Thank you all for the response to the prologue! Your comments kept me going on this. I can't wait to peel back the layers of this story and show you what I have in store for you.

Chapter 1: Pace

Despite the chilliness of this particular evening, Parisians flooded the streets post dinner time. Christine gave each gentleman and lady a smile, hoping her friendliness combined with her father's beautiful music would loosen their purses. Patrons in this part of the city were not as quick with their coin as they had been closer to the entertainment district, even though they had more of it to give away.

She missed the livelier places they had once inhabited, when couples would toss a coin and then dance along to one of Papa's waltzes. There, people broke their bread and drank their wine right there on the sidewalk, and it was easy to glean a meal or two while performing.

She knew why they had moved again, of course. Traveling musicians could quickly wear out their welcome if they overplayed in the same location. The newer they were to the neighborhood, the more Papa could dazzle fresh ears with his violin.

At least this arrondissement was beautiful to look upon. Its towering buildings with intricate stone details and colorful shutters put the tenements of their own neighborhood to shame. She enjoyed watching the gentleman with their smooth top hats and the ladies with their fur shawls crossing the park's grounds. She did her best to ignore the whispers behind gloved hands about her faded dress and messy updo.

The lit street lamps cast long shadows upon the trees. The crowd was beginning to thin as the last bit of light faded. Christine did her best to keep the mood lively.

And then she saw him, again – the man who seemed built of the shadows themselves.

His dark silhouette tucked neatly behind one of the trees at the far end of the park. Indeed, she might not have noticed him there… except for the fact that he had been in that same spot every evening for the past two weeks. He was dressed all in black, and his face seemed covered by something far too white to be his own skin, unless it was a trick of the shadows. One of his hands, encased in a white opera glove, gripped the rough edges of the tree.

The man did nothing more than stand there and watch Papa play his last round of songs, just as he had every other night. Although she did her best to ignore him, she could feel his eyes upon her, eyes that seemed like two pinpricks of lamplight. She knew she should not let him bother her; he had not done anything suspicious. They were street performers, after all.

Christine shifted her focus to collecting Papa's hat and dividing the coins between her pockets and his. They had learned long ago to keep their earnings in different places; if a pickpocket targeted them, at least they wouldn't lose everything from the day.

Papa smiled at her as he finished his final song of the evening. Then he tucked his violin into its case and stretched, popping joints that had been held in one position for hours.

"How much did we make, Lotte?" he asked.

"Not as much as yesterday, but I think we will be able to pay the landlord on time."

"Good, good." He picked up the case, placed the hat back atop his curly blonde hair, and held out his elbow. "Shall we head home and eat the rest of that stew?"

"Yes, Papa." As she took his arm, she glanced over her shoulder. The man still stood behind the tree. While other patrons had moved on when it was obvious that they were done playing, he seemed to have little other purpose than this continuous, habitual observation.

She lowered her voice. "Papa, that man is back again."

Charles did not look. "Leave him be," he said, which was the same thing he had said yesterday. "He must enjoy the music to come every night, and he is not doing any harm by being there."

Christine did not argue. She had already tried. The man sent a shiver up her spine, but Papa could not understand why. Of course they wanted the attention of people on the streets – that was the whole purpose of being here. However, this man stood out to her in a way that seemed not entirely innocent.

She risked one more look as they left the park, but this time, the man was not there.

They made their way quickly across the Seine and to their own neighborhood, the walk taking about half an hour. They shared a two-room room section of the top floor of a tenement. Papa had his own bedroom, which was large enough for his straw-stuffed bed, and Christine slept in an area off the kitchen, not a negative during the colder winter months.

It was not a long walk, but by the time they had reached the front door to the stairwell, Charles's cheeks had paled, his breathing coming out in raspy gasps.

Christine took the violin case from him and looped her other arm under his shoulders. She did not want to risk him falling again in a sudden burst of fatigue. She could feel the thinness of him even through his coat; he had once been such a broad-shouldered man with a strong, bearded jaw that she loved to tickle as a child. Over the past year, this sickness had drained him in more ways than one.

They staggered up the many flights until they reached their own small wooden door. Christine fetched the key from Papa's pocket and opened it for them both. Wearily, he managed his way to the armchair before the coughing started.

