Greetings to all!

I hope you didn't hate me after last week's chapter as I hope you won't hate me after this one…

Thank you ALL for your reviews! And for reading this story!

And above all, I thank Desiree and TOWDNWTBN for their hard work. ;-)

Chapter 25 -So Sweet was Never so Fatal *

"Erik?" Christine's voice greeted him as he entered his bedroom. He had dragged his feet to his room thinking she had left with her husband, only to find her waiting for him there. He didn't need the moonlight to show him she was lying in his bed. She sounded sleepy, as if he had awakened her. She shifted under the heavy covers, yawning.

"Why are you here?" Why had she stayed? He kept his tone neutral. Any tremble in his voice could sound like a sign of tiredness. It wasn't time for hope. Not yet.

"Emily was asleep when I sneaked in. I used my silent steps." She granted him one of her mischievous smiles that made his heart skip a beat. Strange! It still had the same effect. Would she act as if nothing had happened? Would she keep it a secret?

"Is everything well? You sound strange." He let his voice sound casual. He furrowed his brow in distaste. Setting a trap for a loved one felt awkward. It cut both ways. She drew in a deep breath. The faint sound of it reached his ears. Would he have noticed it if he hadn't seen Raoul? What other signs had he missed? How often had he let her deceive him?

"Jamie was restless today. He went for a walk…just around the house!" Another long pause. "He said something about going to the village…" Her voice trailed off.

"That is out of the question!" he exclaimed. "At least until certain factors are taken care of." His voice was harsh, his breathing uneven. He pressed his thumb to the bridge of his nose to ease the constant pain away. So Jamie's walk had been the highlight of her day! Perhaps she was sincere. Perhaps Jamie's nervousness was the novelty. Perhaps it hadn't even been the first time Raoul had visited her. This was maddening! Nothing but a sick farce!

If Erik had believed in Fate or Destiny, he would have thought this was just a sick joke, a divine farce so he might appreciate what he had. To take fewer risks. The whole situation had such a surreal quality that part of him wondered whether he was hallucinating, now, seeing her in his room, or perhaps before, when he had seen Raoul. Erik knew better than that. He could distinguish nightmares from reality, he believed in no fate, no destiny, and if God Himself had appeared before him, at that moment, he'd have spit on His face, again, for the inadequate job He was doing. Erik couldn't restrain his chuckle at the thought. Christine watched him laugh after his previous outburst as if he were going mad, fully awake now. She was a perceptive girl! Not a girl, he had to remind himself. Not even an ordinary woman. The Phantom's whore! What a title she had gained for herself! A man should always be proud of granting his woman such an honor.

"Erik, come to bed." She looked so soft, as sweet as she had always looked. Not only was she deceiving him, but his own eyes, his senses were deceiving him, now. Her voice was soft and sweet, too. Almost as sweet as if she had said, "I will never love another man as I love you." A new rush of blood hit his temples, building up the pain.

"In a while," he whispered.

Erik walked to the window at the wall farthest from the bed. He leaned against it, looking at her intensely, examining her. Didn't she see that he knew? Why didn't he ask her himself? Was he such a coward? Did he want to avoid the pain, or was it his twisted sense of hope that silenced him? The idiotic part of him that knew that any time with Christine conceded him was a privilege. A gift? He closed his eyes. What could she possibly say that would make her words sound better, take on another sense? He had thought of all possible explanations. None of them was flattering. What could she possibly say that would be remotely believable?

He wished he could believe her lies one more time. He wished he could fool himself once more. Most of all, he wished he didn't know. But he knew Raoul had been that very morning in his house. He knew Raoul had kissed hiswoman, who had failed to show any sign of protest other than a trembling from desire; Raoul, who was now the Comte de Chagny, as if that made him king of the world. A low growl escaped his lips. At that moment, all vows not to spill his blood were off. His weaker self had been left back at the Twin House along with everything else that might be able to fool him again. If he had killed the bastard when he had had the chance, none of this would have happened. Christine would never have forgiven him; he would have had no idea of her sweet taste, but solitary grief, and Raoul under the ground seemed so much more comforting than this joined misery.

