A/N: I would like to thank all my readers for their patience and support. Please keep the reviews coming. I know it's summer and you all have lovely things you'd rather be doing on such wonderful balmy days... I myself just came back from a week long acation. But I absolutely love feedback, as all of you know! Bit whether you review or not, your being here is very flattering!

Once at home, Erik had again allowed Arabella to remove his helm.

"Schubert." She said simply, making Erik lift an eyebrow at her.

"Truly?" he asked with amusement. "Schubert?"

"You said anything." She reminded him.

"Yes." He agreed. "But I thought you might pick something a bit more challenging."

"I like Schubert." She insisted. "His music is so soothing."

Erik could not help but wince a little. Did that mean she did not find his compositions soothing? He supposed not. His Don Juan was far too violent on the ears, and his requiem was far too morose to be anything enjoyable. It was perfect for mourning; but that was all. Phoenix Arise was seductive and passionate. It riled the blood instead of easing it.

And virtually nothing he had ever written came with accompanying lyrics. Even his Don Juan, with scenarios and names written into the margins, had no real words to it – except on occasion. The words were accents to the music that would never be heard… nothing more. It was not a story … not as an Opera or ballet would be… That Arabella's gypsy name was in it was the most he could boast about having anything particular in mind other than the mythic Don Juan himself.

He mentally shook himself free of this train of thought. That was the very last piece of music he should let himself think about when Arabella was clearly seeking comfort of some kind.

"Schubert it is then." He agreed. "Do you have a song in mind?"

When Arabella shook her head, he took a moment to think. After a moment of pondering, he nodded and opened his mouth. He had considered starting off with the song that had inspired his costume for the night … but Bella clearly sought out something peaceful and soothing. A song about a boy who dies on the back of his fathers' horse – presumably murdered by some terrible demon - hardly constituted peace! That would likely be worse than playing his opus!

"Thou art repose; and gentle pace." He began; his voice soft and sincere. "All earthly woes where thou art, cease "

Arabella had stepped up to him as he sang, reaching out to caress his cheek. It was gentle, soothing… and Erik found himself closing his eyes as he continued her song.

"Trouble shall flee, far from my soul. My heart, by thee, shall be made whole."

Then … startlingly, Arabella slowly and gently begun on his costume – carefully folding and laying out each material of outer clothing on the couch as it was removed. It was difficult to concentrate on singing while his wife was carefully undressing him… even if she did nothing to be alluring in the process. Just the very act of being disrobed was enough to make his blood warm pleasantly in hopeful anticipation of what might come… and fulfilling her desire to hear Schubert was not at all easy. His voice kept quavering – although thankfully it remained on key.

"Thou heart's desire borne of rest; come nigh and nigher to this lone breast. My tented eyes, from gloom of night, see Paradise full of thy light."

When the song was over; he stood in bare feet and underwear. She had been gentle and slow with her undressing of him – but it had proven quite efficient.

Arabella took a step back and spread out her arms; silently offering for him to undress her in return. In her case, she had no choice but to be undressed. The fashion she had chosen to wear for the evening was nearly a death trap. Mostly it was only upper class women who wore such prisons – for they had the army of maids available to fasten all the clasps and ties. All Arabella had ... was Erik … and he feared ripping the luxurious material with his shaking fingers. But… how else was she to disrobe?

Besides… the glint in her eyes was far too inviting. It made him forget – for the moment, at least, any lingering thoughts of Christine. He turned her away from him with gentle insistency, brushing the hair away from her neck and shoulders so it could not get caught by a snaring hook, or pinched by a silk knot. He leaned close enough to make his breath fan her heated skin, and he felt her shudder slightly in response – only making his own state that much more unstable.

"Keep singing." She breathed when his clumsy and inexperienced hands had finally undone the uppermost clasps by her collar. It seemed she was not capable of speaking in anything more than a hushed whisper … as though doing so would somehow shatter the delicate atmosphere.

Erik took in a deep breath, his mind scrambling. Was he supposed to sing all night - and all Schubert? His concentration was superb… but not normally in this context! What even was the context? Was Arabella being seductive? Or was she merely showing her love and affection? He trembled at the thought that he was about to make a mistake… She was, after all, undoubtedly still hurt by how drawn he'd been to Christine.

