer would be in view. Erik's pulse thundered in his ears as he considered his options: should he fabricate an excuse (what excuse could possibly work here?), or physically debilitate the other man just enough to escape?

"Jesus. We had a verbal agreement, not a blood oath. You keep holding out all you want, okay? But I'm going to give them what they want, and it isn't up for debate. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a party to host. One that you should haul your ass over to, in fact. Don't let those coaches keep you too long, alright?" One last pause. "Yeah. Okay. I'll look for you later."

There was a long moment of quiet, and then the footsteps retreated. Erik nearly wept with relief.

Downstairs, the security guard had blessedly not returned. Erik went back into the bathroom to swap out his mask for the second and final time, and he replaced his striped tie with the solid one he'd tucked into his pocket earlier.

He'd seen an industrial-sized trash bin just on the inside of the kitchen, and it was there that he disposed of the first tie, the lockpicking tools, the electrical tape, and the Deadpool mask, tugging down a piece of discarded plastic wrap to cover them.

His heart raced terribly as he walked back toward the crowds and the foyer: he'd done it. He'd sacrificed his sleep in order to plan and was now running on pure adrenaline, but it had paid off. He hadn't even run into Christine. He'd do best to slip away now, in fact, and pretend he was never here, so that no one could account for his presence.

But in his mind, he heard the warm, sweet voice that had invited him, saw the bright and baffling hope in her eyes as she'd spoken, and he faltered.


She recognized him immediately.

Of course, she'd been tangentially looking for him since she'd arrived. By that point, Phil had returned and swept Lisa off to greet newcomers. Though the wine had eased the flow of conversation between Christine and Raoul, his presence did not give her the strange little thrill that Erik's did. She'd begun to feel guilty, but still she let her eyes wander as she debated whether to stick around. Once again, she was not enough among this sort of company: not gregarious enough, not smart enough, not tall or thin or poised enough.

Suddenly the figure was there, in the doorway, displaying every telltale sign that it belonged to Erik.

It was the gaunt frame, and how he carried it: almost gawkishly predatory, an aberration among the crowd—like her—but too quietly fluid to draw attention. It was the spindly fingers, snug inside the black leather gloves that she'd grown accustomed to, and the way they flexed at his sides.

He wore a tailored black suit that emphasized his narrow waist and hips, and beneath it a slim black tie over a collared shirt of deep scarlet. A matching red square of cloth was tucked into the breast pocket. His mask was not the usual white one, but a leering ivory skull that ended with a row of teeth in front of his upper lip.

This far away, Christine could not make out his gaze through the shadows of the eye sockets, but she knew he'd seen her. The Adam's apple bobbed in his narrow throat, and he walked over to her table.

"Good evening." Erik's cool voice seemed to originate just beside her ear, despite the volume of the room.

"Hey! You made it!" She cringed, inwardly, at her unsuppressed enthusiasm. Beside her, Raoul's eyes darted between the pair of them. "This is my, uh, friend," she told him. "Erik."

"Raoul de Chagny." His extended hand met Erik's for a firm shake, and he gestured broadly at the other man's attire. "Help me out here: who are you meant to be?"

Erik blinked down at him, impassive. "Death."

"Aha, a modern twist! I like it." Raoul drained the last of his whiskey. "So how do you two know each other?"

Christine faltered, and she'd scarcely begun to fumble for a response when Erik offered his own: "I am her vocal instructor."

"Chris!" said Raoul, incredulously. "You didn't mention you'd gotten back into singing! That's fantastic."

She shrugged, the heat rising in her cheeks. "It's a fairly new development. I didn't want to jinx it."

"Well, that deserves a toast." Raoul peered into his empty rocks glass and frowned. "Back to the bar I go, then. Erik? Can I get you anything?"

"Thank you, but no."

"Chris? Another wine?"

She eyed the remaining few sips in her glass. "Nah, go ahead. I haven't decided what I want yet."

"Right. Back in a minute, then."

They watched him jog off to the bar, where a small line had formed now that the bartender had begun circulating an elaborate craft cocktail whose preparation involved setting the liquor on fire. With his hands stuffed into his pockets, Raoul began to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"Is he always this jaunty," Erik asked, "or is that the alcohol talking?"

Still glancing at Raoul, Christine smiled. "A bit of both, I think. He's like a puppy sometimes."

"Let us pray that he does not order the flaming beverage."

She laughed lightly, and then she fixed her eyes on the leering death's-head. "You said that you're my vocal instructor."

"I did."

"Present tense."

"Indeed."

