Before we get started, I'd like to address a review I got. To the reader who sent me the review about Lenore being an idiot because she doesn't say anything when Erik is rude and violent, and she doesn't leave, she just stays with him: Firstly, if I were in Lenore's place, I wouldn't say anything to him if he got 'violent' with me either. He can rather easily kill people. To quote Christine in Andrew Lloyd Weber's version "He kills without a thought"! So, in the interest of protecting her life, Lenore doesn't call him out on being violent that often. She has mentioned it before on one or two occasions, if you were paying attention. Now, secondly, Lenore can't leave, even if she really wanted to. Her company is compensation for Erik's salary until they have enough money to pay him and keep the Opera House running at the same time. And we allknow what happened to Firmin and Andre when they neglected to pay his salary. The last thing Lenore wants is a disaster that could result in casualties; therefore, she will not leave. (Not to mention if she did try to leave/escape, he'd have no problem catching her, and then he might get violent. Better to avoid the violent moods if we can…) I believe you also commented that Erik was a control freak…have you ever seen the movie? Have you ever heard the soundtrack? "My power over you grows stronger yet" (self-explanatory…controlling!) "The Phantom of the Opera is there, inside your mind" (once again, self-explanatory) "Only then can you belong to me" (woman viewed as a possession that he can own) "Your chains are still mine, you belong to me/you will sing for me!" (Christine viewed as his pet or possession) "In your mind you've already succumbed to me, dropped all defenses, completely succumbed to me." (Obviously viewing himself as being dominant, and the master of the relationship, as he says that Christine has given in to him.) I'm sure there are numerous other examples, those were just the first ones that came to my mind. The only suggestion I can give you, dear reader, is that if you do not like the way Erik is acting in my fic, don't read it. I will be sorry to see you go, if that is your choice. But Erik is a violent, dangerous, controlling man. Another readerdescribed my Erik quite perfectly, so I will quote her now: "Erik has been locked away for God knows how long-- of course he's dangerous, to say the least! He'd be especially screwed up in the head…"

I'm sure you all know the spiel by now, I don't own Phantom, fic takes place in present day, blah blah blah, REVIEW…..

Lenore stretched and yawned; she'd slept well for once, not waking up continuously from bad dreams. She was somewhat disappointed that Erik wasn't in bed with her, but you can't always have everything your way.

"Good afternoon," his voice came from her left.

"What time is it?" she asked through another yawn, turning to look at him. He held a mass of emerald green material in his hands, and she could tell he was sewing. Another dress for me, I'll bet.

"One thirty six," he replied after checking a pocket watch.

"No way, I've never slept past one…except when I was on morphine, but I couldn't help that," she mumbled into the pillow.

"Would you care to check the time yourself?"

"That would require me to move, which would require energy, which I am sorely lacking right now, so no," she groaned, rolling over onto her back to stare at the ceiling. After a few moments of silence, she groped around the bedside table until she found her glasses, then pushed the bifocals onto her face. "It's gonna rain today," she stated.

"What makes you say that, ma chouchoute?" he inquired casually.

"My arthritis, that's what," she grumbled.

"Arthritis? At your age?"

"Yeah, bloody wonderful, isn't it?" Lenore sighed. "So, is that for me?" She gestured to the fabric in his hands.

"Yes, and if you can be patient for five more minutes, it'll be finished," Erik informed her politely.

"Five minutes? Think I could go get something to eat while you work on it?"

"It is far too late for breakfast, and the same can be said for lunch. I'm afraid you'll just have to wait for dinner."

"Dinner? I'll die of starvation if I have to wait that long!" Lenore whined.

"You may lose a few pounds, but you most certainly will not die," Erik argued. "This little fast may help to remind you that sloth is one of the Seven Deadly Sins."

"You're gonna punish me for sleeping?" Lenore moaned. "Next time I buy a building, I'm gonna make sure there's no ghosts in the basement. Of course, that's assuming I don't die of starvation here." Silence. "If I lose a few pounds, those dresses won't fit anymore." You could have heard a pin drop in the Opera House above them. "You're vicious."