"I wanted to come to the Twin House, but Jamie told me you don't appreciate being disturbed…" He smiled upon hearing her excuses. As if that were the reason! "Do you want me to light the lamp?" she asked, unaware of his sarcastic smile. The darkness in the room served him just right.

"No! Not tonight—"
He undressed in the dark, folding his jacket with extra care, placing it on the armchair, taking all the time in the world as if his life depended on it. His sanity depended on it.

"Will you be going to the village tomorrow?" Had she arranged something? Would he wait for her?

"No. Do you want me to go? I know Emily will go to church…"

Was she mocking him? If she were going to leave him, would she tell him? Why? To explain? To make him understand? To be sure he wouldn't hurt her husband? Last time, a kiss on the forehead had been her farewell. Now what? Perhaps something more intimate?

He took some deep breaths to compose himself. He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes again. Why was he so weak? Was he so desperate that he had no pride, no dignity?
He heard her steps, muffled by the thick carpet. He opened his eyes. Her face was so close to him. His cold palm cupped her cheek, his fingers tangled into her hair. He felt daring. How far would she allow him to go this night? A stroke of the hair, a bold caress, a light kiss? He tested all of these. She didn't protest, didn't stop him. Her violet eyes looked black in the wan light. He kissed her angrily, his lips crushing hers with a desperation he felt filling him in waves. He pulled her bottom lip against his teeth, taking in her sweet taste. The taste of betrayal.

His hands were rough against her thin chemise. Her hands found his skin under his shirt. Her faint moans brought him back to reality. He pinned her wrists, above her head, to the wall. He looked at her, glorious in her desire, her breathing uneven, her chemise damp over her skin, betraying the places his lips had been. What was this? This couldn't be their last night together…his mind refused to comprehend this as an act of mercy. Still, the desperation in her passion matched his as if indeed this were their last night….

His other hand wandered over her surrendered body, unbuttoning tiny buttons, revealing his once promised land, the delicate line of her collarbone, her smooth, pale skin under the moonlight, the full, feminine curves. She was ready for him. If it had been any other night, he would have thought her eyes were begging him. He couldn't trust his eyes anymore.

"Do you tremble when he kisses you as you are trembling for me now?" Raoul's voice sounded loud and clear in his head, as if he were in the room with them, beside them, touching her. Her silence, then, was the only truth coming from her lips. Simple truths he used to take for granted had been mocking him, deceiving him all along, driving him insane. Yes, she trembled for him, too. What did it mean? He knew she would find pleasure in his arms. She knew it, too. That wasn't the same, it wasn't remotely the same as loving him, accepting him, being in love with him. He smiled to himself in contempt. For a man who claimed to scorn love, his hunger for it was ridiculous.

He let her hands fall by her sides, burying his face in her hair. He growled in despair. How could he find comfort in the person inflicting him with such pain? He needed her more than ever, but he could find not even a crumb of love in his heart for her at the moment. Could she feel the change? Did she feel like this, too? Shouldn't he be disgusted at kissing the lips that had willingly kissed another man mere hours ago? He was disgusted with himself and his need. He wanted her more hopelessly than at any other time, and part of him wanted to bury himself inside her as she was standing there against the wall, dizzy with desire. Isn't that what whores were doing in darkened alleys with their clients all the time? What a miserable client he was! Falling in love with his whore…

"Erik?" The sound of his name sent a shiver down his spine. He felt broken. He didn't have any anger left to guide him out of this. No light to show him the way. He could never find himself again.

"Erik…" Her hand on his chest, her warm touch he used to crave, now burned his skin. She took his hand in hers, guiding him to the bed. He followed her, gazing at the interlaced fingers. Cold and warm. Hope and pain.

