The next day was horrid. It was horrid in the sense of the word where one feels each minute clawing at her soul because she couldn't WAIT for the day to be over.

And so the day lasts forever.

Her schedule was the opposite of the day before. Erik was there, standing behind her. Mr. Reyer flailed his arms wilding while conducting them (muchos serioso in an completely unserious room of giggling teens), and Christine sang monotonously. She felt Erik's eyes in the back of her head and his breath on her neck, though he was too far to actually breath on her, perse. But she imagined him close just the same.

Lunch with Meg was on reverse as well. Meg blushed. Buquet showed up. Teased Meg. Meg left the table to get a dry chicken patty. Meg never came back. She was sitting at a different table trying to escape Joe Buquet but he just followed her there instead. Christine flipped through her Don Juan. She lost interest in it already. Raoul walked past her, looked down at her. She grinned at herself a little (discreetly). There was a bit of chemistry there; she couldn't deny it. He was very, well, bright and happy. And his presence was exciting and calming at the same time.

She spent English class doing her best avoiding Erik. Something told her that she should be saving the best for tonight. Not that she was really expecting anything crazy tonight. Well, she was so excited for tonight that she couldn't really think. She was afraid. Afraid of what could be possibly the best night of her life.

She was standing in front his house. A bright house, she noted. much brighter than she would have imagined for a boy like Erik. It had an iron gate. Polished, stately, locked by an invisible chain as there was no intercom or keyhole to the naked eye. The house looked more like a castle from a grimm's fairy tale book. It was a marriage between a stately cottage and a mason. Vines all around. Green, well cared-for vines, with little white blooms shooting from each branch. The vines crept to the windows and ended at the red scalloped roof. Well, not a true red, but a blood-tangerine. It always irritated her when people called things (such as hair) "red" when in a pantone book it was actually orange. She bet Erik would understand.

The gates opened. There was an old man standing at the door. He had grey hair that reached his hunched shoulders and a a wrinkled face that looked somewhere between angry and kind. She could not decide. He was not large in stature but she could not seem to see past him. It was just an old man in the doorway, watching her with dark eyes as she slowly made her way towards him.

"I hope I'm at the right house," she said when she was within hearing distance. "I'm here for Erik."

The man did not say anything, but his lip twitched at the corners for a second. His eyes followed her as she reached the front steps. She did not look away, for something told her he'd respect her less if she did.

"I'm Christine," She said.

"I know who you are."

His voice surprised her. It was not haggard and harsh, the way his face and hair and skin appeared. It was muffled and soft. There was a sense of calm in his tone that encouraged her to take a step forward. And when she did, he moved aside and the doorway behind him seemed to light up. She took it as an invitation to go in.

When she passed him she could smell the herbal tinge that came from his old-fashioned clothes. He smelled like an experiment gone awry. A fire dying in the woods. Yet she was unafraid and found it refreshing in contrast to the eau de perfumes and sweaty jerseys of her previous male encounters. Not that she's had any. She's imagining.

"The master is at work," the old man said, as she walked by. She felt him sniffing her too, albeit discreetly. His bony finger pointed towards the kitchen, which was also lit. She could see the edge of a dining room table. Brown wood. An empty candelabra sitting at the left corner like a beauty and the beast screenshot. "But he is expecting you."

Sure enough, Erik was sitting at the other end of the dining room table, scribbling something into a notepad the size of his upper torso. He did not acknowledge her until she was right next to him, under she placed her hand onto the table and found his hand suddenly coming down on hers and grasping her fingers within his clutch.

"You came," he said, without looking up.

"I always do what I say I would."

His grasp tightened around her hand and he put his pen down. She could see now that he was not writing, that he was in fact composing. Red calligraphic ink flew over the music sheet like wildfire. It was very beautiful. And very odd. Like him.

"What are you writing?"

"A story," he said and pushed the music onto the table. He raised his head and looked up into her eyes and they seemed violet and different than before. She saw past their color and into his soul and she saw the shadow of a woman who was weeping over a man who had passed. She saw a babe with a handkerchief over its head and a few drops of blood staining the edge of the handkerchief. She saw the basket where the babe lie burst into flames, and at that moment he pulled her hand from under his and her gaze way from his eyes. The light in the room, the source of which was unknown, began to flicker. His eyes were yellow once again.

He stood slowly and seemed to tower over her. She did not remember him being so tall or frightening for that matter. But she held her ground. "What am I doing here?" She thought.

"I don't know, Christine," he said. "You tell me."

Had she said that out loud?

"I suppose you're going to suck my blood now," she deadpanned, half-serious. She felt him smile underneath the mask and she smiled back. "No, really, Erik. Do I know you from somewhere? Why do I feel some sort of connection between us even though we've never met?"

"Have we?"

"Have we what?"

"Never met?"

She lifted her hands and placed them around his face. It was strange, how he trusted her to do this without removing his mask, but he let her meld her little fingers around his hallow cheeks as she lifted herself on her toes and placed her lips very close to his ear. "You tell me," she whispered.

When he looked into her eyes he could see a soul inside as well. Blue. It was blue and clear as water at first, but it behind it was a wilderness of grey, dark and stormy and surrounded by fog. He could see the clouds clearly but he could not see clearly through the cloud. There were four-legged animals chasing two-legged ones and their panting breaths were intertwined in the howl of the trees, and beyond that he could hear nothing. But he could feel, and what he felt, was panic.

She dropped her hands and he took a step back. Yes, they were connected, but he was unsure of how, and for the first time, it frightened him.

"Fate links thee to me forever and a day," he said.