A gentle knocking and the sound of a key turning in his door brought him instantly awake. It was Christine, she'd been out of town for a few days, meeting with her new American manager and making arrangements for a tour of the West Coast. She'd told Erik she'd be arriving very late and would sleep at her hotel suite that evening and come see him in the morning.
They'd talked together many times about her plans for the future of her career. She didn't want to stop singing and he didn't want her to. Unlike most of the men she'd met in her life, Erik wanted her to do whatever made her happy. He didn't want to nor did he expect she would let him make life choices for her.
After a few weeks of long walks and late-night talks, she made her decision. She would still take some work in Europe and Britain but decided to make San Francisco her home. Erik was here and she refused to uproot him. It was a simple decision.
Her eyes took in everything at a glance. The still-made bed, the violin and bow on the floor beside it, and Erik himself, swaying slightly as he stood. It was obvious to her that he'd spent the night on the floor and was awakened unexpectedly by her entrance. His hand automatically reaching for his hood until he realized it was she.
"I couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd come by early and surprise you." She dropped her coat and hat on the entry bench. "Why were you on the floor? Are you all right?"
"Yes." He stooped to pick up the violin and bow, then disappeared for a moment behind a door. When he returned, his hands were empty. "I was playing a bit and must have fallen asleep." He sighed heavily. "Time was I could play all night. I must be getting old."
She moved forward, pulling him into her arms and brushing a kiss against his cheek. Then she reached up and smoothed the thin strands of hair covering his scalp. She felt him flinch and then steady. He still wasn't used to being touched, but at least he didn't pull away from her or reach for his hood.
"We're all getting old," she said, slipping into a chair at the small dining table opposite the kitchen. "Come to think of it, how old are you?" She'd never thought to ask until now. She'd known him for so long. To her he'd always been ageless. She knew he was older than she. Older than Raoul, but the more she got to know him, the more their relationship deepened, the younger he seemed.
He hesitated, not really knowing how to answer her question truthfully. Finally, he gave up and told her what he told everyone who had the nerve to ask. "Forty-four." It was probably close to the truth. He didn't know for certain, he'd never know for certain, just as with his name. There was no record of his birth and his only parent hadn't ever bothered to tell him.
"Are you sure?"
He didn't quite know how to take the question. "Why? Do you doubt me?"
Shaking her head, Christine smiled. "No. It's just struck me how when we first met and you became my teacher, I thought of you as a father figure. Then later when you brought me to your home for the first time, I thought, no he's not that old at all, and now, the more I see you the less you seem to age.
"Or maybe it's that I've grown up, made the transition from girl to young woman to woman grown and I realize that age is meaningless when you love someone."
"Yes." His eyes glowed with warmth. "You certainly are a woman grown. A stunningly beautiful and talented woman." He bent over the chair back, holding her shoulders gently. His mouth traced the outline of her ear and travelled downward brushing light kisses down the column of her neck.
"Stop." She laughed, slipping out of the chair. "Are you trying to change the subject?"
"No. I'll talk about anything you want, just not with you sitting at that table." He raised his eyebrows tilting his head toward the bed.
"Erik. It's barely past seven o'clock in the morning. It's daylight."
"So it is." He looked at her seeing the golden eastern light haloing her hair. "You look stunning in the early morning light." He reached for the top buttons on her blouse. "You'll look even more so with the sunlight dancing unobstructed on your skin."
His words, his attitude, took her aback. It wasn't like him to be so forward. She stopped his hands with her own. "What's wrong?"
He took a step back, then reached for her again. "What do you mean? Nothing's wrong. It's Sunday morning and I'm not going in to the office. You're beautiful and I want to relish that beauty."
She laughed, twirling out from under his hands like the dancer she'd once been. Her eyes caught a sparkle reflecting from the drain board next to the sink. One swift step had the black mask in her hands. "Oh, what's this? It's beautiful."
"Put it down, Christine."
She froze instantly. She hadn't heard that coldness in his voice since they were in Paris.
"I'm sorry." He stepped to her side, skimming her hair with his hand. "I didn't mean to be so abrupt."
What just happened? He was rigid and locked down where a second before he'd been yielding and playful. She caught his wandering hand, pushing it down and holding it tightly against his side. "You're being evasive, changing the subject. Don't treat me like a child. Tell me what's wrong. What's happened?"
He pulled in a shaky breath, turning from her to cross the space and sit heavily on the sofa. "I had a bad night, that's all."
"You spent the night on the floor with your violin." Her heart started speeding up thinking about his actions. "You haven't touched that violin in years. Nasir told me the only time he'd heard you play since you left France was the night you learned about Lillian's death."
"Leave it alone, Christine." His voice was low, almost a growl. His fingers curled and uncurled with agitation. She still held the mask. He didn't want to tell her. He didn't want her to know he'd become a killer again. It would destroy everything and he couldn't bear that. She'd leave if she knew and that would kill him.