What was the new bargain forming now? Would she punish herself and her husband?
Her chemise slid to the floor. She did not want a divorce. Did she know how beautiful she was? Probably wanted to humiliate the boy, to cause him the most agonizing pain, but also didn't want to be free from him. Her skin blushing under his touch. What would she do? Her hair spread over the pillow, over his pillow. Would she stay with him, drawn by whatever hold his darkness had on her? Till when? Until she no longer recognized herself? Until she no longer felt the pain? His lips, his teeth nipped her skin, the delicate, secret areas he had foolishly claimed as his own. And if it was not pain, what other feeling was left for them? Her eyelids heavy with desire…
Erik knew what forced him to use lies and deception in his life. What inner need formed her ability to lie on that level? Her moans filled his senses. Had he corrupted her mind so badly, or was it a talent of her own? Her leg wrapped around his waist.
What was a lie other than a makeshift reality? Could he live forever in a world existing only in his mind? It wasn't so unfamiliar to him. The key hanging from his neck mocked him, drawing its own light course on her neck as his lips moved lower.

It was true. He could lose himself in that woman, dive into oblivion. No remorse, no thought, no doubt would blind him again. He wasn't gentle- he couldn't have been even if he had tried. Yet his need met her passion. Was he his own worst enemy? Her gasps, her ragged breathing as she found pleasure, the absolute loss of control as she trembled in his arms, the short but complete surrender, the faint smile on her face as if surprised she was there once more...
Wasn't that worth all the pain in the world? A violent tremor passed through him. He shuddered, releasing all the energy building up inside.
Finding pleasure didn't feel the same anymore. Was there any more breathtaking experience than willingly losing control in the arms of the person you loved? Whom you trusted? That wasn't there anymore. It had been stolen. Worse! It had never been there. It only had been in his mind. Once more, he had let his hope fool him again.

Why was pain always more attractive than any other feeling? Was there a part of him so disgusted by him that it found pleasure only by causing pain to its owner? What was this for her? An act of mercy? Was that the reason behind the surprise on her face every time she had found pleasure in his arms? No! It wasn't just that.

"I want to feel loved, if only for one night." A tortured soul. He had heard the words coming from that very mouth he now caressed with his fingers. He lowered his face but couldn't find the strength to kiss those lips. He felt his cold fingers caressing her neck against his will. There was no will in his body, no strength, no power to withdraw himself from her, to claim back his dignity, his self-respect. This fragile neck ruled him. This fragile woman ruled him, and he would always obey her commands. No matter what.

No way for him to escape as long as this heart kept beating against her ribs, dictating his very existence. He felt its rapid rhythm under his palm. Mocking him, laughing at him, at his weakness. Only in silence would he find peace. Her still uneven breathing, which had been like music to his ears, now caused him pain, disgust at his lost self-control. He could feel himself wanting her again, shocked by the way his body so insolently defied his mind. He was torn in two.

There was only one way to be free, to set her free, too. Was that what she wanted in seeking him? She knew who he was. A madman, a murderer. Was that what she needed from him? The reason she stayed? The absolute release only death could offer? His hand caressed her delicate neck again. It wouldn't take much effort. Maybe even one hand was enough. He had killed his master before. She was his absolute master, now. If he wanted to be true to himself, he should end this once and for all.

Dawn would find none of them breathing. What a peaceful image that was! He might even be happy before the end. He might even regain some of his dignity. He felt so tired. Was there any other way to find some peace? To stop the questions in his mind? So many questions! Would he be strong enough to do it? Strong enough to squeeze the life out of the only person who made him feel alive and human? Her stare on him was intense, as if she knew what he was thinking. She smiled at him. He saw her as he had seen her in his mind, lying lifeless like a broken doll; her eyes open, smiling at him.
Absolute horror! The utter blasphemy! The breath caught in his throat. He gasped for air, but his lungs were shut. Was he so mad? His madness was palpable now. It had a face, a smell, a name. Christine with no breath in her body. Death. The absolute justice, the absolute peace!

He pulled away from her, leaving her lying in the bed, her eyes burning him. He stood as far away from her as possible. His mask was burning him, as if melting on his face. His eyes caught his reflection in the window. His naked body was outlined, only his mask glinting under the moonlight.

He was a ghost! For the first time in his life, he truly felt like a ghost. Against his better judgment, he had followed her wishes, he had believed what she had said, he had hoped again, he had succumbed to that woman. He couldn't see himself anymore. What was a man without will, decisiveness, without strength? He was lost. All he ever was, all he ever had wanted, all he had ever dreamed of was no more.

II II II

"It is the Devil who holds the reins which urge us on!"