But he must not think of Christine! Not now! He still loved that woman, yes; but this was his beautiful gypsy princess! His Arabella! And it was her he wanted now!

Erik leaned down and pressed a small kiss to the nape of her neck, his hands caressing down her upper arms from behind.

"Please?" Arabella encouraged in a soft, shaking voice. "Sing?"

Erik suddenly recalled a slightly more playful song. As his hands returned to their gentle actions to liberate her from her costume, he grinned and allowed the slightly less soothing song come forth in French rather than German – just as he had done the other song. He knew Arabella liked to understand the lyrics – although he thought it sometimes completely ruined a song to translate it and change the rhythm of how the words came out.

"You don't disturb us, oh night! See, we drink beneath the shrubbery; and a cool wind stirs and makes our wine refreshing!"

He could sense Arabella's amused smile as he made fast and slightly less gentle work of the stays at her back so that he could reach up and hurriedly remove her crown. He wanted his hands buried in her hair. He wanted to push the dress forward off her shoulders and work on her underthings… but he held himself back. He would undress her only as she had undressed him … so that when he helped her arms out of her sleeves, he knelt to bring the dress to the floor and offered a hand so that she could step out of it in her incredibly pale, pearl purple pantalets and camisole.

"Mother. Faithful darkness. Night! Confidante of our sweetest sorrows! You have cheated vigilance; by the kisses you've already hidden! You, alone, understand what pleasure intoxicates me; when I upon her beloved breast rest beneath dew and flowers."

Arabella stepped cautiously from the circle of her costume and turned around to face him. The underthings she wore were barely enough to give her any form of modesty. Only a tiny flicker of water, and there would be nothing at all left to the imagination. He wondered briefly if she had chosen her underthings for that exact reason. After all, it was still winter outside. Why wouldn't she wear something warmer?

His heartbeat was fast and hard as he stood up and reached out to put his hands boldly on her waist.

"They murmur to her when all are asleep. Murmur gentle moving trees. In the effervescence of the imploring stream – I revel in lascivious dreams!"

Arabella smiled at him. Her cheeks spread so much that it was nearly a heart-stopping grin.

"You are a wicked man." She accused playfully; just standing there and letting her hands fall to either side of her. "What is so gentle and soothing about that song?"

"You said that Schubert writes soothing music." Erik defended himself. "You did not say I had to choose a soothing song. Besides … it is not as though I sang a dirge or a jig, is it?"

Giggling, Arabella let him pull at her waist so that they were lightly pressed together at the hips.

"I suppose that is true." She admitted.

Erik leaned down to kiss her … for the first time rather certain he would not be able to lure her all the way into the bedroom before he lost control of himself. He wondered if the couch could be even remotely possible – for he still would not take her on the floor like an animal. She tasted of sweet champagne and honeysuckle – a scent and flavor that pervaded her every pore. Even her sweat made him think of the potent plant. He was addicted to the flavor of her … and as she gently wrapped her arms around him, one of his hands rose from her waist up to her face. He needed to gently hold her face in place, making sure that she would not dare break their kiss until he'd had his fill.

It was lucky for him that Arabella took just as long before deciding she was done with him.

He took her gently but inexorably towards the fireplace, where he finally flopped down into his wing-back chair and pulled at her until she straddled his lap. Neither had yet removed another piece of clothing. But Erik was certain his clothes would begin smoldering soon if he was not careful. In that moment… he had forgotten a world even existed outside of his house.

There were no other people in creation. When he held his Arabella like this … even God did not exist. There were no ghosts, no divas, and no Persian police officers. There was no drug silently waiting to invite him back into its intoxicating embrace. All that existed … all that mattered … was her.

*#*#*#*#*#

Later, Erik had found himself carrying Arabella's barely conscious body into the bedroom and covering her sweat-slicked body with the sheet. He didn't immediately pull up the heavier blankets that would keep her warm as the flat cooled. He just wanted to look down at her … see the shape of her beneath the white linen. She looks so peaceful. Her skin was glowing due to the after-effects of their lovemaking, and a little satisfied smile played at her lips as she curled into a ball on one side and reached for his side of the bed. He, of course, wasn't there… and it almost seemed to be out of punishment that she stole his pillow and hugged that to her instead. It made him smile …

…and then the smile was gone. He could sense something off in the atmosphere of the house. It was not the atmosphere of a couple that had just made eager and vigorous love in their parlor. The afterglow was being dampened somehow… and he spun around to face the parlor and figure out exactly what was wrong.

