Author's Note: Wow, graduate school is BUSY! Who knew? Next chapter may be the last! :O I have a really great way to wrap things up I think you'll all love.
Shouting from downstairs woke Cecile just as the sun rose over the country cottage she called home. Stumbling from bed, she pulled on a robe and moved from the room to find her daughter peering nervously over the railing downstairs.
"Mama, who are those men?"
"I don't know, Cheri. Go back to your room."
The sound of shattered glass made Cecile quicken her pace down the stairs as she rounded a corner into the sitting room and the source of all the noise. "What in God's name is going on here, who are you?"
Two men arguing with Nadir froze at the sight of a woman. They were dressed like gentlemen, with fine clothes and postures to match. "I might ask the same of you," the shorter of the two men commented, clearly not having expected the sight before his eyes.
"I am the lady of the house, and you are trespassing on my property," Cecile snapped, surprised at her own tone. "What is the reason for all this?"
"The lady of the house?" The shorter man repeated, flabbergasted. "Monsieur Richard, we must have the wrong house."
"These are the managers of L'Opera Garnier in Paris, Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin," Nadir explained, gesturing at the men in turn.
Cecile frowned, glancing around the room at the other men in police uniform. "And their associates?"
The taller man recovered his words first. "They are officers of the Police de Paris. We've come to collect on a debt owed by the master of this house."
"His life was payment enough," snapped the Persian.
The man called Richard was up in arms in a moment. "Twenty thousand francs a month we paid that lunatic from the day we set foot in the Garnier, and you think his life was some sort of payment? Ha!"
In two long strides Cecile was face to face with the man and struck his face so hard her hand stung. "You are the lunatic, Monsieur," she seethed. "A human life has no monetary value, least of all my husband's."
"Why you little-" the shorter man growled before his companion stepped between them
"I'm sorry, husband? The Opera Ghost was your husband?"
"He still is," Cecile defended, her head held high.
"She's as crazy as he was!" Moncharmin guffawed. "The Ghost has been dead for a year! We saw the execution ourselves."
"My husband is not dead," the woman insisted. "The man you saw executed was a fake."
The officers in uniform began to shift uncomfortably even as Richard suppressed a laugh. "Madame, I am sorry for your situation. Truly, I am. But this is rather pathetic, don't you think? Your story is so fantastic no one would believe it that first of all you are married to the Phantom of the Opera, and secondly that any man, even that monster is capable of escaping a Guillotine!"
"Perhaps not a monster, Monsieur Richard."
The Voice boomed into the room so strongly the artwork in the room shook. "Mama, Mama!" Bichette's excited voice called as she ran into the room. "Did you hear? The Angel is back!"
"Dear God, not this Angel nonsense again," Moncharmin exclaimed.
He was quickly answered by The Voice. "What is an Angel but a Ghost working in God's name?" He reasoned.
Cecile caught on quickly. "I tried to tell you; I know my husband wasn't killed because he cannot be killed."
"Search the house," one of the men in uniform ordered to the others. "I want this man found!"
The laughter began quietly, almost innocently. As the sound grew, the menace behind the voice began to unfold. The laughter grew and grew until it became so loud Cecile crouched to cover her daughter's ears, grimacing through the noise herself.
"Search all you wish," the voice dismissed confidently. "You will not find what you are looking for, because it does not exist. But be warned – should you attempt to remove anything from the home, should you even consider it, a curse will fall on you and yours that cannot be broken."
This threat did not need to be elaborated on. The men who had once been so eager to search the house were now finding every excuse to leave the house and the spirit inhabiting it far behind.
The man called Moncharmin was furious. "Where are you all going? This is all just trickery! Are you really going to let the bastard make a fool of you all like this?"
Soon he and Richard were the only foreigners remaining in the room. Richard rubbed his face to relieve his anxiety, but Moncharmin was only infuriated more. "You!" He exclaimed, stalking towards the Persian. "This is all you! You were always lurking around the Opera whenever the Ghost was causing trouble, and now –"
Nadir only laughed at the idea while Cecile spoke. "Really Messieurs, this has gone far enough. I think we can all see a mistake has been made here."