Erik crumpled the paper in his fist before putting it into his pocket. Jane and Gillian had been in a poetic mood lately. He preferred the "get off of my land" type of notes, but even they had always had a dramatic undertone. Curses, threats of eternal burning in Hell, warnings. In those days, the ghosts had been fun. Now they were more educated, but the originality was lost. He wondered who would walk all the way from the village to leave that silly note in the small wooden box just inside the gates. Probably someone on his way to Swindon. He tried to recall what the line reminded him of, but couldn't concentrate on the task… he sighed, frustrated and bored. Too many ghosts for his taste! The alarm bell hadn't rung since the latest storm. He would fix that, too – in time. Would the house start falling apart as he had?

He could watch the mailbox at nights; see who played the "ghost" these days. That wasn't a bad idea. Anything that might be useful to distract his attention was welcome. To keep the thoughts out of his mind, keep Christine away from his sight. He felt the obsession building again. The strong drive that governed his mind when control was lost. He could be doing a number of things – playing music, walking in the forest with James as he had just after dawn this morning. He could function as he always did, but it was there. It was always there. Like a mental note once made and now fighting to emerge through the clouded mind. Obsession felt like a second skin burning him. As though his mind were divided in two. He hadn't completely lost his wits yet. He had lost his concentration. Questions, fears, doubts, speculations materialized, suffocating his reason. He couldn't trust his judgment anymore.

Fresh air did nothing to soothe him. James' silent company was equally ineffective. The child wasn't in a good mood himself. Not even his starting construction on the tree house helped. Keeping James indoors was like trying to harness a cloud. He wanted to go to the village. Erik knew James' instincts were right. To keep postponing it would only make it worse for him. More difficult. He was to blame for the boy's discomfort. Him, and his weakness.

"I did try to fight him, you know…" James' voice had trailed off. He had sounded apologetic, as if trying to explain his failure. Erik gritted his teeth. He knew this train of thought very well. The boy would wonder whether he had done everything in his power to avoid the beating. As if it had been James' mistake. "Not beat him…but make him hit the wall, instead, a couple of times." A wicked smile had lingered on his freckled face. The illustrated memory had seemed to amuse him. Erik didn't find it amusing at all.

"Why didn't you run?"

James had shrugged his shoulders.

"It didn't help before. Maybe I will next time." He had smiled again, deep in thought.

Erik had left the boy at the treehouse. He had walked a lot. In anger, in fury. He had tried to collect his thoughts, but they remained scattered, torn. The same phrases, the same images, on and on. Whipping his mind. Clouding his sight. He didn't care. He would work with what he had. He knew he could not postpone the confrontation with Jacob for another day. A few hours, maybe. Until the sun set. A little earlier, if the purple rainclouds kept gathering so fast. Darkness would be his ally. He could count on darkness. Maybe he could count on his reflexes, too.

He raised his eyes to the sun. Bright, unbothered by the clouds reaching him. Divine in his power. Attacks like this meant nothing to him. It wasn't noon yet. A look at his watch made him growl in anticipation. Two hours to noon, then at least three till he could leave. Five hours in this restless haze. He walked towards the house. Maybe some music could allow his mind to focus on something. Nonsense!

The library door was slightly open again. Christine's way of keeping an eye on him? It might have been offensive if it hadn't been so futile! Her voice was strained, almost frightened. His steps faltered. He approached the door, taking a quick look inside the room. He hadn't realized he was holding his breath. Only Christine and Emily were there. The blonde woman was removing the hair combs from her hair. Erik recognized her "church" dress.

"You shouldn't go to the village!" Christine's voice was still tense. She ran her hand through her loose hair in frustration. Erik felt the same strong pull towards her. He had to restrain himself from going inside, asking what was wrong, trying to console her. That privilege had been lost the moment he saw her dead by his own hand.

"I don't know how much longer I will be able to go to church." Emily's hand rested on her belly, concern laced her voice. It was already obvious she was expecting, but no one knew of the loose corset she wore when she went to the village. Erik wondered whether church and Father John's sermons were worth the trouble or if it was her own persistence at keeping the story credible and his reputation intact. A sad, sardonic smile formed on his face. At least Mrs. Oliveer had kept her silence.