"I am strict, Mademoiselle. If I give in to you every time you gripe about some insignificant thing, you will become spoiled," Erik said, a smile touching his lips as he waited for the protestation that was most certainly coming.

"I do not gripe about insignificant things!" she shouted angrily. "I'm complaining that you're not feeding me; food is necessary to sustain life!"

"Will it kill you to wait five hours to eat?"

"Yes!"

"I mean literally, ma chérie."

"No…" she admitted grudgingly.

"Will it affect your immediate health?"

"No…"

"Then how is it significant?"

"…I hate logic. Anyway, other that that, do I complain about anything that isn't important? No, I don't," Lenore ascertained, praying he didn't have another counterexample.

"You complain every time I try to look inside your mind."

"Yes, because it's detrimental to my emotional well-being," she defended herself. Gotcha on that one, didn't I?

"It is still a rather pointless thing to whine about. If you would tell me what I want to know, I wouldn't have to"-

"If I tell you what you want to know, you'll be like everyone else!" Lenore hissed, her eyes burning with anger. "I don't need your sympathy, and I don't want special treatment!"

"My prying into your thoughts is not something you can control as it is, so I see no point in complaining," he continued, ignoring her outburst.

"You're already becoming them; you don't listen to me," she muttered bitterly, turning her back to him.

"With a disposition such as yours, I can't imagine anyone pitying you. You should keep your temper in check; you are absurdly emotional for a woman of your age."

"Guess I missed growing up while I was in the hospital. So sorry," she bit back, not turning to look at him. "All things considered, I would much rather have grown up than been stuck in the hospital. It's the worst psychological torture society can inflict on you. Oh sure, everyone sends cards with money, or presents, or flowers, or balloons. But there's nothing to do. You just lay in bed in your room, watching one of the three channels available, which never has anything that catches your attention, so you end up focusing on the fact that you're ill. Something's wrong with you, and you can't take care of yourself, you can't control it. And you can't get your mind off it. All you have to do is look at yourself, any part of yourself, and you know you're a wreck, broken physically or emotionally, or maybe both.

"The people who come to visit you and "cheer you up", that's the cruelest part of it all. They don't know what to say, and when they make an attempt at conversation, they talk softly to you, as if you're dying. They look at you with that goddamn pity, like they know what you're going through, like they've been there. "It'll be alright" they tell you, as if everything's going to be the same as it was before, once you're better. It won't. It won't ever be the same, never again. You'll remember every day for the rest of your life, remember that you're broken, that you're maimed and incompetent till the end of your days. The world makes sure you can't forget, makes sure you end up limited in what you can do with your life, now that you're damaged.

"It's like trying to glue a vase back together; though it looks like a great repair, there's always a few chips of the porcelain missing, leaving defects that limit you in your capabilities. And everyone can see the lines where you broke. And they pity you, treating you as though you're about to fall and break again at any moment, like you're too frail to do anything anymore. Not strong enough."

Erik stared at the back of her through her rant, watching as the bitter distrustful persona slowly melted to show the lost and frightened little girl underneath. She had seen the ugliness of society, she knew the harsh reality, and she wanted someone to protect her from it. But she would never have what she wanted, because she viewed everyone in society to be the same, and no one could be trusted. She had unwittingly made herself an outcast, and now that she was alone, she realized her mistake, desperately wanted to fit into the mould with everyone else; but her rose tinted glasses had been shattered, and she could only see society with a glaring clarity that she abhorred.

You want someone to love you, to see society the way you have. To understand the cruelty of life, that one moment is all it takes to ruin your entire future. He saw a slight tremor in her shoulders; she was crying. You feel this every day, don't you ma petite? It's a wonder you've not killed yourself yet to end the misery and pain.

Discarding the dress, he moved over to the bed, taking her in his arms and pulling her back against him. Lenore began to sob openly, her cries echoing through the lair, those aching howls of a dying soul whose hope had been shattered by reality. When she finally quieted, he turned her in his arms to face him; her tear-stained eyes pleaded for protection. You believe I could be your guardian angel, but playing the part of an angel did not end well for me last time, ma chérie. Demons are not meant to enjoy any aspect of heaven; I was punished mercilessly for masquerading as a seraphic being.

