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Chapter 7: consummate

Beneath the main floor of his manor home, Erik paced.

At this moment, Christine was getting dressed, pulling upon layers of soft ivory silk, cladding her body in a wedding gown fit for the beautiful woman she was. Erik passed the time by imagining her going through these motions, Madame Giry at her side, but when his mind steered toward too much detail, he went to his piano and played furiously, trying to distract himself.

Then he paced more, his long legs crossing the ample space of his underground rooms. Some edge of his consciousness acknowledged when Darius walked down the spiral stairs and came to stand along the wall, the other vampyre now a meddlesome presence within his domain.

Vampyre. The word still made his empty stomach roil with distaste. Indeed, he remembered the feeling of vomiting, though the taste had faded from memory, when he had first learned of the blood-suckers, the flesh-eaters, the undead who feasted upon the living. In his memory, it had been Daroga who was standing there, Daroga who was the reason he had even gone to Mazandaran, Daroga who had tried to warn him and gotten his own family killed because of it.

Erik had not wanted to believe the truth of his companion then, and his denial had been his downfall. He still did not want to believe it of himself.

He heard Darius's words intruding along the edge of his thoughts: "You need to feed, maestro."

Erik had not yet had a vial this evening, had he? But before he could seek an answer, a quiet thumping caught his keen hearing. He stalked over to Darius and drew up short of being within arm's length. Under Erik's studied gaze, a deep red blossomed across Darius's cheeks, the hint of fresh blood under the surface. The reaction was… more than a normal feeding would have caused.

"You have bonded," Erik said.

Darius's dark eyes widened, the pupils large. "Not fully. One moment, I was sleeping at Lucas's side. The next, I awoke with this pain in my chest. I have tried to ignore it, but I seem to have no control."

"You would not."

"Do… do you know of bonding?"

His fangs had not extended, but Erik bared his teeth anyway, a warning not to further broach the topic. "I cannot mentor you in this, youngling. I am not your master. I am not your sire. If Daroga ever decides to grace us with his presence once more, perhaps he can offer you more guidance. All I can do is tell you what I know. You have bonded. It seems you have finished the process, yes?"

"Almost, maestro." Darius began to shake. "I know you are not my sire, but I need your blessing all the same."

Erik did not want this on the eve of his wedding. He did not believe in many of the old ways; he had turned his back on so much of the culture of their kind in his quest to separate himself from the reality of his own situation. Yet he knew Darius was quite different.

Unlike Erik, Darius had chosen to become a vampyre.

"I will do as you ask," Erik said.

He fisted his hands to stem the tide of his own churning emotions. He had sworn twenty years ago never to take the blood of a human, never to sink his teeth directly into the source. His vow meant nothing in the wake of circumstance. As the oldest vampyre here, he was duty-bound to see Darius's bonding to the end.

Without his aid, Darius would not make it to the next nightfall.

"You cannot turn him," Erik said, taking another step closer. "You are a generation removed from her, but if you stretch her bloodline into another, she is guaranteed to notice."

Twin tears of clear fluid spilled from Darius's eyes, another sign that he was engorged with blood. "I know, maestro."

"Then give me his wrist."

Darius turned and motioned into the darkness of the spiral staircase that led above. His human entered the room, and for a moment, instincts surged within Erik, whispers of violence and intrusion. Prey had stepped into the room, had infiltrated his sanctuary from daylight.

Erik bit his own tongue, the pain drawing him back from the edge and allowing him to refocus. Lucas was of a height with Darius with the same slim built and bright, dark eyes. His skin was lighter, his hair pale like Christine's.

Christine. Erik was to marry this very night. The thought of this delay made his anger rise, even as he understood why Darius had brought this up now. Sometimes we could not control timing, and if Darius had waited until tomorrow, Erik might refuse under obligation to his new bride.

Erik squared his shoulders. "Do you understand what we are?" he asked the human.

Lucas gave an easy smile, though a sheen of nervous sweat was visible upon his upper lip. "I do, monsieur. Darius has explained much to me. I love him. I do this freely."

