Thank you all for the enthusiastic reviews! I am so happy to get them!

And now, for the resolved cliffhanger:

It smelled like blood, and the sickly-sweet odor was so strong that I could taste it.

Something was caked on my cheek, something sticky and clotted; probably dried blood from my gash. My mouth was dry; my eyes seemed to be glued shut. I could feel something cold around my right wrist, an icy bracelet; possibly steel.

I was leaning against the cool, smooth plaster of a wall.

I tried to swallow, but only coughed; my throat felt like sandpaper.

Someone spoke, above me. The words rang weirdly in the air. "I know you're awake, Katelienne. Open your eyes and look at me."

I opened my eyes.

I was sitting on the white tiles in the same corridor, my back against the wall. Most of the torches had gone out, leaving only a small circle of light of about two feet around me; the rest of the corridor was dark. The tiles next to me were stained with blood; one large red spot resembled a handprint.

Luke knelt in front of me, his blue eyes moving back and forth across my face.

He opened his hand and held it, palm up, in front of me. "What is this, Katelienne?"

It was the vial of truth serum.

I stared at the tiny glass bottle in his pale hand. "I… I don't know." My voice was ragged, weak.

My cheek itched madly; I lifted my arm to touch it, but it would not obey me; the icy bracelet on my arm held it still. Something clinked: a length of chain. I turned my head stiffly, to look down.

Luke followed my gaze.

"I thought it better to chain you down than to let you run away, Katelienne. You're a feisty one."

He laid undue emphasis on "feisty," drawing the word out until it became obscene.

There was a loop of metal set into the wall. Luke had cuffed me to it with a length of chain, wrapping the links tightly around my wrist. I reached over with my left hand, involuntarily seeking to free myself, and Luke leaned a little closer, catching my wrist in a sweaty, tight grasp, and twisted. He was smiling, as though he didn't realize he was causing me pain. His eyes stared, unblinkingly, into mine.

I pulled my hand away, the adrenaline thrumming in my ears again as my body began to throw off the sedative's effects, and Luke let me go.

He sat back on his heels and twisted the cork out of the vial.

"Since you don't know what this is, Katelienne," he said, bending towards me again, "perhaps I should give it to you and find out."

The hilt of his stolen knife was almost within my reach – if he bent a little nearer I could snatch it from his belt.

But he rose to his feet, and the knife rose with him. He stood looking down at me. "On second thought…"

He drew the knife from his belt, its point dangling dangerously close to my cheek, and whipped it backwards over his shoulder. It thumped into the wall and hung there, trembling.

Luke crouched down again and reached for a loop of rope from the floor, setting the glass vial carefully against the opposite wall, where I could not reach it.

"Now, if you'll just hold still," he cautioned, "this won't take long," and he bent to knot the rope around my ankles.

I fought back, kicking at his lowered head and reaching hands and midsection, but eventually he wound my legs with rope and tied my free arm to my side, and picked up the vial.

He reached forward and took hold of my chin and upper jaw, to pull my mouth open – I bit down on his thumb, savagely, worrying it like an animal. He slapped me, hard, so that my ears rang, and pulled his hand away from my teeth.

His eyes were wild; furious.

I spat out his blood, spraying it haphazardly across the white tiles into the darkness, and glared back at him, unable to form words.

His shoulders heaved as he took a long, slow breath; his expression became remote, thoughtful, and he smiled again.

"Let's try that again, shall we?" he asked, and turned to pull the knife from the wall. He tapped the flat of the blade against his fingers and stared down at me.

Then he knelt on the tiles, ignoring the blood, and held the knife in front of my face.

"You will drink what's in that vial," he said, his voice calm, controlled, sane, "or I will cut off one of those lovely, womanly fingers."

I opened my mouth.

Luke put the knife down, lifted the vial, and tipped the serum down my throat.

"Now," he said, dropping the vial to shatter on the tiles (the glass leapt past me, one piece nicking my arm as it flew into the air), "from what I remember – albeit dimly – that potion you just drank causes one to tell the truth."

The serum had burnt like fire when it hit the lacerated tissue of my throat – I could only cough, and gasp for air in reply.

Luke waited until I finished hacking my lungs out before he spoke again.

"So now you are going to tell me what you are doing here. The real reason, if you please."