His eyes told her he wanted to help her, but something held him back. "You're comparing me to her, aren't you?" Lenore asked softly. "Erik, I'm not Christine."

"If you saw beneath the mask, you would be horrified, Mademoiselle," he whispered back. "You claim to be ugly, but it is I who truly am."

"You can't know how I would react," she argued stubbornly. "As for you being ugly, 'Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart.'"

"I have no light in my heart," he responded tiredly, as though it was a bother to have to explain something that should be so obvious.

"You did once…you called it Christine," she whispered back. "The light may dim, Erik, but it never goes out. If I know anything at all, I know that the light is always there, if you look hard enough. Do you know how many times I thought about killing myself, ending this miserable existence? But every time, I saw a small flicker of light, something to live for. One more event, maybe a visit from a friend or a new movie coming out that I wanted to see. "Just one more", I'd think, "and that'll be it. Just one more." So what kept you going after Christine left you? Your music, right? One more symphony, one more concerto, and that'll be it. But one leads to another, and another, and another…The light never goes out."

"Ma petite, you are truly as your name suggests; you are light. But do you honestly believe you can conquer darkness?"

"As light, I do it all the time," she replied with a smile, hoping she could convince him that there was something left to him other than darkness.

"You have yet to defeat your master, ma chouchoute. Oh, you may restrain him, and to a great extent in some instances, but he always prevails in the end," Erik disagreed.

This is sounding disturbingly familiar…sort of like our relationship, whatever that is. I think I win, and sometimes I come very close, but he always gets the last word and I end up conquered once again. Why do you always win, Erik? Are you simply better at manipulation than me? Or are you the master, and I a mere slave to your will?

"What does that French word mean?" she asked, trying to change the topic until she could think of some response disputing the dominance of darkness over light.

"Having difficulties figuring it out?" Erik replied with a smirk.

"No, I really do know what it means, but I want to waste time and make you tell me," Lenore said sarcastically. "Obviously I can't figure it out, otherwise I wouldn't ask. There are far too many contexts that it could be placed in. It could be something along the lines of 'my friend' or 'my child'. Or it could be more affectionate, like 'my dearest' or 'my love'. But it really is impossible to tell, seeing as how I have an incredibly limited background in the French language. I can say 'hello', 'good-bye', and 'yes'. That's about it."

"Well, I'll give you a hint. Ma chouchoute is a phrase that is used affectionately," he supplied.

"Okay, I know it doesn't mean 'my cabbage', cuz it doesn't sound right for that," she muttered, trying to figure out any other terms of endearment it couldn't stand for.

"My cabbage?" Erik questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"You wouldn't know, you haven't seen North to Alaska. Where was I? Let's see…ma chérie means something like my dear…I can't think of any others. Why didn't I learn French before I came to France?"

"I doubt any teacher would have deemed this phrase as something necessary to know," he interjected.

"Okay, affectionate but not something necessarily important to live in France. Maybe 'my precious'?"

"No."

"My sweet?"

"Wrong again."

"My doll?"

"Incorrect."

"My…mistress?" Lenore inquired, inwardly wincing at the thought of that being the correct response. At the same time, she hoped it was the right response, as she was quickly running out of affectionate terms.

"Take another guess, kitten," Erik prompted with a smirk.

Maybe he just gave me the answer. That would explain why he's smirking. "My kitten?" she tried, a small smile crossing her face at the thought that she might have won this little game.

"Close, but not quite right," he responded, the smirk growing wider.

"I give up! I can't think of another phrase, especially not one that comes close to my kitten," she complained. "Just tell me already."

"It's quite obvious; you'll feel like a fool," he warned.

"Well, it'll do my pride some good then," she grumbled. "What does it mean?"

Erik leaned in, till his mouth was right next to her ear. "Ma chouchoute means 'my pet'," he whispered.

"Are you using 'pet' to mean an animal kept for companionship and amusement, or a person who is exceptionally loved and is the object of affection?" Lenore inquired just as softly as he had spoken.