As a human, Lucas did indeed have a choice. However, once a vampyre's heart began to beat, they had no choice but to finish the rites.

"Very well," Erik said. "Give me your wrist."

Lucas did so without hesitation. His wrist lay, a column of bone and sinew and blood, in Erik's broad hand. Erik curved his thumb over the incline of the young man's palm to hold him in place. Even weakened as he was, the touch was all it would take to overcome the human's frailer strength.

He would not take much, just enough to mark him with his thick fangs, enough to show that he had been accepted into Erik's clan. Later tonight, Darius would mark him in the same spot, widen what would become two circular scars upon his wrist. He was breaking his vow not to take from the vein ever again, but it would only be for a few seconds. He was so parched, even this much would do little more than give him a night's worth of strength.

Lucas's pulse fluttered under his thumb. Darius shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his instincts to protect what was his warring with his desire to see this ritual completed.

"Count to five," Erik said. "Then pry me off by any means necessary."

"Yes, maestro," Darius said.

Erik struck.

Christine had learned more about Erik Voclain during the carriage ride to the chapel than in the weeks beforehand. From what Madame Giry had revealed, he had already lived a lifetime before she had met him. His time in Mazandaran. His years at the Palace Garnier. Years of experiences. Madame Giry was older than her father, and yet Erik did not seem this aged to Christine. He was older than her, to be sure, but if he was that old, would she not have realized?

She knew so little about her intended, and the thought should have frightened her. Instead, she felt heady about what was to come. He had stories within him that he could tell her, for Madame Giry had likely only revealed the thin surface of what Erik had experienced. Christine wanted to hear about his life before her. She wanted to know him.

Their drive to the chapel ended, the carriage pulling to a stop. A thin mist had dampened the outside of the cab, the cobblestone walkway also gleaming with the sheen of it in the lamplight. Madame Giry assisted her with her long train, and soon they were both indoors.

The chapel smelled of wooden pews and old candle wax. It was an old Lutheran church, as per her father's tradition. Her family had never been very religious, but in times of ceremony, their Swedish customs took precedence. Two simple sconces lit up the receiving area just within the doors. She could hear voices murmuring within.

Darius scurried ahead of them, a jump in his step. He soon returned. "They are ready," he said, "whenever you are."

"I am ready," Christine said, and she was, as ready as she was ever going to be.

Madame Giry adjusted Christine's veil across her shoulders – she had not wanted anything over her face. Then she careful arranged Christine's train so it cascaded in gentle ivory waves behind her. "My role here is completed," she said. "Send me a message at the opera house if you have need of me. Go on, dear," she added, and she stepped back.

I am ready¸ Christine thought again to herself.

She squared her shoulders. Darius handed her a bouquet of white and pale pink blossoms, greenery flowing down her fingers. "You are beautiful, mademoiselle," he said, his lips quirking in a smile, "if I may be so bold to say so."

She flushed. "Thank you, Darius."

He moved to the door and pulled it open for her, revealing the small chamber within. A simple chandelier lit up the high stone walls. A few dozen pews angled toward a single aisle. Christine took a deep, steadying breath and moved forward on unsteady legs.

Charles sat at a pew closest to the door. He rose when he saw her, grasping onto the back of the wooden bench to support his weight. His brown eyes glowed with happiness. He outstretched a hand to her. "Daughter-mine. Let a father walk you down the aisle?"

"Yes, Papa," she said through a throat suddenly clenched with emotion.

Charles offered an elbow to her, and she switched the bouquet to one hand so she could grasp it. She was not certain whom supported whom down the aisle, but she was grateful to have her father's warmth at her side. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Darius move to stand closer to the front of the chapel, joining three other men standing there. Christine did not recognize two of them, and she guessed they must be the city official and the Lutheran pastor.

Erik himself stood directly at the end of the aisle, his white-gloved hands hanging loosely at his sides. He wore his usual black suit, absent the intimidating cloak. He was head and shoulders above the other men, who hung away from him as though unable to come closer. His hair was combed carefully back, not a piece out of place. His face was somber, the mask once again hidden behind his crafted illusion of pale skin, a straight nose, and high cheekbones.