"No." She sat beside him, deliberately clasping his nearest hand to still the restless fingers. "I know you're hiding something. Does it have to do with this?" She held up the black mask, keeping it from his grasp. "Erik, there can't be any more deceptions between us. If you can't trust me with the truth how can we build a life together?"
He looked at her and felt the fear rising in his chest. If she knew, she would leave. If he didn't tell her, she would leave. If he lied, she would know and she would leave. This was it. He heard his own music roaring in his ears. This is the point of no return.
"All right, I'll tell you." He looked at her, hoping the love he saw shining in her eyes wouldn't dim and wink out when he was done. He took the ruby-studded black mask from her and set it down on the low table in front of them. "You've never seen that mask because before last night, the only place I'd worn it was in Persia."
"It's beautiful. Are those rubies?"
"Yes. There's one ruby for every person I killed."
Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened in disbelief. He couldn't have said that. She must have heard wrong.
"I killed three men last night, Christine." He pulled his hand from her grasp. He couldn't look at her, couldn't bear her touch. In his mind, he could still see the blood flowing over his hand, under his nails. He knew, no matter how hard he scrubbed, his hands would never be clean.
"Why?" She could barely get the word out. She knew he had a violent past. She'd seen two of his victims in Paris with her own eyes. But this mask with its ornate pattern of precious gemstones was almost beyond her comprehension.
"Why did I kill last night, or why did I kill," he gestured to the mask, "all of them?"
She looked into his eyes. Seeing once again the tortured soul from beneath the opera house. Slowly understanding the depth of his pain. "Tell me everything. I want to know it all."
All. She had no idea what she was asking. "The first person I ever killed was a man named Davos. He was my keeper when I first lived with the gypsies."
"The man who put you in that cage where you met Lillian."
Nodding, he saw the sympathy in her eyes and had to turn away. He knew she was thinking of him as a victim and he was—then. But later he was the aggressor and had victims of his own. "There were probably others as I traveled alone through Europe and Russia. I don't really remember. My only concern then was survival, mine above all others."
He looked at her, gathering his courage for the rest of the story. "When I got to Persia, I foolishly thought I'd finally found a home. I was accepted, mask and all."
"What did you do in Persia? I don't remember you ever speaking about it in Paris."
"When I first arrived, I was magician to the Shah. I'd been traveling with a gypsy troupe performing across Russia and Asia and he wanted me to perform for him. I didn't realize it wasn't only illusions he wanted." Erik started to pace, needing to move in order to keep talking.
"I'd always had an interest in architecture. I'd studied any books I could find, spent days walking around some of the greatest structures in the Eastern world and dissecting them in my mind, working out how they'd been built. From time to time, I'd find work as a builder. And always asking questions," he shook his head at the memories, "so many questions. I never seemed to learn enough.
"I used to sit and sketch fanciful buildings in my rooms at the palace and somehow they came to the attention of the Shah. He commissioned me to build him a palace at Mazenderan and use my illusionist's skills to create secret passages and hiding places."
"Is that where you first worked as an architect?"
"On my own, yes. But I worked as more than the Shah's architect." He looked away from her, no longer able to watch her eyes. Not wanting to see them change as he revealed the truth. "I also worked as his assassin."
"Did he force you or did you enjoy your work?" Her voice was level, showing no judgement at all. She might as well have asked him if he preferred tea or coffee on the breakfast table.
"You must understand, Christine. I was very young when Nasir found me and I went to Persia—barely twenty. It was the first time in my life that I felt I was valued for myself, for my skills. Even as a master magician, the Russian tribe still owned me. I wasn't kept in a cage, or forced to show my face, but they took everything I earned and doled out scraps in return. It wasn't until Nasir helped me to escape them and I went to Persia that I became my own man. At least that's what I thought I was.
"In the beginning, I served the Shah because he asked me to. It was that simple. No one ever asked me to do something—they just told me and expected me to obey or be punished. The Shah gave me everything, but most of all, he trusted me; he gave me dignity. For the first time in my life I wasn't a thing to be used and manipulated. He treated me as a man who had value. He asked me to help rid his land of enemies and I agreed."
"Did Nasir know?"
"Not at first. But when he learned that I was the Shah's terrible, secret assassin; when he saw firsthand what I could do, what I'd done, he called me a fiend." His voice dropped. "He was right.
"At that time, on those nights when I killed on command, I was a fiend."
She came to stand beside him, barely touching his shoulder. "And the mask?"
"I always wore black as an assassin. It helped me blend into the shadows. The Shah came up with the idea of the rubies. He said it was a secret way to reward me for my service apart from my work as his architect. So it began; every time I gave the mask to his servant to be cleaned, it was returned with a ruby added for every kill.
"At first, I wore it as a badge of pride. The Shah trusted in me to help keep his land and his people safe from their enemies. Only much later, after I completed my work on his palace, did I learn the truth."