"What have you done?"

He blinked hard, staring across the room to the doorway leading into his kitchen. He usually kept it closed … but … the door was wide open now. It was wide open, and someone was standing just outside of the light offered by the parlor fireplace. He could make out a vague silhouette … a woman in long skirts … with a pale face and pale hair.

Acid filled his mouth and the bottom of his stomach seemed to drop out of his body. His pulse began to race in pure horror. He was not frightened, exactly … but he was filled with horror.

"Christine?" he whispered hoarsely; glancing briefly over his shoulder to see that Arabella was still lying in bed with her body curled contentedly around his pillow.

It was seeing her precious form through the cool sheet that suddenly reminded him that he wore absolutely nothing – and he leaped into the bedroom to snatch up a robe and sling it around his body. As he struggled to shove his arms into uncooperative sleeves, Christine came across the parlor to step right into the room, glaring at Erik and down at Arabella with murderous rage.

"Who is she? What have you done?"

"No – not in here!" he pleaded, reaching out with both hands before he could even think to tie the sash about his waist. His eyes darted again to Arabella as he tried to press Christine back out of the room while keeping his voice low. "Please, Christine! My dear – let her sleep! Please! Don't wake her!"

"Who is she?" Christine demanded again, causing guilt to rake at his gut. Erik kept walking towards her, backing her into the parlor and reaching for the door knob to separate the two women. He was surprised that Arabella was so deeply asleep when she'd barely been more than dozing as he carried her into the bedroom.

"That…" he struggled to explain. "That is Arabella… That is … my wife!"

"Wife?" Christine echoed in disbelief. "You are married? All that manipulation and all those threats – all that begging me to stay – and you are married?"

"I…"

Erik felt his mouth go dry as he leaned against the bedroom. He felt the blood leave his face as he stared at a glorious version of Christine he had never expected existed. She was amazing in her anger… even more beautiful than ever before. Were all women beautiful in their rage?

"Yes… I am married… now. I was not married before. I would not have done that to you." After a moment, he caught himself. "I would not have done that to her!"

"How quickly you forget your love." Christine accused in a dangerous hiss.

"No – no I have forgotten nothing!" he defended himself desperately. "But … but you left, Christine! Please, my dear, understand! You went off with your little Vicomte-"

"-You sent me away with him!" she corrected. "You sent me away with Raoul! And look how that has turned out! He has abandoned me! I did not ask to be released – did I? I asked you to spare him and that was all!"

She took in a deep breath.

"And what do you call this woman? Do you call her 'my dear' as well?"

"No…" he whispered, dropping his eyes. "No. You are the only one I could ever call that, Christine. But please… whether you left or were sent away… you never came back! You went off with Raoul and you never came back! Arabella found me… she nursed me back from a point close to death! She stayed! She loved me! Was I supposed to let myself die because of you?"

He lifted his eyes slowly, his eyes pleading desperately for an explanation to her return and the reason for her rage. He knew perfectly well he had been dying because of her. He had been willing to die because of his heartache over losing her! He should not have to explain this to her, or beg her to understand his desperate grasp at continued survival when Arabella returned to him. She could never understand what it was like to be wanted and loved after a lifetime of loneliness and rejection!

And Christine had been terrified of him. How could she come into his house now and be so jealous? She did not love him! She never had! It was why his pain had been so great … because he'd known how much of his heart had been lost to a woman that barely cared whether he lived or died. He wanted to understand her sudden return and this change in character.

Was it Raoul? Was it being abandoned by her lover?

"Christine-"

But Christine was no longer in front of him. In just the blink of an eye, she was gone.

His eyes widened in surprise, and scanned the room as he tried to figure out where she could have gone so suddenly. He had not heard her take a single step… how had she just vanished? He had been looking right at her the entire time – his gaze taking in every inch of her dress from hem to waist. Why was she gone now? And how?

