Here's Chapter Ten! Only two more after this! Kind of depressing, I suppose, but you will enjoy it.

For future reference, a Jezebel is a wicked woman who meddles and ruins others' affairs. It alludes to the Queen Jezebel of the Old Testament. FYI.

Disclaimer: Nope. Still don't own it.

.o.O.o.

For the first time in a long while Erik retrieved his feeling of omnipotence. He was a shadow on the seemingly domestic night, perched on a broad outside sill, exposed to the driving rain. A hack rattled by three stories below; he grinned at his aptitude for concealment.

The grin vanished as he turned to the window. After much searching, he had found Christine's chambers. He now looked in on her bedridden state. She lay pliant beneath the counterpane, hair spilling over the pillow. Her eyes were closed and her breathing shallow. If not for this last, she would have been the very image of a corpse laid out for its wake, one fragile hand posed over her breast. Its mate was encased between the palms of none other but the Vicomte. His fair face was blotched with the anger of tears. The cur was a brilliant actor, for his brow was contorted in some inner, if nonexistent, contemplation.

Something about the scene was wrong. Christine was alive but unconscious, so her assent to Raoul's affection was excusable. Perhaps it was just the positioning of the quilts, but she looked somehow spent, empty.

The door latch turned, and de Chagny wearily lifted his head to acknowledge the doctor's presence. A severe man, the physician bent his aquiline nose once and set to work. He pulled back the sheets, and Erik sagged against the wall.

Christine's bedclothes swallowed her whole. Any maternal softness had disappeared, replaced by sickly jagged angles. His child was gone. His child was dead before life had begun, lying in a putrid alley somewhere. The full weight of this hit Erik without remorse. He could have been a father, responsible for another being that would not run from his face. For another being who might love him.

He slumped close to the window for several moments, mourning the unborn child and raging that these two men should move their hands over Christine while he was helpless to help her. If only she would open her eyes, then he would know that she was well, that there was hope.

When he surfaced to the rain drumming against the windowpanes, the chamber was dimmed. Monsieurs le Vicomte and le Docteur had vanished, and the bed curtains denied Erik a last look at his Christine.

He plunged again into the torrential darkness, one thought haunting his mind: The life still there, upon her hair -the death upon her eyes.

.o.O.o.

By the next evening, storm clouds had fled north, chased by a humid southerly wind. The window had been opened onto the night in a futile attempt to cool the chamber. It had another use though, one that fit Erik's agenda: he could now hear and understand more.

Christine must have been revived some time earlier in the day, for she was propped against a fleet of eiderdown pillows. The hawkeyed doctor examined her pupils and throat while Raoul's thumbs traced circles on her delicate hand. Erik redefined masochism as he forced himself to stay and watch.

"She will fully recover." The doctor packed away his stethoscope. "Just make sure Madame la Vicomtesse receives plenty of rest."

Raoul tenderly kissed her hand. "Ah, I am merely thankful that you are alive, mon amour. If only we could say as much for our son." Erik's heart lifted infinitesimally as Christine's visage blushed in anger. She opened her mouth to protest the child ever being Raoul's, but he placed a finger against her lips.

The doctor waved his farewell. Christine turned away from Raoul's touch. He caressed her hand again but froze in realization.

"Cherie, where is your ring?"

"I removed it when I was with Erik. The sight of it pained him, understandably."

Erik knew the tender scene was too good to be true. Raoul's jaw tightened and a pulse throbbed at his temple. When he spoke, his voice was so dangerously low that Christine edged away from him. "Why should you care what pains Monsieur le Fantôme? You are mine, Little Lotte. That was established the day we said our vows." His hand closed viselike on her pallid arm. "Do not dare move away from me."

She bit her lip to keep from crying out in pain. "Raoul, why can you not treat me fondly when we are alone? I would not cower then."

He flung her arm away and stood fluidly. "I can treat you how I damn well please after what you've put me through. Every newspaper is slurring my good name on account of you, dear Jezebel." His boot scuffed the wall. "But you've had your fun now, haven't you? Now I must clean up after you, must use good money to explain how you were kidnapped and tragically miscarried my child."

Christine's eyes glittered dangerously. "It was not yours! You cannot give me children! And I saw you with your filthy whore the night of the ballet, parading her about the opera house just because you could!" Her voice grew brittle. "Your chances of making me happy are ruined, Raoul. Now I must be yours until I rot, which unfortunately will not be soon."

Raoul thrust forward his chest, shoulders back haughtily. "You will come with me tomorrow to retrieve your ring. Then you will watch as I destroy your wretched Opera Ghost."

Fear entered Christine's voice. "No!"

"Do not undermine me!" He bellowed. In an instant of fury, his hand drew back and struck her jaw. Christine flopped miserably against her pillows. Erik reeled as though he had been struck in her stead.

Raoul staggered backwards, slumping on the wall as his wife softly wept. The blood dropping from her lips dually drained from his face, and his breath was harsh. He stared dumbly at his hands. "What have I done?" The Vicomte whispered. There was silence but for his steps as he fled the chamber, but for Christine's taciturn sobs.

Erik felt nauseous. Tomorrow would be his end. Perhaps that was best. Without bad publicity, the Opera Garnier would thrive. And yet Christine would remain storm tossed in the midst of a terrible marriage. It hardly seemed fair that he should get off so easily.

At that moment he happened to glance down at the open window. Yes, he could deliver her from these chains in an instant, but could they survive the descent? Erik steeled himself; it was a necessary chance. He breathed deeply and entered the room.

His footsteps ceased her crying. "Who's there?" Christine's raw voice called. It pained him that her lovely song would take weeks to heal.

He swept her off the mattress and into his arms. "Christine."

Her breath quickened with joy and released his pathos through one word. "Angel." She quaked once and fainted against his welcoming chest.

.o.O.o.

In the early hours, one of France's young nobility entered his wife's chambers to find the window sash flung wide and the bed empty.

In the early hours, a carriage containing a mysterious figure, his sleeping companion, and several trunks passed through the gates of Paris and journeyed through northern France.