"Both. Mostly the first," he informed her.

Finishing blow to the self-esteem. Ouch, that's positively painful to hear.

"The truth hurts," Erik said.

"Stop that! I swear, is nothing sacred?"

"Demons are made to disregard all that is sacred. We quite enjoy it."

"So you're a demon? Please, don't make me laugh. Demons are the minions of Satan, and I can't possibly believe you're anyone's minion," Lenore argued. "If, and I stress the 'if', you're any unholy being, you'd have to be the Prince of Darkness himself. After all, I was always warned that when the devil approached me, he would be fair, likened in appearance to an angel. So, are you trying to tempt me into giving you my soul, Mephistopheles?"

"Why bother tempting you into giving, my little cherub, when I can easily take it?" He pressed his lips against hers forcefully, and Lenore once again felt that he was tearing her soul out of her body.

"God will turn his wrath upon you, devil," her mind chided as the flames of lust licked at her body.

"Au contraire, your Lord will weep, my sweet angel, for you put up no resistance. You crave a taste of Hades, and that is far worse than succumbing to temptation."

Lenore found this kiss to be more endearing than the first; she adored being in control of her own actions. His lips broke contact, sliding down a bit to plant feathery kisses on her pale neck. "Oh God," she whispered, her heart racing as the heat of those invisible flames intensified.

"Praying, my angel?" he inquired between kisses.

"Begging forgiveness for my sins," she replied, twining her arms around his neck and moving closer. He gently nibbled at her ear, and she couldn't stop herself from arching her back, pressing into him; he had found her weak spot. With a feral growl, he flung her down on the bed, slamming down on top of her as his ravenous lips met her own, the unsuspecting prey falling to the predator. She was drowning in his passion; the oxygen she took in was not sufficient for sustaining life. Her mind was screaming that she should push him away, at least long enough to catch her breath, but she ignored it. What did her head know anyway? Maybe the Egyptians were right and the heart was the center of knowledge. And her heart suggested spreading her legs for this man.

Slowly, Lenore became aware of a pain that was increasing in the left-hand corner of her mouth. His mask was gradually cutting into her tender flesh. She moaned softly, trying to get his attention long enough for him to realize he was inadvertently hurting her. However, her moan only served to arouse his passion further, for the kiss became more violent, and the mask pierced her skin with such force that she couldn't stop herself from crying out.

Erik jerked up when she screamed, wondering what he had done wrong. He saw a cut on the left side of her face, just along her lip, and tears stuck in the corners of her eyes. He quickly realized his mask was the cause of her pain, and silently cursed his abhorrent face that seemed determined to rob him of happiness at every turn. To his surprise, she smiled and closed her eyes. "Let me hear the music of the night," she whispered.

For a moment, Erik considered complying. No, I cannot do this to her. She is innocent, it would be a mortal sin to take the virginity of an angel. He pulled off of her and returned to the chair, picking up the discarded dress to add the finishing touches.

She opened her eyes the moment he pulled away. Is he angry? Did I say something wrong? Why did he just pull away from me? He hasn't seen, he doesn't know…so what brought this on? I never should have let him know he was hurting me…I didn't make a big deal out of it or anything, I was willing to just let it go. God, why is it that no one wants me?

A few minutes later, he handed her the dress and she excused herself to go put it on. Standing in front of the small mirror over the sink, Lenore examined the cut. It's not that bad, it'll heal in a few days. Why couldn't he just ignore me and keep kissing me? No, he has to be all concerned when I scream, and pull back…every time I think I'm getting close to finally having sex, something goes wrong. Maybe God wants me to be a virgin until I die…though it doesn't seem fair that everyone else I know has sex and I can't get any.

Sighing and turning away from the mirror, Lenore removed yesterday's clothes and looked at her legs. "You're the source of all my problems, I hope you know that," she mumbled to her lower limbs, giving them a hateful glare. "No one wants me and it's your fault entirely." A few minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom, thinking up brutal ways to punish her legs, even though it would merely cause her more pain and she would never carry any of these ideas out.

"Why does it take women so long to put on clothes?" Erik asked, leaning against the wall right next to the bathroom door.