Christine felt the piercing throb of intrusion settle once again inside her mind. Perhaps he should have warned her that he would have to shield himself from others during their wedding; however, she was not surprised that he was using his glamour. The face that turned toward her might not be his, and indeed, she might not have ever seen his true face, but his eyes of warm gold settled upon her with a familiarity she had come to know.

It took only a moment to cross the space between them. Papa kissed her on the cheek and sat in a pew near her. And then she was facing Erik fully.

Christine was aware of snippets of what happened next. She heard first the representative of the mayor saying a few words, and then a pen was pressed into her hand, which she used to sign her name. A part of her knew this meant she was married, that the ceremony with the pastor was only a formality at her father's behest. The old man came to stand between her and Erik, and she heard him recite the usual words. At some point, Erik's lips formed the words "I do," and then she heard herself echo them, her voice sounding far away.

And then Erik's hands drew hers from her sides. The fine silk of his gloves was soft and cool against her skin, so different from the warmth of her father's hands. Her ears were ringing, her head starting to hurt from the closeness of his glamour. The firm touch of his hands kept her grounded enough to notice when he slipped a ring upon one of her fingers, but she did not look at it. More words were exchanged, her mouth somehow forming the shapes, her throat finding the right sounds.

She heard the minister say the words, "By God's will, I declare that you are now husband and wife."

Erik stepped forward, one of his knees pressing ever so slightly against her skirts. His hands tightened around hers as though afraid she might skitter away. She thought that he was going to kiss her, but he did not. He angled to her side, and his lips brushed dryly over her cheek before he quickly stepped back and released her hands.

She was let go, standing alone, until her father's clapping brought her back to the moment. He stood and enveloped her in a tight hug. She was married. She was now married.

"I am so proud of you, daughter-mine," Charles said in her ear.

"I love you, Papa," she managed to squeeze through her tightened throat.

She felt a hand upon the curve of her lower back, just above her bustle, an intimate gesture that startled her. She looked up to see that Erik had returned to her side, and the pressure of his hand upon her back as well as the firm set of his mouth indicated that he wished to leave. Christine had not attended many weddings, but didn't a reception of some kind usually follow the ceremony? These were the details that seemed to have been discussed without her because her father only smiled as though he had already known she would be whisked away immediately afterward.

"Papa?" she asked, eyebrows drawing together. "I… will see you in the morning?"

"Don't you worry about me, Christine," he said. "You need to focus on getting adjusted to your new life, and I will be moving into my room at the hospice. As soon as I am settled, I will contact you in a few days."

A few days? She had spent every day with her father for her entire life. They had never been separated, and certainly not after her mother had passed away. Christine wanted to protest, but Papa was shooing her away while Erik's hand upon her lower back grew more insistent.

"Come, wife," Erik said, voice low. "The night grows cold."

Why did this feel like a final moment together? Christine twisted away from her new husband and threw her arms around her father's neck.

Charles only have a quiet chuckle and hugged her back, then pulled her arms down and gently pushed her away. "Good night, dear daughter."

This time, Erik drew out a white-gloved hand to her, beckoning. She took it, his long fingers curling around her hand tightly enough that she knew it would be difficult to break free again. They made their way up the aisle. When they were about to step through the doors of the chapel, Christine looked back one more time. Her father was speaking with the representative of the mayor, their words easy and carefree, and it was not their actions that made Christine's stomach turn over with dread.

The Lutheran pastor stared at the new couple as they left. As soon as Erik stepped through the front door, he made the sign of the cross.

The sight shocked Christine, but she did not have much time to linger her thoughts upon why the man of God would feel compelled to do such a thing. Erik's grip on her hand was tight and sure, and he led her to a carriage parked just outside the chapel. Erik opened the door of the carriage with his free hand and ushered her inside. Christine did not notice that Darius had followed them until he was helping to gather up her gown's train.

Soon, she was alone with Erik inside the dark encasement of the cabin. Her ivory gown caught the light of passing street lamps, casting her slim body in a silvery glow. Her new husband sat stiffly at her side, his white gloves fisted upon the jut of his knees. His golden eyes kept flickering toward her, and she felt studied by them.