"As diplomatic as ever, My Love," the voice rang. "Allow me to translate, Messieurs: Get out of our house."
The managers of the Opera Garnier glanced at eachother, and after an unspoken agreement made their way to the door. Little Bichette immediately turned to tug at her mother's skirts. "Mama, if the Angel is back will Papa be home soon?"
Suddenly Cecile's heart was racing in her chest. She separated from her daughter and moved to the front window to look outside. "I think Papa may already be home, Cherie," she remarked, glancing around for any sign of the Opera managers lurking outside. There were no carriages…
"Erik?" She called into the house, striding around the room to search for him. "Erik they're gone, please come out!"
When there was no response, Nadir quickly joined the search. "He could have moved when they left. I'll check upstairs."
"Erik?" Cecile called again, expanding her search. "You don't have to hide, there's nobody here. Erik?"
A tap on the glass caused her heart to leap in her chest, and Cecile raced to closest window to pull back the shade and glance outside. There was Erik, sitting on the ground in tattered clothing without a mask, his rotten face caked with blood and dirt. He looked every inch a corpse rotting against the brick of the house.
"Oh my God, Erik! Nadir he's outside!"
Running to the nearest door, Cecile rushed to the side of the house to her husband's side. He was conscious but weak when she cupped his face in her hands. Erik covered her hand with his and leaned into her touch.
"Were they the first ones here?"
"Yes, yes we've been fine Erik. People have left us alone," Cecile reassured. "Can you stand?"
With considerable effort Erik pulled himself to his feet, falling back against the side of the house for a moment before Cecile could steady him with a deep frown. Nadir came around the side of the house and quickly helped Cecile steady his old friend and guide him inside the warmth of the house.
Cecile left the men alone to draw a bath. Erik all but collapsed into a large chair with a pained groan. "I'm finally starting to feel my age, Daroga," he admitted as the Persian put a kettle of water over the fire.
"You were decapitated in front of my eyes and that's all you have to say?" Nadir demanded, incredulous. "What poor bastard died for you this time?"
"He was due to be executed after me. He died in his cell the morning we were to be executed. I ruined his face, threw my voice to him when they came. They think he's the one missing."
Nadir shook his head. "I should never had doubted your ability to survive, Magician. You're favoring your leg," he added, nodding to Erik's outstretched right leg.
"Paris is full of sadists," Erik explained darkly. "One of the guards had at me when I first arrived. He broke a rib and dislocated my knee. I set it as best I could but I doubt it will ever improve. Please don't tell Cece."
"No, of course not. There's no sense in her worrying now that it's over."
"The bath is ready," Cecile announced as she walked into the room to help Erik to his feet. When Nadir attempted to assist them, Erik waved him off.
"I'm feeling stronger with a little rest, Daroga. Could you do me a larger favor and see that Bichette stays away for a bit? I'm more frightening now than ever, I fear."
The Persian agreed, leaving Cecile and Erik to brave the staircase and the walk to the master bathroom in silence. When the door was soundly locked behind them Erik stripped down and eased into the hot water with a sigh. Cecile pulled a stool beside the bath and dipped a rag in the hot water when Erik spoke.
"You're not going to join me?"
"I can do a better job cleaning from out here," she explained, focusing on her hands as they worked away at the grime.
Erik frowned some. "You're upset with me."
Cecile shook her head but continued to work. Her husband remained unconvinced. "You've hardly said a word to me, you won't look me in the eyes – you're upset."
When Cecile lifted her blue eyes to meet Erik's, they were filled with tears. "I'm not upset with you. I knew you weren't dead, and I knew you would do anything it took to come home. I'm upset with them! Whoever did this to you, the people who kept you from me for so long and forced you to return to me in shambles!"