Claire. The word bubbled up into my mouth, threatening to spill between my lips, but I held it in.

"Very well," Luke said, after a moment. "I'll ask you again. Why are you here?"

The air was thickening like fog; his words echoed in my head, and I wondered, faintly, why I shouldn't simply tell him the truth.

Claire's face burst into my mind, floating before me. Ghostly, but there. A warning.

I blinked. "No."

Luke came slowly back into focus.

He was frowning, his light eyebrows nearly forming a V over his aquiline nose. "Are you actually attempting to fight the drug, Katelienne? I asked you why you came to the opera. Answer the question."

"No," I said, determined to hold onto the word. "I won't… I won't tell you."

"I'll rephrase, then. Why are you really here?"

I said nothing.

Luke rose to his feet, paced a few feet into the darkness, returned.

"We should have started smaller, as the Phantom did when he questioned me. Clever man. So I'll ask you this simple question instead. A child could answer it. What is your name?"

There was only the sound of the torch burning over my head, a soft crackling. I could see the air dimming again.

"Tell me your name."

The fog gathered around me, pulling me into its cold arms.

"Tell me your name."

"I… I won't."

The fog rippled, melted away, vanished completely.

Luke had slapped me; I could feel the blow imprinted in my face, a throbbing handprint.

I watched dazedly as he reached for the knife, slid it between his fingers, breathed on the shining metal.

He lifted it and set the blade next to my left shoulder – my dress had torn during the previous struggle, and now the sleeve hung half off, baring the skin of my upper arm.

"Tell me your name."

"You... can rot... in hell," I whispered.

Luke sliced down. There was a searing line of pain, a long stripe of agony; a terrible burning in the flesh of my shoulder.

I closed my eyes.

"Your name, Katelienne, or I'll cut you again. Perhaps I'll write something."

The blood was running down my shoulder, spattering onto my hand, the quick droplets soaking the ripped sleeve of my gown.

But I said nothing.

I felt the air move as the knife came down again, but it never reached me. Someone cried out in a strangled high-pitched whimper, and something clattered metallically to the tiles.

I kept my eyes shut tightly: I didn't want to know what was going on; I wanted to melt through the ground and disappear. I knew Luke was only messing with me. I could feel the cut burning on my shoulder.

I was so far gone that when the second voice spoke, I wasn't sure if I had heard it before.

"Katelienne? Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes? Please, Katelienne."

Someone was prying at the chains around my wrist, tugging at the links. My hand fell away from the wall.

Slowly, cautiously, I opened my eyes, pulling my freed hand to my chest.

Dark hair, light green eyes, warm tanned skin, white mask...

"Phantom."

He touched the dried mass on my cheek. "You're hurt."

"I am," I said, feeling the serum's effects washing over me again, and this time I was unable to refuse its pull.

"What did he do to you? Your eyes – they're dilated."

"Truth serum," I said, the words falling over themselves, spilling out so fast that I began to mumble, "and he hit me. And cut my arm. And he gave me a sedative. Your sedative."

He didn't speak for a moment; I couldn't see his face.

"You don't have to answer my questions," he said at last. He was cutting through the ropes around my legs. "Sit still while I do this."

I closed my eyes again. The fog was making me dizzy. "Luke."

"Unconscious. Actually, it's more likely that he's half-dead. He won't be getting up for a long time."

The rope slid away from my ankles; the Phantom started on my arm.

"I don't feel… well."

"Take deep breaths."

I tried. The fog rose again, faded, resolved itself once more, dissolved again.

Slowly, my lips formed words. "The audience?"

"Was terrified." He finished cutting the rope away and helped me to my feet. "I threw food at them. Lots of it."

"Oh."

"No, don't try to walk by yourself. Lean on me."

I breathed in sharply, wincing as I took my first, painful steps. "What about... Luke?"

"Tied up. He's hanging from the ceiling. See?"

My eyes slowly followed his finger: Luke was bound and upside down, his head several feet above the tiles, swinging gently back and forth in the air.

His eyes were shut; there was a nasty gash across his forehead, dripping into a red puddle on the tiles.

I said, dully, turning my head away, "I want to go home."

The Phantom put his arm carefully around my waist, supporting my weight. "I'll take you to your room."