She raised her eyebrows expectantly, and his lips pulled taut. "I suppose I ought to have no misgivings about one lesson a week," he said. "But it will be on a trial basis. And I will accept no compensation."

"But—"

"Those are my terms. You may take them or leave them."

She hesitated. He was just so frustratingly mystifying, almost to the point of arrogance. In the short time she'd known him, however, she had yet to see him do or say anything without sound judgment behind it. "Fine," she said. "We can work out the specifics later, when we're not supposed to be enjoying ourselves."

"Are you not enjoying yourself?"

"That's…" Christine ran her fingertips up and down the stem of her glass, suddenly unable to make eye contact. "That's not what I meant."

"No? My apologies." Something in his tone, however, betrayed his innocence. Was it that obvious how uncomfortable she was? Or did he, once again, possess an unsettling ability to see right through her?

They shared an awkward silence as a passing server removed Raoul's empty glass. Desperate for something—anything—to say, she asked, "Do you dance?" What she expected to follow, she wasn't sure. The alcohol had loosened her lips.

"Only when coerced."

Of course. "A modern-day Mr. Darcy," she said, forcing a pinched smile.

But he was staring past her, toward the opposite side of the room, his jaw noticeably rigid. "On second thought," he said, snatching up her hand, "I am suddenly inclined to investigate the ballroom. Join me?" Without waiting for a response, he started for the hallway, pulling her behind him.

"I—but—" She whipped her head back to check on Raoul, but she'd already lost sight of him. She should protest, at least go back to tell him where she was headed, but Erik was moving at a breakneck speed, seemingly propelled by some sense of urgency that she couldn't explain.

Besides. The fact of the matter was, a man wanted to dance with her. Erik, the non-dancer, wanted to dance with her. The thought sent warmth curling down to her toes, and she resigned herself to following him.


He berated himself the entire way to the ballroom. Could he not have come up with a better excuse to escape? But really, what else was there to do at these confounded social events? And though he had planned for several possible factors and outcomes here tonight, not one of them had involved the appearance of the county prosecutor who had sent him to prison.

He should have anticipated it, though. They always ran in a coven, did they not, these people of power and the business moguls who kept them there?

Erik could not have said which emotion had gripped him more strongly once he spied her sharp blonde bob and wire-rimmed glasses: fear, anger, revulsion. But it was his survival instinct that compelled him to move. Perhaps she might never have recognized him, but that was not a risk he was willing to take.

Now, however, he found himself pulling a woman into a crowded ballroom just as the band launched into a sultry rendition of "I Put a Spell on You." He swallowed and looked down at Christine, overcome by a sort of temporary paralysis.

She simply smiled that angelic smile of hers. "Come on," she said, tugging gently at his hand. "You'll survive."

He let her lead him onto the dance floor, all but closing his eyes as she waded deep into the sea of couples. It was better, he told himself, that they be shielded from onlookers—but he could feel the crowd pressing in on him. His breaths came faster, shallower; his face was aflame.

Then her left hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he suppressed a shudder for an entirely different reason. Still, her touch grounded him. He loosely curled his own fingers around her waist.

The mechanics of slow dancing were easy enough; he had seldom struggled there. No, it was the forced intimacy that he loathed: the awkward silences, and the perceived need to fill them; the proclivity of his dance partner to more closely examine his features; and, on rarer occasions, the heart-hammering anxiety of being in such close proximity to another person.

At present, his heart was beating a quickstep.

This close, he could smell the crisp perfume of her hair products, could study the faint highlights of blonde and red at her scalp. He had a better view of her intricate half-mask, which had flourishes and stars cut into it, as well as a crescent moon of silver filigree that curled upward to rise above her head.

He'd initially recognized her by her posture and shorter stature, by her rounded face and chestnut hair, by the broad curve of her hips. Had he looked for some telltale sign in her attire, he would have missed her entirely.

She wore a one-shoulder gown of light, airy chiffon. The back of the dress, above the skirt, comprised four strips of blue fabric that converged from different angles to connect at the shoulder strap. The small of her back was bare, as was the skin between the diagonal bands.

She had so far struck him as modest and assuming, and to see so much of her skin exposed, so tender and accessible—it unseated something within him. He resented it, yet he was drawn to it.

His mind flicked back to the charming, costumed man who had been at her side when he'd spotted her, and irritation flared up hot in his breast. "How is it that you know Mr. de Chagny?" he found himself asking.

"Oh, the de Chagnys were family friends, some years ago. We spent a summer with them, when we stayed at the lake house I mentioned. He and I have been catching up lately."