Air moved around him, and he spun to find he was not leaning against the door to the bedroom after all. He must not have closed it tight; for it was swinging slowly open… and Arabella was no longer on the bed. Nothing but the bottom sheet was still there. The blankets, top sheet, and pillows had all been thrown haphazardly on the floor!

"Bella?" he called out, looking toward the water closet to see if she was using the toilet. The door stood open. "Bella, where are you?"

He spun around again; his heart pounding painfully in his chest. The taste of copper was beginning to fill his mouth.

"Christine?" he demanded. "Where did you go?"

He stepped into the center of the room, breathing heavily enough that he was starting to feel lightheaded.

"We are in here, Erik…"

He followed the sound of Christine's voice into what had once been his bedroom. He barely stepped in there now – except that he'd been turning it slowly into a library so that there was more room to enjoy music in the parlor with Arabella. He could barely walk straight in his confusion and panic but he made it into the room and saw that his coffin bed was gone – as it rightfully should have been – and the torture chamber curtain was pulled away from the glass.

That was not right. He'd taken special care since Arabella's return to damage the entrance to the torture chamber. The way Raoul and Nadir had entered was now completely inaccessible, and he had nailed the curtain into place so that it looked like nothing but a wall decorated with fabric. It should not have been opened so fast… so soundlessly.

And the torture chamber definitely should not have been active! He's disassembled the mechanism! But … there was the brilliant light that caused intolerable heat… There were the 'trees' that Joseph Bouquet had used to kill himself. And, in the middle, was sprawled his poor Arabella! She was naked as a babe, looking around in confusion and fear as she began to sweat profusely.

It was at that very moment Erik realized he was having another nightmare. It was the only explanation for how Christine had gotten below without setting off an alarm… how she and Arabella had moved around the flat so soundlessly … and how his torture chamber was in full working order.

But that did not matter to him. Nightmare or not; the very sight of Arabella in his torture chamber in yet another nightmare was enough to make him feel very real fear for her well-being. His eyes went enormously round; and he charged towards the one-way glass to begin pounding on it. He knew how to open the room – he even knew how to turn the temperature way down if he could not get in. But in that moment he was filled with too much panic to behave rationally.

"Bella!" he bellowed.

Her eyes jerked up in his direction. In this particular nightmare, it was clear she could not see him. The room was reacting as it ought to in reality. The one way glass was still one way glass. The room took time to heat drastically. True, Bella was already sweating and red… but anyone in any kind of heat could react that way. It did not mean she was … cooking.

Which meant that she had time before the heat would begin to affect her too adversely.

"Erik!"

He saw Arabella's lips form the shape of his name as she crawled towards the mirror beside the one he stood before, and tried to claw her way to her feet. But she couldn't seem to stand. She glanced behind her, and Erik followed her gaze to see that something terrible had happened to her ankles. They were twisted drastically, swollen and bruised and bloody as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to her calves.

"Bella!" he bellowed again, sinking into a low crouch so that they were nearly on eye level. He shifted his body sideways, desperate to meet her gaze in spite of knowing she could not see him "Who did this to you?"

"You did, of course."

He nearly yelped – having almost entirely forgotten that Christine was even part of this dream. He turned and fell against the glass as he stared up at Christine. She had let her hair down so that it spilled over her shoulders in a sheet of pure gold.

He had never seen her in such a state – not once during a single one of her visits… and it made her rage terrible. There had a cold and frightening smile on her face. It bordered on being the look of someone utterly mad.

Was that what he had looked like to her at times? What was this? He understood that this was a nightmare; but he just didn't understand why he was having it! All he'd done was see Christine at the masquerade! He'd just seen her close up for a few short moments in order to satisfy himself that she was well! Why should he have to see Arabella in such torment? He would never let her be hurt!

Christine took a few very slow steps along the length of ice cold fireplace in his former room – the fingers of one hand trailing idly along the white mantle. He found his eyes drawn to those shapely fingers, bile rising in his throat at the thought that she might trigger one of the buttons there. He recalled searching for that same button the last night Christine had been in his house. He had wanted to press it – to make the entire Opera House nothing but a hole in the ground and take well over three-hundred people with him in the process.

He could not let her touch that button! Not while Arabella had only just started her own life again! Not when he was sane enough to rationalize how terrible it would be to have that many lives on his conscience!