"You wear your mask again," she said, noticing its white shape in the darkness.

"Yes," Erik replied. "The glamour hurts your head, no? I took it down as soon as I was able."

"Thank you."

"Of course."

They lapsed back into silence. The wheels of the carriage creaked, and the horses' hooves skittered over the wet street.

Erik cleared his throat. "I will arrange for a driver to take you to your father in three days. He should be settled then."

"Thank you." Christine smoothed her hands down the silk of her gown. "The- the ceremony was lovely."

"Indeed, it was."

They spent the rest of the ride without speaking further. When they arrived back at his manor, Erik stepped out first, then again offered his hand to Christine. This time, he did not let go, leading her through the same door she had entered earlier that evening. Her heart began to pound, the sound thumping in her ears, as they made their way up the stairs to the bedroom where she had changed.

Here, Erik stopped. "Take some time to relax yourself," he intoned. "I will return within the hour."

Unable to do anything else, Christine nodded. Erik bent the tall black shape of his body over the hand he still held and pressed a kiss to her wrist. A shiver rippled up her spine. Unlike the kiss on her cheek back at the chapel, this touch of lips promised more to come.

As soon as Erik had left, Christine fumbled for the doorknob and nearly bolted inside her room. The leftover pieces of wedding gowns had been removed, but the bedroom still held the scent of the bath she taken mere hours before.

Erik had told her to relax; however, how could she possibly do such a thing? Her wedding had happened. Now it was time for her wedding night. She was a married woman, and she had all the responsibilities that came with such a title…

A silk wrapper had been laid across her bed, the white fabric dotted with tiny embroidered blue flowers. Should she change? Suddenly, she could not stand being within her wedding gown any longer. The buttons of her bodice gave way easily enough, but she soon felt herself compelled to free herself of her gown as soon as she could. She tore at the fastenings of the bustle and tossed the contraption across the chaise lounge, then nearly ripped apart the laces of her skirts until they puddled around her legs.

Standing in her underthings, she still felt too entrapped. Christine sucked in a deep breath, pressed her ribcage together, and undid the hook-and-eye clasps of her corset without loosening the ties. Without the constriction, she could breathe a bit easier.

The night air hit her skin. In the time she had been away, the fire had burned low in the hearth. She shed her chemise and quickly pulled on the wrapper, though the thin silk did little to ease her sudden shivering. The throw laid across the foot of the bed was made of fine knitted wool, and when she pulled the blanket around her shoulders, she felt a little warmer.

She made her way to the vanity and sat in front of the mirror. The candlelight in her room only highlighted her features, but she could see enough to begin to remove the pins from her hair. Madame Giry had used far too many that was necessary, and it took a long time to pluck each one free from her curly strands.

The glint upon her finger caught her eye in the mirror. She had forgotten all about the ring Erik had given her during their ceremony. It had a dainty golden band with etchings and tiny diamonds around her finger. A larger ovular sapphire sat in the middle of the setting with even more diamonds encrusted around the stone. She had to admit, it was a beautiful ring, the finest of it well-suited for her small finger. She would need to tell Erik she loved it when he returned.

She shivered again. It had grown chilly in her room. She moved to the fireplace to see if she could stoke some life into the flames.

Erik wandered the hallways of his manor, staying as far from his new bride's room as he could manage. Most of the house was still in a state of disrepair. When he had first conceived of marrying this woman, he had thrown money at the place, hiring a team of workers to renovate as many rooms as possible. They had worked during the daylight hours so they rarely crossed paths with him, cutting and painting and hammering while he slumbered away deep beneath the earth.

As long as Christine did not venture into certain wings, she would see a house well-furnished and freshly painted, and he hoped his woman would find it pleasing.

His woman.

She was his. His Christine. He had formulated a plan and seen it to fruition, and now she was his in the eyes of the human world. He wanted to make her his in the manner of his own kind, to sink his teeth into her pale skin, to take her blood into himself. But he could not.

He would never get to do such a thing to her. And even if he could, he would never let himself defile her in such a way.