"Because we have to wear more layers," Lenore replied angrily, her foul mood brought on by his rejection. "Don't complain to me unless you've ever dressed up like a girl, including bra and nylons. Seriously, some bras have three hooks on them, it's difficult to hook all three without one popping off; then you have to go back and hook it again, but then another comes loose…it's a pain. And nylons are just a bother, which is why I practically never wear them."

"It was a rhetorical question, ma chouchoute."

"Certainly didn't sound like one to me," she muttered.

"You seem a bit cross," he remarked casually.

"Go figure," Lenore snapped.

"Have you ever thought of taking anger management classes?"

"Yes, but I realized I'd probably end up killing the instructor in a fit of rage, which would land me in jail. So I decided to spare myself the trouble," she said with mock sweetness. "Perhaps you should look into a support group or self-help books on how to understand women."

"Oh, is this headed towards another "I've been misunderstood and no one loves me" rant?" Erik inquired absently.

"Actually, no. This headed towards a "You're a damn bastard and I'm pissed off at you" rant. You're playing with me, and I don't appreciate it, Erik! I've told you no one will ever want me, and it's downright cruel of you to act like you do only to pull away from me!"

"I believe your last statement falls partially under the category of the "no one loves me" rant I mentioned earlier. Which is quite clearly a lie, as that boy seems obsessed with you," he replied calmly.

"Are you blind? All he wants is a quick f#ck, which is something I'm not about to give to him; he'll ditch me the moment he gets what he wants from me. I can pick out the players, Erik, I spent four years of my life watching them flit around between all the pretty girls in our high school. And if he ever saw, he wouldn't even want me for the five minutes it would take him to have his way with me. So don't tell me that someone wants me, it's a lie. It always was and it always will be," she shouted.

"You make repeated references to something that can be seen that makes you undesirable. If you wish to know why no one wants you, it's because of your disposition, Mademoiselle, and nothing else! And it's quite clear for anyone to see, if they merely take a moment to look; you don't hide it nearly as well as you think," Erik snapped back, choosing to ignore her profanity.

"How long has Ellen been dead?" Lenore suddenly asked, taking him somewhat by surprise. "A year? Two maybe?"

"Three and a half," he responded, wondering where this was going.

"Okay, try to remember for me. Did she ever wear short skirts?"

"Frequently," Erik answered immediately. That silly girl wore skirts so short that they barely covered her.

"Do I ever wear anything that exposes even an inch of my legs?"

"No."

"Think about that for a while and get back to me," she returned, sitting on the bed and stretching out her legs. He stared at those legs, perplexed. What could be wrong with them? Yes, she limped, but it was barely noticeable, unless you were looking for it. It was torture to resist the impulse to simply walk up to her and bare her loathed limbs, but he somehow managed to restrain himself.

"Come," Erik said softly, offering her his hand.

"Oh, going to return me aboveground and rid your hands of this nuisance?" she snapped, taking his hand nonetheless.

"No, I'm afraid you'll have to stay with me for a while longer," he replied. Lenore seemed to have no response for that as he led her out into the lair, taking her into the niche where he kept his paintings and sketches.

"These are amazing," she whispered softly, stopping in front of a portrait of Christine. "She's very beautiful."

"Was," Erik corrected. Christine was dead now, and he knew for a fact that the beauty would long since have decayed. "That was…a long time ago." He gently tugged her further into what he had termed his studio, seating her in a chair. He needed her close to the easel for color reference, but far enough away that she couldn't quite tell what he was painting, for he had the impression that she would not approve of it.

"So, am I just supposed to sit here and be quiet while you be all artistic or whatever?" she inquired.

Erik supplied her with parchment, a charcoal pencil, and an eraser to keep her occupied. It worked like a charm; much like handing a little girl a rag doll, it ensured she would be kept busy and, most importantly, quiet. The afternoon slipped by quickly, in a blessed silence. "What are you drawing, ma chouchoute?" he inquired, coming up behind her.

"Anime," Lenore replied. "It's a Japanese art form. What about you?"