The dream was so real … unlike his last terrible nightmare. It was much too easy to feel utter confusion and panic over what was happening. The only strange thing was that Christine was there with that cold look on her face; her golden hair framing her face in a lions' mane.

"My poor, poor Erik." Christine crooned. "You did this to her. She's not the one you want… and she knows it. You want me… Don't you?"

So … this was how Christine had felt when he had kidnapped her that night. Erik fought down the urge to be violently ill. Dream or not, he thought he very well could have become sick in his sleep.

"So… why don't we just put the poor girls' suffering to an end?" Christine asked innocently, her eyebrows rising as she tilted her head at him in question.

"We have to get her out of there." He rasped desperately. "Please… Christine … my dear… please! This is not you! This-"

"-There is only one way to get her out." Christine cut across his pleas as though he hadn't even spoken. She moved closer to the edge of the mantelpiece with her hand, and Erik heard the distinctive sound of the button he'd hidden there.

Click.

He flinched violently in on himself, expecting the explosion to be brief but incredibly painful. He turned his body towards the glass of the torture chamber, planning one palm on it in a last attempt to reach Arabella even though it was not going to be visible to her. He prayed to God it would be quick for her…

But nothing happened. He thought when the explosion came he would be startled awake… he could escape the terrible scenario. But nothing like that happened. He remained tense against the glass for a long moment until he realized the warmth of it was fading… and there was a strange rushing sound coming from within.

He opened his eyes to see what was happening, and then let out a sound of utter dismay was he saw the torture chamber was flooding with water. He'd designed the room to flood under the right circumstances – although it was honestly a very small miscalculation on his part. He'd only wanted to flood the chambers where the gunpowder had been stored if it came down to that. The torture chamber would only fill a foot or two…

At least… it was only supposed to.

In the few moments he'd cowered against the glass, the chamber had filled over two feet and was swiftly reaching Arabella's chin.

Arabella… who could not hope to swim with her legs so badly damaged.

"No!" he cried again, once more shoving himself to his feet. He whirled and finally remembered the chamber with all the mechanics in them. He ran for the opposite side of the room and flung open the door he'd hidden there. Christine had never known of its crammed existence… and he wondered briefly if perhaps Dream Christine had not sabotaged it because it had not crossed his mind since the day he dismantled it himself.

"No." Christine said coolly. "Let her die! It's the kindest thing you can do!"

The room was not quite normal. There seemed far too many complicated pipes, levers, and valves. But he knew his work well enough to bypass the confusion his dream tried to create.

"Christine…" Erik panted as he grabbed for the valve that should allow him to turn off the flooding mechanism. He could not hope to reverse the situation until he'd first halted it. "What is wrong with you? You cannot suggest I kill my wife! What has happened to you?"

He could not help but speak to her as though she were real. Even in his dreams, Christine managed to demand absolute attention.

"You happened to me." Christine said simply, stepping up into the tiny space of the room behind him. "I have learned from the greatest master, haven't I? Are you impressed with me?"

His stomach turned. She sounded far too much like the Khanum bitch that had tormented him in Persia! Part of him felt as though he could turn around, and the serpent of a royal woman would be standing there instead of his sweet and innocent Christine.

The valve was absolutely refusing to budge under his normally strong grasp. It – along with all the other metal of the room – was rusted quite solidly into place. With so much rust suddenly appearing, movement should have been easy. Even as flakes of rust broke off everywhere and rained down on him like snow… it should have been easy to defeat his own mechanism and break the damned thing completely down!

"Damn it!" he swore, no longer caring that Christine was in his presence. She was not the real Christine. "Why won't you-"

"-You need the key, Erik."

There was no key. Not in reality. But since this was a nightmare, Erik turned to her at once.

Sure enough, she held up a key on a chain around her neck.

"Do you want it?" she asked with a playful and flirtatious smile on her lips. "Come and get it, Erik."

She held it out of his reach as he lunged forward, dancing backward with a giggle and then suddenly ripping the chain free. He watched as the frail golden chain slipped to the floor like a dead snake, and Christine shoved the tiny and improbably key down into the depths of her mouth.

"No!" he screamed, launching himself at her even as his eyes took a risky glance towards the torture chamber.