"I apologize," Erik said. "I should have inquired before I whisked you away: are the two of you...together?"

She shook her head. "It's never been like that between us."

He responded with only a curt nod, but every rigid muscle that had coiled within him began to unspool at her words.

They swayed in silence for a few moments before Christine nodded in the direction of the lead singer. "She has a lovely voice."

"Yours far surpasses it."

She flashed him a disapproving look, but her eyes glittered. "I wasn't fishing for praise, you know."

"Regardless, it was worth noting."

She went quiet, and they carried on dancing. When she spoke again, her voice had a faraway quality to it. "Do you ever feel," she asked slowly, "like you're only watching this life, and not meant to be a part of it?"

"I do not quite follow."

"Like...like maybe you're supposed to be somewhere else, doing something else? But instead you're stuck, watching everyone else do what they're meant to do, like a ghost caught between worlds." Christine let out a short, derisive laugh and shook her head. "Never mind. It's dumb."

"No." Erik's hand twitched of its own volition, prompting her to look up sharply. "No, I quite understand the feeling. It is...terribly lonesome."

She gave him a sad smile. "Yes. It is."

They did not talk for the rest of the song, but she began to edge closer, until their torsos were nearly touching. Though her grip remained loose, his tightened in response. The bass thrummed in his chest, the electric guitar rang in his ears, and his thoughts seemed to separate from his body, unable to process such physical contact.

When the song ended, he couldn't move, and she was slow to release him. She lifted her chin to regard him with wide, questioning eyes.

"I..." The inside of his mouth felt papery as he spoke. "I should leave."


"I should leave."

"Oh." How swiftly those three little words deflated her spirits. She reined in her disappointment enough to reply, "I'll walk you out, then."

As she turned to lead him off the dance floor, she felt a leather glove—now warmed by her own palm—at the small of her back, hovering, the most feather-light of touches. Her breath caught in her chest.

They made their way through the hall and into the foyer, where the sound of Raoul's laughter caught her attention. He was leaning with his shoulder against the wall, one leg crossed casually over the other, and grinning—more flirtatiously than she'd ever seen him—at the man who held him in conversation. It gradually dawned on her that she knew that man, too: his boyish voice and slight frame and tufts of straight, dark hair that tapered like prongs in every direction.

"Darius?"

His head whipped around to reveal the thick-rimmed glasses and round, tan face that she'd been coming to know. He flashed her a broad grin. "Christine! Hi!"

She looked from Darius to Raoul and then back again. "How do you two know each other?"

"We, ah, just met," said Raoul. His eyes bore the glassy sheen of significant alcohol consumption, and his sheepish expression had "smitten" written all over it. "How do you two know each other?"

"Darius is my tenant. He's renting the second floor of my house." She just barely had the presence of mind to introduce him to Erik; afterward, she asked, "You must know Phil, then?"

"Yeah, but...uh...more in a work capacity."

"He's a police detective," Christine informed the other two men.

Beside her, Erik tensed. "Is it work that brings you here?" he asked.

Darius shifted his weight, his dark eyes failing to meet anyone else's. "I'd rather not discuss it, if you don't mind. I'm here with my partner, though. Work partner!" he added quickly, gaze flitting toward Raoul. "In fact, I should go find Khan before he assumes I've abandoned him."

Christine felt the brush of soft leather against her arm. "I really must leave," Erik said to her. "I thank you for the invite, and for the company. I will be in touch regarding our lessons."

He was gone before she could give him a proper goodbye. As he slipped out the front door, she heard a male voice call out, "Erik!" from the mouth of the hallway. She watched, confused, as dark-haired, brown-skinned man in a well-cut suit jogged across the foyer and out the door behind him. He returned only a few seconds later, looking defeated.

"Khan!" Darius flagged him down with a wave.

The man walked over to them, rubbed at the dark stubble that lined his jaw. He had thick eyebrows and a strong, sharp nose, and though there was an edge of distinguished gray that followed his hairline, he was objectively quite handsome. In the round of introductions that followed, he identified himself as Detective Nadir Khan.

Raoul excused himself to the restroom then, and Darius turned solemn. "What was that about?" he asked Detective Khan. "Was that him?"

Khan nodded. "I lost him, but I'm almost certain that he heard me."

"How do you know Erik?" Christine asked.

The two men exchanged glances. "We have a bit of a shared history," he replied. "May I ask how you know him?"

"He's my voice instructor. We just started lessons."

The detectives looked at each other again, and her ignorance of the matter at hand grew more frustrating with every passing second.

"Miss Daaé," said Detective Khan, "it seems we need to talk."