"Oil painting. You'll have to wait until it's done before you can see it," Erik explained.

"That's not fair, my stuff's not done and you're looking at it," she whined.

"A sketch takes little time compared to an oil painting, ma chérie, and is therefore considered to be less of a masterpiece. Also, you are an amateur artist, whereas I am not. Continue working, dinner will be ready in a half hour," he said, leaving her there.

I could get up and take a quick peek at his work…he wouldn't know… Lenore stood up without pushing back the chair, afraid he would hear the legs scrape along the floor. Taking one tentative step forward, she had barely touched her toes to the floor when,

"Sit down, Mademoiselle." Erik's voice echoed through the lair.

"I am sitting," she lied, wondering how he had known she was standing when he couldn't possibly see her.

"I thought you knew better than to lie to me, ma petite."

"How do you know I'm not telling the truth? You can't see me, you could be entirely wrong. And anyway, is it a crime for me to stretch my legs?"

"I can tell you are lying because I'm inside your head at this moment, and your intentions are to look at my painting before it is finished, which I have expressly forbidden," Erik answered. "Now sit down, or I will come in there and tie you to the chair."

"Damn you and your mental powers," she muttered darkly, plopping down into the chair. "There, I'm sitting now, you don't have to tie me down."

"Good girl," he praised her as if she were a child.

"Keep that up and I'll slap you when you come get me for dinner," she growled.

"That doesn't provide much incentive for me to feed you then, does it?"

Lenore took a deep breath and counted to ten before responding. "Fine, you win this round," she conceded. "Somehow you always win. But one of these days, you're going to slip up and I'll come out on top."

"I'm too dominant to ever allow you to be on top, ma chérie."

"Oh my God! That was sexual innuendo from you! Wow, that's disturbing…and…seductive…and…God! Don't ever do that again, you're confusing me!" Lenore replied. "You're supposed to be all chivalrous, not perverted."

"Watch yourself; blasphemy is a sin," Erik reminded her.

"What is it with you and bad language? You're like my mom, and she's a religious fanatic," she said. "I can't say anything around her either."

"She is merely worried about your soul's final destination, something that you should also be concerned about."

Erik was beginning to believe that her home life was the source of her childishness. It seemed her household was a rather restrictive one, which is never good for an artistic soul like Lenore's. She was a dreamer, and he had the feeling that dreaming was considered a waste of time by her parents. The only thing it seemed her parents had done correctly in the process of raising her was to make sure she would obey authority nine times out of ten.

Throughout dinner, he pondered her childhood, wondering why she kept it hidden from him. What could she have to conceal? Perhaps she had been abused, or sexually harassed, that would certainly account for it. There was also the possibility that she simply didn't want to remember her childhood because she disliked it for no particular reason.

"Tell me something about yourself," Erik demanded at the end of dinner. He knew the wine would have her somewhat loose, less worried about things.

"Like what?" Lenore asked.

"Anything. A childhood memory, or…" he trailed off, leaving it open for her debate.

"Let's see, a childhood memory…Oh, there was that time back in elementary school…Let's see, three of my friends were chasing me out to the blacktop for recess. They loved to try to catch me and drag me into one of squares; you know, the squares they paint on the blacktop for games, like hopscotch or four square. It was a challenge; I was the slipperiest kid in the class. I wasn't fast, but I was damn good at wriggling out of their hands. And this one time, I tripped and hit the pavement. Got this huge scrape right next to my left eye. The scab went from the corner of my eye back to my hairline. It left a small scar, but you can't see it unless you know to look for it. That was my first scar…I thought it would be my only scar, but God thought differently it seems."

"Not exactly a pleasant memory," Erik commented. He had hoped for something more meaningful, something more explanatory about her character.

"I remember those girls like it was yesterday…Jess, Sara, and Ashley. I wonder how they're doing…They stopped talking to me after elementary school," she said sadly. "No one wanted to talk to me in middle school, I didn't wear the designer clothes and I wasn't pretty."

"Would you like to draw some more?" he inquired, standing and offering her his hand.