"I'll make tea," she said, as she always did. Her movements were swift and accustomed; after their excursions outside, Papa always needed warmth to cool the tickle in his throat and ease the rasping in his lungs. The mint soothed like nothing else had.

She busied herself about the kitchen, going ahead and stirring the stove awake so she could heat up their leftover stew. By the time the tea kettle whistled, her father was in full-blown attack, his face bright red from the strain of coughing. She gave him a portion of hot water to sip on while the tea steeped, and stroked his back.

Once they both had a cup of tea, and he could breathe again at last, she steeled herself for the usual argument.

"Papa, if you would let me –"

He cut her off, undoubtedly already knowing what she was going to say. "Don't start this up again, Lotte."

"Please, Papa. I don't want to argue with you, but something needs to change. I am already coming with you, so I might as well join you in performing."

He took a long drought of tea to soothe a sudden fit of coughing. "Out of the question," he said gruffly once he had regained control. "And you only come with me because I need an extra pair of eyes on our coin."

"I can do more than stand there! If you would let me sing, we might be able to make more money."

"What more do I need to say?" His eyes, watery from so much coughing, were hard. "The cold air would destroy your voice, destroy your lungs. I could not see you also catch whatever plagues me."

Christine rested her teacup on her knees and tried to keep her voice calm. "What about when spring comes? Already, the sun is warmer, the days longer. I could sing then."

He shook his head. "I should have better work by then."

"Papa," she said, frowning, "that is what you said last spring."

"And I have had this infection since last spring!" He banged his teacup down upon the small end table, sending dark liquid sloshing over his fingers.

She winced, closing her eyes as though not being able to see his angry face would shield her from the noise. His sudden shout brought on another bout of coughing. He got up and went to the washbasin; sometimes the cool water upon his face and throat helped.

Through her unshed tears, she did not see him move back over to where she sat, but she heard his heavy trod and she felt the heaviness of his hand upon her head.

"Forgive me, Lotte," he said thickly. "Whatever ails my lungs… it is worsening. I fear you might catch the same if you strain yourself. I feel ashamed enough that you are out there with me at all, much less that you join me in whoring yourself to the crowds. If I could see any better way, then I would say so."

She stood, glaring at him through her tears. "All of these what-ifs… what if I catch your infection? But I haven't, have I? What if you manage to find better employment? But every time you try, you are turned away because of your cough. What if this, what if that? I can't continue to live within the cage of all these what-ifs, Papa!"

The look he gave her sent shame rising within her, but she had followed him in silence for too long.

"I know you want to protect me," she continued, "but I am not a little girl anymore."

His voice was strained when he replied: "Perhaps that is why I want to protect you."

Christine could not stand the sadness in his eyes and went over to the stove to heat up the stew. Over the past few years, something had changed. Partly, his illness was to blame for the tension between them. Partly, however, was exactly what she had said: she was not a little girl anymore. How much longer could she simply follow her father about the country, watching as he played the violin for scraps?

She had no answer to that question.

Erik rested against the rough bark of the tree for as long as he dared. His hat was knocked askew as he leaned his head back, staring through the bare tree branches at the ebony-blue of the sky. The first stars were winking into existence.

He had seen her again.

It had taken too much energy to maintain his glamor while the young woman kept so much of her focus upon him. She had noticed him far more than anyone else, her curiosity a cloying drain that he could not seem to shake. Why was she so unlike the others? He knew why he was drawn to her – with her hair the color of sunlight and her eyes the color of the sky, she reminded him of everything he had lost and yearned for. In her, he might find himself again.

When she and her father began to make their way home, he took a deep, steadying breath and left. He did not follow them to the apartment this time; having done so often already, he felt confident they did not intend to leave soon. Besides, her attention had lingered upon him more than usual this evening, and the strain was getting to him.

He made his way in the shadows until he was able to sag against the inner wall of the courtyard of his own home with relief. There was a certain ease that came with being within his own space, even if it was merely the expanse of cobblestone courtyard. Here, he was shielded on all sides from prying eyes. Here, he could be a little freer. He immediately let down his glamour, the weight lifting from his shoulders.

For two weeks, he had watched the woman from across the plaza. Her hair glinted gold, catching any bit of light. She seemed to smile easily at anything that caught her notice, and to any random passersby, undoubtedly, she seemed a happy young woman who accompanied her father as he played his violin. However, Erik had come to notice the tired, stretched skin around her blue eyes, the quick way the smile vanished when she thought no one noticed.

