A/N

I have returned! I'm SO sorry for leaving this so long empty and lonely :(. Pardon my absence, my life took a couple of very bizarre turns over the past couple of months and writing anything worth reading has been a GREAT challenge! And you guys are too smart for me to try to pass by a junky chapter.

I beg forgiveness from my beloved readers and reviewers, you guys are the greatest ever and hope you will continue with your reviews that give me just the motivation I need!

And so here it is--


Chapter 8

The two swift shadows navigating the darkest alleys of Paris crunched the disturbed streets with the fury of a man followed by his sin.

"You damn fool!" The larger shadow growled quietly. His fast-moving companion seemed to ignore him, moving smoothly down the crumbling walkway.

"I know what I'm doing," Erik said firmly, taking a sharp turn left into a silent courtyard, his steps crackling over the dead, dry leaves of a mysterious, nearby tree.

Akil's eyes narrowed at Erik's back. "I do not doubt your awareness."

"Then let me be,"

"I doubt your sanity, my friend."

Erik whipped around. "You will stay out of this,"

"How can I, when you have put me in it?" Akil cried, his deep voice resonating like a gong around the walls.

The other man's resolve did not waver. "She does not know of you,"

"Does that matter?"

Erik snorted, standing stiff backed and rigid, staring up at the moon. "Marie is a rather delightful liar, Akil. We have nothing to fear from her,"

The brief silence that followed was followed by the quiet sound of a blade being drawn. Erik smiled, still retaining his soldier-like position. "I know," was all he said. Akil's teeth were bared and his breathing harsh and angry.

"No, you do not."

The caped man turned slowly, his carefully polished black boots glimmering pale in the moonlight. "Christine Daaé has returned to Paris with Marie and little Meg. Why? Why would she have returned when she and her bouncing boy of a lover seemed so happily settled on his country estate? I wonder, Akil. I wonder; don't you?"

The two faced each other like duelers.

"It is none of our affair."

"Ah," Erik conceded, nodding slowly. "It would not be our affair had we hunted her down to her little factory town and disturbed her there. We would be prying into her 'affair' had we invaded her country estate and disturbed her and her lover. But now she has returned to Paris, entirely of her own accord. She has broken the silence, Akil and told the world that she is here. And she has all but opened the door and invited us into her 'affair'."

Akil said nothing, only staring at his counterpart steadily.

Swift footsteps turned both heads and the straight-backed shadow of Madam Marie Giry appeared to the men.

For a moment the three stood like dancers in triangle formation. Madam looked at the two men calmly.

"What brings two such old friends into such an argument?" She asked lightly.

Had Erik been any younger, that schoolmistress tone would have made him cringe. But he merely smiled calmly.

"It is good to see you again, Marie. I trust you are glad to be back in Paris."

Madam smiled. "Yes, Meg is happy to have returned to the city."

"I hope Miss Daaé is in good health,"

Madam did not flinch, but there was a hint of alarm in her eyes. For a moment a lie almost reached her lips, but she folded her hands together in front of her full skirt. "Yes, she is."

Erik smiled that catlike smile. "Good."

Akil's eyes moved from Erik to Marie and back again. His eyes were met by Madam who was looking at Erik in well-disguised alarm.

"What do you want with her, Erik?" Madam Giry demanded, her tone sharp.

"I want her to return to the stage. I want her to sing for me again."


Inspector Carsonne, the Bloodhound of the Parisian police sat in a large leather chair behind his oak wood desk and twirled one end of his thick moustache between heavily-knuckled fingers. Opposite him was Vicomte de Chagny who tapped the arm of his chair rather impatiently.

"Gone, you say?" Carsonne asked quietly. "Pardon my candid nature on the subject, Vicomte, but why?"

Raoul smiled easily. "A silly, girlish whim of hers I suppose. You know women and their knack for finding every fault with you…"

Carsonne smiled stiffly, his black eyes glinting. "And what did the lady discover?"

"The product of a romp in the hay with one of the serving maids," Raoul replied, fidgeting slightly, but his pleasant smile remained. "All a mistake, all taken care of but she felt the need to fall into hysterics."

"And you believe the girl in Paris?"

"I'm sure of it."