Christine had been his focus for this past month, and now he had her. However, if he wanted to keep her, he needed to make her his in every way possible. If he could not have her in the vampyre way, he would at least claim her in the way she no doubt expected. Right now, his bride waited for him to complete his duties as her husband.

What she did not know was that this was impossible.

And so he paced. While he stalked his way around his manor upon long legs, he was well aware when Darius returned. The younger vampyre was a silent presence along his peripheral vision, simply there if he was needed. An hour passed. Erik felt, not for the first nor last time, a longing for Daroga's incessant push of opinion, but it was a moment quickly risen and gone in a flash.

He walked with practiced slowness to Christine's door once again. He could hear quiet noises within, the rustle of a human moving about. He lifted a hand and knocked, and the noises ceased at once.

"Just a moment," he heard his bride say. Then, "Come in."

He opened the door. She knelt near the hearth of the fireplace, and she had clearly just tightened the belt of her wrapper and neatly tucked the hem around her knees. Her eyes widened just slightly, enough that he noticed her unease at the sight of him. A streak of black ash darkened one spot on her chin.

"I… the fire went out," she said, gesturing with a slim hand at the embers burning low. "I tried to light it, but I am not so used to such large fireplaces."

"I will take care of it," he said. He crossed the room and stretched out a gloved hand to her. She hesitated only a moment before taking it, and he gently pulled her to her feet. "You are chilled. Go sit upon the bed and pull the blanket tighter around yourself."

She did as he requested. As he coaxed flames from the embers and built the fire back to a roaring blaze, he was aware of her at his back. The heat of the fire was too much upon him to be comfortable, but humans were different. His bride needed warmth that he would not be able to provide.

"Thank you," she said, watching him straighten with bright sky-blue eyes. Her ring caught the firelight and glinted. He had chosen the sapphire in the center because the brilliant color reminded him of her eyes – they were that same piercing shade of blue.

He studied her a moment. Her hands clutched the edges of the blanket, and she had pulled her feet upon the bed. She was hidden in a pile of cloth, the layers a barrier between the two of them.

"You are afraid," he said.

She shifted slightly. Two spots of pink appeared on her cheekbones. "No, not afraid," she said softly. "Nervous, perhaps. I… have never done what comes next, obviously."

"Neither have I."

The words rose out of his mouth, unbidden but true. What was it about this woman that caused him to toss aside his reservations, to tell a human facts about himself he would otherwise keep hidden? Over time, he felt as though he might spill all his secrets to her, and suddenly, he was the one afraid.

Her eyes widened. The two spots of pink deepened in a rose-tinted blush. "Then we will learn together?"

"We will learn together," he agreed.

She held out a beckoning hand to him, and he was pulled closer to her along an invisible string. This time, he was the one slipping his hand into hers. His knees brushed against the edge of the bed. She took his bony appendage within the warm cocoon of her hands and plucked at the hem of his glove.

"May I remove these?" she asked.

Oh, that he could have a physical reaction to this gorgeous woman before him. His pulse might have raced then, his belly might have twisted with dread, his heart might have pounded. Instead, he merely stood there, a statue of frozen sinew and deadened flesh.

"Christine," he pleaded. He moved his dry tongue within his mouth. Only hours earlier, he had drawn from the vein of Darius's beloved, but those few mouthfuls had been so little. Even though he felt stronger, more stable, he knew his skin was pale and lifeless, his veins shriveled and prevalent under his dry skin. What would happen when she saw him? Truly saw him?

Her thumb was sweeping over the fabric of his glove, a soothing gesture that only made him want to feel her touch elsewhere. How foolish he had been! He could not provide anything for her than this husk of what was once a man. Even when he had been human, his appearance had made woman shriek with fright. As a vampyre, he had only grown more hideous.

"Christine," he said again. "I… am not handsome. Under these gloves, under these clothes, you will not find anything pleasing."

A small crinkle appeared between her delicate eyebrows. "I agreed to marry you, Erik. Don't you think I knew who I was marrying?"

Oh, she might have. But the reality would be so much worse than what she might have imagined.