"No, but I'll come along, I don't wanna sit in the bedroom by myself with nothing to do," she replied. So half an hour later, she was sitting in the chair, going on about another childhood memory that provided him with no insight to her character whatsoever, when a chime sounded throughout the lair. "What was that?" Lenore asked.

"I must leave you for a bit; stay where you are," Erik commanded. He couldn't tell her what that alarm meant; she wouldn't like it.

"Why? Where are you going? What's going on?"

"Just stay put, I'll be back shortly."

"What's going on?" she repeated, standing up. "What did that sound mean?"

"It means that some poor souls have had the misfortune of stumbling over one of my exits and are now wandering the tunnels," he explained, waiting for the pointless and inevitable question.

"You're not going to kill them, are you?"

"Sit down; I won't be long," he replied, not wanting to answer her question.

"No, I'm not going to sit down! You're not going to kill them! You can't do that, they're innocent people, Erik. It's not their fault they're down here; they don't know that coming in here is suicidal. You can't do this!" she protested. "This is my Opera House you're living under, and I won't have you killing innocent people!"

"Firstly, it is my Opera House," Erik informed her, walking over to her and pushing her back down in her chair. "Secondly, I will kill whomever I please, Mademoiselle; you have no say in the matter. And last but not least, I am merely protecting my existence, girl. The alternative is, at best, eternal imprisonment, as I would be found guilty of quite a few homicides. You can be certain that if I am revealed to society, they will not stop until they catch me and bring me to what they term justice. Should I be revealed to society because you would not 'allow' me to kill a few pests, I assure you I will leave you bound and gagged in the darkest crevice of these passages that I know. And unless there's someone out there with knowledge of the underground as extensive as mine, you will not be found. Now, are you willing to die for the sake of these hapless intruders?"

"You're not going to kill them," she insisted, glaring up at him.

"How do you intend to stop me?"

"I'll follow you. If you kill them in front of me, then I'll know you truly are a monster," Lenore hissed, standing up again.

Erik sighed and turned away from her, walking out into the lair. She got up and followed, afraid he was going to kill those poor people despite her protestations. He retrieved a rope from another niche, which seemed to her a sure sign he was going out to slay innocent souls of misfortune. Taking her upper arm, he guided her back into the studio, returning her to her chair.

"What are you doing?" she asked hesitantly. Erik's presence suddenly filled her mind and she couldn't move. He proceeded to tie her to the chair, releasing control of her only when he was certain she couldn't get loose.

"I will return shortly, ma chouchoute," he told her, giving her a kiss on the forehead before leaving.

"Erik, get back here!" she shouted as he disappeared. "You can't just leave me like this! What if something catches on fire? I could burn to death! Get back here and untie me!" She jerked around in the chair, hoping to scoot herself out into the main lair to continue yelling at him, but Lenore only succeeding in upending the chair. "Damnit," she mumbled, laying on her back and staring at the ceiling. She closed her eyes and sighed heavily.

How can you do this? Those people don't deserve to die, not like this…not for this reason. Couldn't you just get inside their heads and make them leave? Please don't do this, please. Just come back here and sit with me…you shouldn't leave me all alone, what if I managed to get loose and tried to run away?

A squeak sounded to her left about fifteen minutes later, and she opened her eyes, turning her head in the direction of the sound. A black rat was standing a few feet away, staring at her with its beady black eyes.

"Oh. My. God. That's a rat, because it's too big to be a mouse," Lenore said. She wasn't afraid of rats, per say. As long as the rat didn't touch her, she didn't have a problem with it. With another squeak, the rat scampered closer to her. "Oh dear, this is going to be bad. Murphy's Law: Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong." The rat gave her a questioning look that made her wonder if it could understand her. It climbed up onto her shoulder, and Lenore began taking deep, slow breaths to prevent herself from hyperventilating.

Continuously squeaking to her, the rat proceeded to crawl over her breasts and down her stomach as she wriggled fiercely beneath it in the attempt to fling it off of her body. Once it had thoroughly ventured over every part of her abdomen, it began crawling up one of her legs, stopping atop her knee and giving Lenore the impression of a mountain climber who had just scaled Mount Everest. Peering down at her, it cocked its head to one side and chattered its teeth.