Carsonne nodded slowly, crossing his legs and running blunt fingers over his spotless desk.

"I'm sorry Vicomte but I have more pressing duties than hunting down a stray bride."

The inspector watched de Chagny's face very carefully but the calm smile did not drop as expected.

"But there is more to it than that, my friend. Not only will I pay you well… but I think she may be of… special interest to you."

Inspector Carsonne regarded the other man shrewdly. "I'm listening,"

The Vicomte leaned forward, looking first right, then left, and said quietly. "She has connections to the Opera Ghost case,"

Now he had Carsonne's full attention. The man's bushy eyebrows rose. "Oh yes?"

"Yes," Raoul replied firmly. "Very… direct connections."

"How so?"

Raoul strained to remember the details of what Christine had told him. "While she was a student at the ballet academy for the Opera Populaire she was a student of his. But his teachings grew into something more…"

Carsonne's shifted in his leather chair, his small dark eyes calculating. "But the case has been dropped, we both know this. Why should I run after something that the state has deemed hopeless?"

Raoul raised one eyebrow. "Come now, Inspector." He countered persuasively, leaning forward. "Don't pretend you can't think of the glory, the fame… The Phantom of the Opera is a legend that burned down an entire opera house and killed several innocent people. The whole of Paris was pleading for his masked head on a pike for weeks after it happened, don't you remember?"

"I do,"

"And can you imagine being the man who brings this 'unsolvable' case to justice?"

Carsonne's eyes narrowed.

"You strike an interesting bargain, my dear Vicomte. What's in it for you?"

Raoul's indifferent shrug did not completely hide the light of victory in his eyes. "I once again avoid slander on the de Chagny name by reclaiming my bride."

The inspector nodded slowly, leaning back into the dark leather thoughtfully. "And this woman of yours, you can be certain…"

"… She will lead you to the Phantom of the Opera? My friend, I guarantee it."


Christine Daaé sat in the small kitchen, Meg Giry sitting across from her, poring over a stack of old playbills.

"There we are," She said smiling. "Under 'Shepherdesses', our first ever performance… and the lambs wouldn't stay in place and kept gnawing at their bows. We must have been around twelve, do you remember?"

Christine was staring distractedly out the window, ignoring Meg's nostalgic smile.

"Yes," She muttered toying with the bitten cuticles around her fingernails. At length, Christine continued. "Meg why is your mother acting so strange?"

Meg's eyes shot up from the cast lists she was reading but she quickly lowered them again. "I don't know what you mean,"

"She has always been a mother figure to me, teaching me my first steps and dressing my in my first costume, but lately she is sharp and her mind seems…. Elsewhere."

Meg shrugged stiffly and looked back down at the playbill. "It has been a difficult time for us, with money and this move back into Paris."

"Are you certain that's all it is?"

Meg looked up to see a pair of brown eyes staring hard at her. And her mouth went dry and she dropped her gaze. Oh, how she hated lying. A flush crept into her youthful cheeks.

"As far as I know," She replied softly, her voice barely gaining volume above a whisper.

Christine suddenly felt ashamed of herself, probing her friend like this. She managed to control the quell of frustrated curiosity rising in her chest.

"I think I'll go to bed," She said in hurriedly. "I'll want to go to the cemetery tomorrow, to visit my father.

Meg looked up immediately. "Do you want me to go with you?"

"No," Christine replied, pushing her chair into the table. "No, I'd rather go alone, thank you,"

And she hurried out of the room so she wouldn't have to meet the hurt in Meg's eyes.


Annette Taillé's room at Madam Boye's brothel was gradually emptying. Her papers and a few stubs of spare candles as well as a clean corset and petticoats, two dresses, a cloak and bonnet were placed carefully into a carpet bag. One of the girls had been paid off to tell Madam that she had taken violently ill and so far she had not been disturbed. It was just another hour till dawn, when the house would fall into an exhausted sleep.

And then Annette Taillé would leave Madam Boyé's forever.

She had said her goodbyes to Anya and Solomon, the brothel's german shepherd earlier in the evening. She did not know where she was going, only that she must leave soon, and flee the memories and the life that accosted her.