"You are my husband," she said. "I am your wife. In this room, there- there is only the two of us."

Her thumb slipped beneath his glove, her soft skin sliding over his wrist. If she lingered too long there, she might notice that no heartbeat pulsed within him, but she moved on, using her thumb to draw down the silk of his glove. And he let her, gods help him, he let her. She stripped off his glove, exposing his long fingers with their thick, bony knuckles. Across the back of his hand, blue veins spread web-like under the skin.

If she was appalled, she hid her reaction well. He could see the distress in the flare of her nostrils, the pinch in the corners of her eyes, but she let little other sign escape. To his surprise, she took his hand in both of hers, bent, and pressed a kiss to his palm. The shock of her warm lips spread up his arm.

"You are a marvel," he murmured. He took his ungloved hand and cupped her cheek, wanting to feel more of her softness, of her warmth.

She leaned into his touch, her eyes closing for a moment, eyelashes fanning across her cheeks. "I am hardly that," she said, a smile plucking at her full lips.

"Oh, but you are. I have been captivated by you from the moment I saw you in the park." He allowed his fingertips to delve into the edges of her hair, unbound as her golden curls were. "You are so full of life, Christine. Your bright spirit never ceases to surprise me." When she did not pull way, he slid his fingers through her hair, marveling at the softness. "And you are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen."

She fully blushed then, her cheeks deepening to a dark red. "Would you kiss me?"

He wanted to, so badly. His fangs, even when not descended, were two sharp points in his mouth. He would need to be careful.

He leaned over her, one knee pressing atop the bed, the angle forcing her head to tilt back. The long column of her throat made his instincts surge, but he held them back, the ever-present hunger in his belly dulled by Lucius's blood. He delved both hands into the abundant curls of her hair, his grip forcing her head even further back. His thumbs curled around her chin, his white glove smearing the ash from the fireplace she had smudged there.

"Do you want this, Christine?" he asked, his thin mouth not far from hers.

"Y-Yes," she whispered, her sweet breath hot upon what little of his skin was exposed.

He pressed his lips against hers, the first kiss he had ever willingly initiated, careful to keep his mask from touching her, careful to hide the presence of his fangs. Both of their mouths were closed and so the kiss was chaste, quickly sought and quickly parted. Christine's hands had reached up to grasp his shoulders, but she pulled him closer instead of pushing him away.

"More?" she asked, and he gave it to her, pressed his lips to hers again, his inexperience disguised by her own. He felt her out, slanted his lips to take her more fully against him, always mindful of that which he hid from her. He was attuned to her every reaction, the way her back began to arch, the way her blood began to move more quickly in her veins.

He needed to taste her, just a little. He broke from her mouth to trail his lips down her jaw to where her pulse throbbed at her neck. The position was dangerous, but although he wanted her, he felt powerful and in control of himself. His tongue flicked out and lapped at her pulse, tasting the salt of her skin. She was heaven in his mouth, and he allowed himself one more taste before he drew back to her lips. She was panting.

"Oh, Erik," she breathed. "Let me see you?"

He saw her hands reach for his mask. His reaction was swift, fingers curling unapologetically around her dainty wrists and holding fast, not loosening even when she winced. He had become too lost in her that he had nearly let down his guard and allowed the unthinkable. If she had taken off his mask… he could not think about what he might have done to her then.

"Once you have seen," he said, voice a low growl, "you will not ever be able to erase that image from your mind!"

Christine squirmed against his hold, and he knew he was holding too tightly, but he dared not let go. "I- I am sorry," she said, hiccupping on a sudden sob. "I shan't do it again."

No, she would not. How could he have forgotten for a moment of what he was, of who he was? All his life, he had been reminded of his exterior. The space of his wedding bed would be no different.

He switched the hold of her wrists to his gloved hand, freeing his other to hoist the two of them fully atop the mattress. Christine gasped at the sudden vulnerable position, one of his knees between hers, entrapping her to the bed by her gown. His bulk rose above her, his free hand traveling to find new places to explore.

She was his wife, and he was her husband. Vampyre though he may be, hideous though he may appear, he would have what was his.

More M-rated scene ahead...