There was something hovering about this woman… something he saw inside himself.

"Christine."

Alone, he spoke her name aloud, let the crisp blend of consonants merge into the silky hiss, ending with a soft vowel that caused him to shudder with possibilities he long thought dormant.

He should stop going to see her; he knew he should stop. This woman had her own life, and he had his, whatever mess of undying years it might be. He knew the longer he lingered in one place, the more likely he would be noticed. And once he was noticed… well, that was how he had ended up in Paris long ago, was it not?

His chest ached. He rubbed at his breastbone with the pads of spindly fingers, which trembled when he then held them up to his face. Clenching a fist, he swept his way into the nearest door to his home, shouldering open the red wooden surface. His boots grittily clicked across the polished white stone flooring with his long strides as he made his way down the hallway.

"Darius!" he boomed.

The Persian man appeared at once. Cool, perceptive eyes swept over his thin frame. "Yes, maestro?"

Erik handed over his cloak and hat and began tugging off his gloves. "I need something to eat."

Darius raised an eyebrow. "To eat, maestro? Again?"

"Yes, again," Erik snapped. He could feel the shaking beginning to spread from his hands. He knew what would follow – weakness, dimmed vision, and eventually, unconsciousness. He did not want a repeat of last time, having to wake to a wrist of a stranger being shoved between his lips.

While Darius headed toward the kitchens, Erik marched to the dining hall. Few lamps had been lit, but neither of them needed much light to make their way around the estate. A small fire blazed in the hearth with just enough warmth to keep the place from freezing. The hôtel particulier was far too large for the two of them, but as one of the few free-standing buildings in Paris, it kept neighbors from intrusiveness.

Erik eased his aching body into the large armchair at the end of the table. The single place setting stared up at him mockingly; Darius never ate as he did. His home loomed large and empty around him. He stretched out his long legs and rested his wrists upon the table. He could not muster the energy to sift through the correspondence laid out for him, but he knew what it mostly was – more requests for gatherings he would never attend and editing notes from the latest production at the Palais Garnier, which he would see to at his own pace.

Darius returned, carrying a plate. "How much longer will you do this to yourself?" he asked, setting the plate in front of Erik.

Did it matter? Erik did not bother with a reply. Darius knew full well his history, knew far too much about everything.

He let his eyes slide to the plate before him. During moments like these, he was glad of his lack of nose, which dimmed his sense of smell. The slice of raw beef stank of dead animal. Even though the piece of meat was as fresh as possible, it was no suitable substitute for warm, living blood. His felt his fangs distend with hopeful throbbing, two sharp points on either side of his mouth, but they would serve no purpose here.

His fingers trembled as he picked up the knife and fork. He heard Darius swallow from somewhere behind him, and he ignored him, slicing into fat and sinew to carve off a bite. Then he forced the hunk of beef between his thin lips, nearly gagging as the concealed gore hit his tongue. Behind him, Darius retched.

Erik drove another bite down his throat. He needed what little energy this meat gave him. Whatever he could glean from this dead plasma might carry him through another day, another week. But when Darius stepped back and retched again, holding his sleeve to his nose, he could no longer stomach the putrid meat, his insides roiling in protest.

He tossed his knife and fork onto the table and shoved the plate away, sending it flying across the table. "Damn this existence! And damn every moment I choke down another bite. I cannot tolerate this meat any longer! I should sooner throw myself into the sunlight." He knew his yellow eyes were wide behind his mask, the panic of a half-starved creature. "Something – there must be something."

Darius came back to his side. "Maestro, I went to Lucas while you were away…"

"No." Erik drew back his head to stare at him. With Darius's shorter stature, they were of a height while he was sitting. Often, a mere glare could get the Iranian to back down, but putting enough heat into his eyes was difficult when he could feel himself losing control. He continued, "Every time you offer, my answer is the same – no."

Darius spread his hands, pleading. "If I but asked, he would come to you as he comes to me; you know this is true. He would do it if I asked. I've told him how I owe you my life."