Annette picked up the last few writing utensils from her desk and grabbed for the bottle of red wine that stood glimmering at her in the dimly lit room. She lifted it to her mouth and took a long swig, wiping her mouth free of the dark liquid as the reassuring warmth of the alcohol tinted her bloodstream. She set the mostly-full bottle on her tiny bedside table and surveyed the room.

For the first time since her arrival Annette flung open the window and stuck her head out to breathe in the light rain that drizzled from the dark sky. She looked down onto the tired streets and up and down the narrow alleyways. From her high spot she could see the roof of the theatre she had loved so much.

"This has been my life," She said quietly to herself. "And now it can not longer be,"

She lifted her elbows from the sill and walked backwards from the window, still not closing the shutters and admiring the patterns the spots made upon the dark wood. She stood as quietly as any modern maid in a church pew.

And then there was a knock at the door.

Annette felt her heard leap in her chest as she quickly dragged the pins out of her hair and threw on a robe over the gown she had chosen to travel with. She rubbed her eyes and shuffled towards the door.

She opened it a crack.

Madam Boye stood before her, arms folded.

"Yes?" Annette wheezed, pausing to cough pathetically into her hand.

Madam's nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed.

"You have a visitor," She said in a sharp voice. "And you will receive him."

Annette swallowed and coughed again. "Oh Madam I am ill, please,"

"I said you will receive him." Madam snapped, her sharp eyes appraising the strange lumps under Annette's robe.

Annette stepped back from the door, uncertain of her position. She snuffed a candle behind her and the whole room went black. At least she could try to disguise the emptiness of her room… and the bed was still made.

"Who is it?" Annette whispered.

"Monsieur Rand, your benefactor."

Annette felt the bile rise in her throat.

She looked imploringly into Madam's hard eyes. "Please, I cannot see him," she begged desperately. "Madam, please." She reached out to put a hand on her mistress' arm, but was quickly rebuffed..

Annette let out a small moan of terror. Robert Rand's thick form filled the doorway.

"Monsieur, please, I am ill," Annette begged helplessly as Madam's footsteps died away, backing toward the wall as he approached her.

He smiled. "Don't worry child, I won't be long this time."

Annette swallowed her disgust as she stepped instinctively backwards toward the four poster bed. She could smell the whisky on his heavy breath. She pushed her arms out in front of her and held his wide shoulders at bay

"I cannot, Monsieur, please. I am ill and I will not be able to perform for you tonight…"

"Of course you can," He said gruffly, lifting up her skirts, ignoring the fact that she was fully dressed. She could hear him fidgeting with his belt. Annette shut her eyes and tried to put every thought of Erik from her mind…

But suddenly a furious energy filled her body. As Rand's large hands landed on her knee, her foot in its thick practical boot lashed out and landed a kick square in his face.

A big man, Rand was not so easily to be put down. Although Annette could not see his face, she could easily imagining his thick neck and face purpling and he reached out to grab her again.

Now she began to kick in earnest, thrashing out and hitting anywhere she could, on his shoulders and torso and chin. He let out a loud grunt as she struck him in his abdomen.

Then two large hands closed over her calves.

"You won't fight me any more after this," Rand snarled into her ear.

Annette scrambled backward, pumping her legs to free herself of his clutches. Her flailing arms nudged her bedside table, and the cool glass of the red wine…

The next few seconds, Annette could never fully remember, but the next thing she knew she heard a loud smash and the her hands were wet.

There was a terrible stillness and Annette pushed herself off the bed before Rand's hulking weight could fall lifelessly on top of her.

The girl lay there on the dull wooden floor for a moment, trying to gether her wits out of the blind terror she had felt.

Had she killed him?

Annette stared in horror a the neck of the bottle in her hand, and she chucked it out the window in a jerky motion, and heard it shatter on the street.

She wiped her stained hands on the brown fabric of her gown and stood for a moment, waiting to hear any footsteps running to her room from the din.

There were no sounds but that of her own labored breathing.

She stumbled across the room, tripping over her carpet bag that she snatched at the handle, tugging it after her.

She threw open the door of her room and tripped over her threshold, straightening her sleeves as she went, her face pale and her heart pounding.

And all she left behind were the creak of a stair and the slam of a door.