Arabella was half floating in water now, her one good leg scrambling to keep her head above water as her bare toes danced on the floor. The water bubbled everywhere around her, the source of the flood long submerged. She was trying to cry out, coughing and spluttering as her hands reached out in all directions for salvation. The water was tainted a brilliant pink with her blood as her wounds continued to bleed.

Cursing a foul Russian phrase, he reached out and seized Christine by her face, clawing his fingers at her tender and perfect lips to try and gain access to her mouth. For the first time ever, he was more than willing to see the flawless skin of her lovely face marred. He was desperate to do whatever it took to get Bella out of that torture chamber – and damn the consequences!

Nightmare or not … Arabella could not die! Part of him felt superstitiously certain that if she died in his dream … he would wake in the morning with a cold corpse at his side. He could not let that happen!

Christine kept her jaw clenched tightly sht for what felt like an eternity. Prying her teeth apart was damned near impossible… and it proved utterly futile when he forced her mouth open enough to see she had already swallowed the key that was quite small but still never should have fit down her throat without choking her. She was absolutely giddy as he released her, throwing her away from him with a growl of despair and rage. He watched her wipe indolently at the face he'd managed to smear her own saliva over, giggling incessantly.

"What will it be, Erik?" she demanded. "Are you willing to cut me open from neck to groin to save your precious little wife? You can't hurt me! You know you can't!"

The rage in him dissipated like smoke on the air, and his despair turned utterly black… yawning inside of him like an ever-growing black hole.

His eyes turned listlessly to the struggling gypsy girl in the torture chamber. Arabella had such fight in her … in spite of the water already being over her head, she was just barely managing to keep afloat… but soon … very soon … the water would reach the ceiling of the torture chamber and there would be no air to gasp for. And she already seemed so exhausted. She would be lucky to last even that long.

She did not give up. She did not look for him. Her lips did not cry out any particular soundless word or name. She just kept trying to gasp in as much air as her weakening body would allow.

Setting his mouth in a firm and determined line, he stalked over to the desk that had long been a fixture of his room. He rolled back the scrolling top to reveal a small locked compartment. He spent no time searching for the key, but threw the desk across the room to watch the wood completely obliterate itself against the hard marble of his fireplace. The weak lock of the tiny compartment splintered and a gun fell out… a derringer.

He picked up the pistol, checked the chamber, turned towards the toture chamber – and fired at the panel farthest from Arabella's struggling form.

He heard the bullet ricochet – something completely impossible in reality. But apparently this nightmare was finally going to be more surreal than anything he'd ever endured. Because when his hand went limp and the pistol fell to the ground, he followed it to realize he was no longer in a wide open bathrobe and nothing else. He was in the robes of Azrael… the Angel of Death in Persian culture … the thing that he had posed as for so many terrible months in Mazandaran! He put a hand instantly into those robs and pulled out the Punjab Lasso. With only one flick of the wrist he had Christine in his noose, and jerked her forward.

Tears poured from his eyes and his teeth clenched as he knelt next to her weakly struggling body. She was not quite dead yet … but she would be soon.

"I'm so sorry…" he whispered, pulling the cat gut tighter. "My angel… my dear … Christine… I am so sorry!"

Glancing once more at Arabella as she began to sink – unable to find the strength to work her way up to the surface again – he waited for Christine to go still. Then, without removing the lasso from about her neck, he reached into another hidden pocket of his robe to pull out a four inch long blade…

He could not bring himself to look at what he was doing… He should look. He should pay attention. If he wasted his time cutting the wrong parts, Arabella would be well beyond any kind of salvation in less than three minutes. He knew exactly how long it took the average person to drown – and knew Arabella could not hope to beat the odds and defeat that tie. She just wasn't physically strong enough.

This nightmare was all too real… Everything felt far too real.

He saw Arabella reach for the surface one more time

Then he lowered his eyes only to the torso of the woman on the floor, and plunged the knife in to the hilt at the soft tissue of the stomach. There was a literal wave of blood that should not have been there … the color taking over every inch of his vision … washing his hands and arms in sticky red liquid… A scream echoed around him – seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere… going on and on and on …

He realized, as he awoke … that it was his own voice.