"He was using you," she said evenly. "Using your talent and your genius to do his dirty work."
"Yes. In my arrogance, I believed every lie he told me. I was a soldier in a secret war, not a soulless mercenary like the others who did his terrible bidding." A harsh laugh erupted from Erik's throat. "I was an egotistical, stupid, naïve child. He manipulated me as easily as I manipulated the Punjab Lasso."
"When did you change?"
"When I found out he wanted me dead. I'd killed most of his rivals, helped secure his seat on his throne. I built him the most magnificent palace in all Arabia and in that palace I'd built secrets to help him gain even more power.
"What I didn't realize until it was almost too late, was that as far as he was concerned, my tasks were complete and he decided my usefulness was at an end."
"And you knew too much to live."
He nodded sharply. "And I knew too much to live."
"How did you get away?"
"Nasir." Erik allowed himself a small smile. "The chief of the Shah's police, the man who initially was sent to set the trap that would kill me, saved me instead. Improbable as it sounds, we had become friends during my time in Persia." He shook himself, feeling that he was drifting off the point. "But that's a story for another time."
"So you managed to escape from the Shah. Why did you take the mask?"
"Because I was wearing it at the time. The Shah sent me on what he promised would be my final mission." He grinned ruefully. "I just didn't know that I was the true target. I escaped with the clothes and weapons I wore and nothing else.
"I had a fortune in jewels hidden in my rooms at the palace but I never returned to get them. For all I know they're still there, stuffed inside one of the walls at Mazenderan."
"Nasir must have known that helping you would hurt him." Christine said. "Regardless of friendship, why would he do that?"
"We've never talked about it. But I think it's because he had no one left to care about. No one left to risk." He pulled in a deep breath. "I don't know, maybe he thought saving me would make up for everything he'd been forced to do by the Shah. I can certainly understand that."
"I don't." Christine thought about the gentle Persian two flights down from where they stood. "I can't imagine Nasir doing anything bad."
"Oh he did." Erik's voice was soft as he thought back to those times. "No one who worked under the Shah escaped unscathed. He made sure that even his most loyal retainers committed some atrocity that he could use to control them."
"That sounds barbaric."
"I suppose it was. But don't think the crowned heads of Europe are any better. They're all rotten in one way or another."
She heard the bitterness seeping from his tone and stayed silent. As a world-renown diva, she'd been exposed to many of the ruling class. But she'd only seen the glittering parts of their world. She knew now, more and more, that Erik's experiences were just the opposite. He'd spent most of his life in the underbelly of society, seeing the truth behind the façade.
Christine found she was exhausted just listening to his story. How much worse had it been for him to live it as a young man alone in the world? She didn't want to hear more but she knew the air had to be cleared between them. She had to know everything.
"I know about the two deaths at the opera. Were there others?"
"At the opera? No. But in the time between Persia and Paris, yes. I don't recall how many. Nasir and I did what we had to do to survive and make our way to France but I forced him to separate from me when we reached Paris. He had some money, and to be honest, we'd stolen more. I insisted that he set himself up in an apartment and make a life separate from me.
"He knew I'd planned to find a way to hide permanently. To build myself a home and a life removed from everyone. He just didn't know how. It was purely coincidence, or so he says, that brought him to the opera. But when he heard the stories about the opera ghost he knew there could only be one explanation."
"The opera house was immense." Christine thought back to the structure. "I lived there for a few years and I never saw all of it or knew what all it contained. How did he manage to find you?"
"The same way he found me before I came to Persia." Erik's grin was wry. "He used his experience and skill as a detective. He found men who had worked on the building. From them he heard the stories about the odd young man in the mask who became one of Garnier's trusted assistants. After that, it was easy.
"Nasir knew about my penchant for secret passages and trapdoors. It was only a matter of time before he found one and then I found him." He shrugged. "You know the rest."
"Yes." She hugged herself, turning away from him to look out the windows. She knew Erik had a past. She'd heard stories and seen some of it firsthand. But to see the ruby-studded mask. To hold the evidence of the lives he'd taken. To know about those men last night. She couldn't take it all in.
"Christine." His voice was soft, barely a whisper. "I'm sorry. I never wanted you to know what I was—who I'd been. Who I truly am.
"If you need time to think, you can have all the time you want. I'm not running away any more. Whatever decision you make. I will accept without argument."
Turning back she looked him. He hadn't replaced his mask. She could read everything in his heart in that ruin of a face. She'd reached her own point of no return. "I love you." She couldn't say anymore. All she could do was pull him into her arms and hold him until he was ready to stand on his own two feet again. She was strong enough to do that. I will love him enough for both of us, Lillian. I will. "I'm here Erik. And I will be here for you as long as I live."
He held her tightly, Lillian's last words for him echoing through his mind. Take the love she offers and return it with yours. I promise, you'll never regret it. He didn't need words; he had none. Christine knew what was in his heart. That was all that mattered now.