"He is pleased with you," Erik said, walking over.

"Get it off!" Lenore demanded, wondering how long he'd been back.

"Cristoph will not harm you, Mademoiselle," Erik assured her, taking off his cloak and merely dropping it on the floor.

"Cristoph could be carrying a multitude of diseases!" she snapped back. "Get him off of me!"

With a sigh, Erik slowly approached and held his hand out to Cristoph. The rat crawled onto his hand and up his arm to sit on his shoulder. There came forth from Cristoph a multitude of squeaking. "No, she is not," Erik told the rat when it finally stopped.

"You're talking to a rat," Lenore muttered. "About me. That's just…a bit odd."

"He believed you to be my mate, and close to giving birth," Erik informed her.

"What? How did he ever get that impression?"

"Your breasts."

"No way. I'm not even a B cup, there's no way in hell he could possibly think me large enough to feed children," she argued.

"To a rat, ma chouchoute, you look rather…buxom," he replied.

"Okay, let's move the subject away from my bosom and in the direction of untying me from this chair," Lenore said, not wanting to think about a rat checking out her womanly attributes. "That rat is too damn smart…"

"That's all my doing," Erik replied, crouching down next to her. "I began conversing with the rats about a hundred years ago; each generation became a bit more mentally evolved than the last."

"You'd have to be insane to start talking to rats," Lenore murmured.

"Or extremely lonely," Erik pointed out.

"Are you just gonna sit there or are you going to untie me?"

"I'm merely wondering how you managed to tip over the chair," Erik said with a shrug.

"I managed it with great skill and cunning, now stop wasting time and untie me," Lenore insisted, struggling fruitlessly against the bonds to try and emphasize her point.

"And what would you do if I decided to leave you like this all night?" he inquired, a smirk gracing his face at the idea of leaving her in this vulnerable position, entirely at his mercy.

"I'd scream at the top of my lungs until you decided to untie me to shut me up," she answered smugly.

"I could easily drown you out with my organ, child," Erik informed her. "And I don't imagine you can scream for as long as I can play. But that is entirely beside the point, ma chérie. If I wished to gag you, you would be powerless to stop me."

"How do you do it? How do you win every argument?" she grumbled.

"You let your temper get the better of you; I keep my temper in check, allowing me to easily defeat you with simple logic," he replied.

"Well, one of these days, logic's going to fail you, and then I'll win. And I won't ever let you forget it either," she returned.

"That seems a bit extreme, don't you think?" Erik said. "After all, I don't remind you every time I get the better of you."

"Of course you don't, because you always get the better of me," Lenore explained. "If I actually manage to best you once, I'm going to have to keep bringing it up to make myself feel better when you're pointing out all the ways you can win the argument."

"It is rather uncouth to continuously remind someone of their mistakes. Perhaps I should leave you here to help you learn a moral lesson," he threatened.

"I'm far too old for punishments to be effective in teaching moral lessons," Lenore replied heatedly.

"Have it your way," Erik said, standing up and taking a few steps away. Lenore let out an ear-piercing shriek that echoed marvelously off the walls, filling the lair with its shrill sound.

Erik winced; that sound was at the top of the scale of human hearing, and he might have a rather difficult time drowning it out with his organ. Not to mention if she kept it up long enough, the echoes could cause a cave-in.

"Is it your intention to bring the ceiling in on us?" he inquired when she stopped to take a breath. "Or did you forget that the reverberations of your voice can be devastating in tunnels such as these?"

"Maybe I'd rather be crushed to death by falling rocks than spend the night on the cold floor tied to a chair," Lenore retorted. "Look, I'm sorry that I'm a pain, and I promise I'll be good if you just untie me."

Erik turned, looking into her pleading eyes. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to give in just this once, to let her have her way. It would either strengthen her obedience or shatter it entirely. She was promising to behave, but promises were too easily broken. He crouched down beside her and pulled a knife from his boot. "If you break that promise, Ellen will have good company in your sister," he threatened. It let her have her way, but made sure she knew that he was not going to tolerate any misbehavior.