"Jacob is dangerous! He could have hurt you—"

Erik's fists clenched.

"I was in Mr. Hamilton's store. How was I supposed to know—? He was very serious, though. Thank God, not drunk yet."

"What does he look like?" Christine's trembling voice made Erik's face grow hot with fury. She was frightened of this man.

"Repulsive! Huge!" Emily's voice sounded equally anxious. "I can't imagine how that woman thought it wise to have this man as Jamie's stepfather." Disgust dripped from every word about James' mother.

"We shouldn't say anything to Erik…" His breath caught, hearing Christine's suggestion. More lies?

"He meant it, Christine! What if he comes here?"

Christine was silent for a while.

"Give me three, four days…" What would happen in three, four days? Would her husband come back for her?

"How is he today? He seems always on edge lately." Emily sounded worried again.

"He is with Jamie at the treehouse. Jamie is so stubborn about going to the village…maybe you should talk to him…"

Had Emily been talking about him earlier?

"I still believe we should tell Erik." Innocent, honest Emily. She didn't know what he was capable of. "Even if Jacob doesn't really want to send Jamie to work in a factory as he has threatened – I doubt the money would be more than what he gets from Erik — what would stop him from coming here, demanding to take the boy? Can you imagine that?"

Erik felt his blood boil at the thought. If Jacob would only dare set a foot in the Red Door Cottage, Blue would have a generous share of bones for months.

"He is just testing us! Testing Erik! He wants to blackmail him. See what Jamie is worth to him…" Christine's voice trailed off as if in deep thought.

"It's obvious he's trying to see if he can get more money…I wouldn't mind seeing him bleed, though. A good punch to his flat nose…" Emily's voice was harsh.

Christine was silent. Erik felt his lips twist up into an arrogant smile. A punch wasn't enough. It wasn't remotely enough for a man like Jacob. Rage filled his mind and cleared his thoughts. Rage was a familiar feeling.

"If I had some more days…to prepare Erik for that…" Christine sounded as if she was pacing the room. Prepare him? For what? For Jacob? Manipulate him again?
"Did you send my letter?"

"Yes, thank goodness I did that before running across Jacob. You may have the days you need. After all, I told him that, with his bad hand, no factory would give Jamie a penny!"

"I wish you wouldn't challenge the man…" Christine's words faded as Erik walked out of the hall. He didn't know who made him angrier. Jacob or Christine?

He grabbed some things from his room, trying to avert his eyes from the bed. All her lies, all her deceptions assaulted him with double force. He welcomed the madness that now ruled his senses. What did he hope for? That by feeling numb, he'd escape the pain? When had that happened before?

He took a deep breath only when he had left the Red Door Cottage far behind him. His steps were guiding him to the right place. He let the madness guide him. It was a good choice. After all, it was the most trustworthy asset in his life now.

She wanted to manipulate him again! To control him! What would happen in three days? Did she think that was the time needed to have him under her spell again, or her good husband would come back for her, and she would have to deal with him no longer? Didn't she know that only one word from her would be enough? That was all! One word, and he would be her slave again.

Where did "All I ask of you is honesty" go?
Was there any other way to fight the desire, the jealousy? He could risk it no more! Not for another hour! Not if he wanted to be free.

He had watched her leave him at the Opera House; he had watched her marrying another man; he had seen this man in his house; he had heard him kissing her…
Raoul's words haunted him again, James' words, her words. Like a twisted song, a sick tune playing again and again, deafening him. Was there any other way to escape that?
His ragged breathing slowed him down as the image of her lifeless, smiling face emerged along with that sick yearning for peace.

"Please, don't let me kill her," he murmured to himself. "Better Jacob than her. Better me hanged than her—" His breathing became easier as he kept repeating the words. The song in his head stopped. His pace followed the rhythm of his muttering. "Better Jacob than her. Better me than her."

*"One more, one more.
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee
And love thee after. One more, and that's the last.
So sweet was never so fatal. I must weep,
But they are cruel tears. This sorrow's heavenly,
It strikes where it doth love."
Othello, Act 5, scene 2 *