A deeper frown crossed Erik's ruined face as he sat to cup her cheeks and kiss her soundly. Dear God, had her mouth always tasted so wonderful? Her breath was sweet but her lips salty from tears, and as soft as the day she was born. How could she kiss him so agreeably in his state let alone slip into the water with abandon, ruining her dress in the filth of the water just so she could wrap herself around him and engulf him completely?
For decades, Erik had been a nomad. He would never stay in one place longer than he was welcome, always fleeing when his life was at risk. More than once he had fled imminent death at the hands of an executioner, but never had his drive been so strong not to roam until the next opportunity presented itself. Upon his escape, Erik's destination was clear; home. Home to this beautiful woman with an equally beautiful heart.
They made love there in the bath, Cecile too relieved to even try and remove her sopping dress although her flesh so craved his. Erik tangled his leg with hers as her head found that familiar place in the crook of his arm. "I was so worried," she whispered after a long and comfortable silence. "I tried not to be, but I was. The longer you were gone the more I began to doubt and think that maybe Nadir was right and you had been…"
Erik kissed her gently. "You don't have to worry anymore," he promised. "I don't plan to ever put myself in such a position again. Your ancient artifact of a husband can't handle such misadventures anymore."
Cecile chuckled some. "My ancient artifact of a husband can still handle me, so there's a comfort," she teased, earning a light laugh from her husband. "Is Father Time starting to catch up with you?"
"Unfortunately," Erik admitted. "He had to eventually – I was hard on my body my entire youth, I'm a little surprised this hasn't happened sooner."
"Well, there are things we can do still to keep him at bay. A thorough cleaning to start. I love you dearly, but you smell like a barn," she announced with a grin. "Let me get behind you and start on your hair."
It took two full, hot baths and half a pound of lye for Cecile to be completely satisfied with her husband's hygiene. Erik sat patiently while she cut his hair and pinned his slacks to take them in from the weight he'd lost traveling home. Although he could tell she was upset by his appearance, he knew it was only out of love. How life had changed! Even two years ago the look of shock and horror on her face at the sight of him would have immediately blinded Erik to the concern etched in her brows and the grace in her heart.
Erik was pulled from his thoughts by a graceful white cat leaping into his lap for attention. Bichette's little kitten had lost her youthful features in his absence, he noted with a small frown. Was he really gone so long? The days had blurred together...
Suddenly the sound of little footsteps ran towards the door, but before Cecile could race to intercept her daughter Bichette was peering into the room. "Mama, have you seen my kitten? I think she came in here –" The girl trailed off when the white kitten moved off Erik's lap and towards the sound of her voice. For the first time she spotted Erik in the shadows, seated in a chair facing the bed where Cecile had been working on his slacks and thankfully turned away from the door. "Papa? Papa is that you?"
"Yes, Bichette," Erik answered, the tension crawling into his voice in spite of all efforts.
The girl frowned and glanced between her mother and father. "Did I do something bad?"
Cecile quickly answered, moving towards the girl to soothe her. "Of course not, Cherie. What makes you think that?"
"Papa was gone for a long time," she admitted quietly, glancing over to him again. Cecile knew what she meant; she had expected Erik's return to be a celebration followed by a return to normalcy. Between Cecile's concerned look and the way Erik had been keeping out of sight, something was amiss.
To Cecile's surprise, Erik spoke. "Come here, Bichette."
"Erik –" Cecile started, warningly. But her husband had spoken in that beautiful, alluring way of his leaving Bichette no choice but to obey. She moved forward, stopped by Erik's outstretched hand before she could face him.
"You know that I am the same man now as the one you knew before I left?"
Bichette nodded. "Yes, Papa."
Slowly, Erik let down his hand to allow Bichette to pass by and turn to face him. Immediately she gasped in shock, her doe-like eyes wide with horror. Fearing the worst, Cecile was just about to intervene when Bichette flung herself into Erik's laps and buried her face in his chest to cry.