He was hardly alive, was he? Erik held his tongue. Such petty words had already been said before. Darius had found a rare and lucky asset with Lucas. The young man was more than just a regular blood-meal to Darius, and Erik had felt more than one twinge of jealousy.

Darius said, "If you will not accept what he offers, then at least accept this." He thrust a vial onto the table, the green-tinted glass concealing what was within.

"Have you gone mad?"

"No, maestro, but I have become desperate to see you in better health. Were my master here…" He paused at this, then shook his head and gestured at the vial. "It is only a few swallows, and I mixed it with wine to slow the clotting." His lip curled, revealing a slight bit of fang. "It is a concoction that will likely taste as horrible as that flesh you gag upon, but there should be some strength in it, at least. Drink it. Please, maestro."

Chest heaving, Erik took up the small bottle and, before he could think too much upon his actions, uncorked it. Somewhat fresh blood hit his senses – not so much the scent of it as the otherworldly sense of what he truly held. Protected as it had been in Darius's pocket, it was still warm. Stolidly, he upturned the bottle and drank, finishing the small amount in two quick gulps. The wine had soured it, but Darius had been wrong: it was nowhere near as horrible as the beef had been.

At once, the trembling in his limbs ceased, and the ringing in his head cleared. As the blood hit his stomach, he felt life stir back into his thin body. Lucas's lifeblood that he had freely given, what little there had been, now flowed through Erik's veins. Erik both hated and relished the sensation, knowing it would not last long.

He also hated the relief upon Darius's face.

The chair scraped across the stone floor as he stood. His vision had recovered so much that he could see every individual speck of dust gathered on the curtains. …He might actually be able to focus upon his music enough to write tonight.

"Will that be all, maestro?"

"It will," he replied.

The two men began to part ways. Erik stepped to the far doorway, heading to the winding staircase that led underground. Then he paused, swinging back around. The fresh blood had brought a new energy within him, and this clarity had helped everything snap into focus within his mind.

It was time to pursue this new avenue he had already decided upon.

"Hold a moment," he said. "I do have a new task for you."

Darius halted midway through cleaning up the uneaten meal. "If you will continue to accept Lucas's blood, I will do almost anything."

The words were meant flippantly, but Darius should have known better than to relax about the topic of feeding around him.

Emboldened by that very blood, Erik bared his fangs. "Now is the time to hold yourself in check, young one. Many years have passed since I had the pleasure of a real fight."

Darius's dark eyes flashed. Despite their charade, their decades-long song and dance, Darius was no true servant. However, he had made a promise long ago, and Erik expected him to continue to fulfill it.

"As I said, I have a new task for you," he continued, allowing his lip to drift down, easing his hostility. "It will involve prolonged contact with humans, and as you have become so adept at blending within their numbers, your assistance is required. I need paperwork collected, among them a new certificate of birth drawn up for myself that fits within this century."

"A certificate of birth? Whatever for?"

"I wish to marry."

He waited for the fall-out, the confusion that quickly melted into disbelief. A myriad of expressions skittered across Darius's face before he settled upon horror.

"You can't be serious!" Darius swayed and gripped the back of a dining chair. "I expected many things, maestro, but not this."

"I have already decided. Once we have the necessary bookkeeping, you may contact the woman's father and make the arrangements."

Darius's eyes blew wide. "You are serious about this! How… how can you possibly believe this reasonable, maestro? Never mind the logistics of it, the forgeries, the humans you yourself will have to meet in order to sign the papers. What about the woman herself? Will you tell her?"

"Of course not."

Darius shook his head. "Will you put her up somewhere? Expect to visit her from time to time? Enough contact with you, and she will figure out your dark secret. When you don't age, what will she think? When you don't eat!" He practically spat his next words: "What happens when she realizes that you can't give her chil – "

Erik was upon him at once, fisting the shorter man's lapels and shoving him against the wall. Lucas's blood had given him more than just clarity of sight. Even though Darius was better fed, Erik could easily rip him apart.

"You forget your place, Darius," he hissed. "No matter how long we have traveled together, no matter how long he has been gone, you are not Daroga."

Erik did not enjoy the hurt he saw flash across Darius's face, but he was not in the mood to placate. He released Darius's coat and spun on his heel, not worried about retaliation. As he left the dining hall, he spoke over his shoulder.

"Make the arrangements at once. And send my thanks to Lucas for the meal."