Author's Note: Thank you all, my wonderful readers. Your reviews really help. Here's another little Erik chapter I hope you will enjoy. I also added a little surprise at the end.

Do let me know if you like it.

monroe-mary: Trust me, I was so tempted. We're getting to that much anticipated kiss, though, slowly, but soon enough. :) We'll see who she chooses in the end. Or whom fate chooses for her…

Witchy-grrl: Thanks heaps my dear. His music is nothing short of inspiring.Poor Christine, little she knows yet this is only the beginning.

broadwaygal: Thank you very much. I decided Erik would rather sing to her in his motherstongue for a more special experience. I would say Christine is only a young, confused girl about her feelings. Very normal,she's only a teenager. Given her world turned upside down in a handful of nights, she's taking it well so far. :)

Kates: Merci beaucoup:) Did I mention I'm an ardent fan of your stories as well?


"Passion is the genesis of genius."

-Anthony Robbins


"Lust's passion will be served; it demands, it militates, it tyrannizes.

-Marquis de Sade


The solitary light of the flambeaux fell upon the waveless lake, on the carved walls and on the man seated at the pipe organ.

Solitude came on cruel black wings, promising more punishment.

Lips were parted in a frustrated groan, an echo of a wailing incubus, restless fingers dancing over the ivory keys rapidly, angrily, producing a melody torn from the very core of Asmodei's unholy gasps and primal howling in a chant of his infernal seduction, and a fallen Aphrodite's enraptured weeps and pleasured moans.

Black hair was mussed, falling over the leather mask, eyes of grey glowing with lust's agonizing unfulfilled splendour.

Fingers applied further pressure to the keys, savagely so, hissing breaths from between clenched teeth joining the carnal symphony.

Sweat formed in tiny beads across a body sculpted from the most lecherous, darkly erotic phantasies of a Madonna disgraced and perverted on a Babylonian blood and sweat drenched altar.

A body untouched by a lover's eyes, lover's caress…

A body craving only one other body.

That of Christine's.

Deceiving, seductive, beauteous Queen of a Dying Sun's music.

Her pearly innocence the unforgiving scourge of his sickest dreams.

A stark, feral need tensed every hard muscle with the torturous remembrance of Christine's body near his.

The primal overture filled the cavern, resounding with the screams of a sweet depravity; a debauch rhapsody.

How he craved with a profane desire to pierce her chaste softness with the spearhead of his relentless corruption.

To thrust until he was completely buried in her untainted feminine purity, moist with Elixir Vitae.

To plunge on and on until the crimson tides of his frenzied passions ploughed in her the seed of his violent possession.

His mind threatened to shatter with the dementia of his fierce lust and fierce anger.

An abhorrent gargoyle yearning for a taste of heaven…

The organ music ceased abruptly with a brutal intensity, the fervent song ringing in his ears.

Erik wiped his clammy hands on the black linen of his trousers, and reached over the stacks of his finished librettos to retrieve a fresh parchment, a quill pen and a vial of the reddest ink from his stationary, writing down the notes of his passion tide.

When finished, a hand raked through the hair of raven dark and wiped the left side of his face, slick with perspiration.

He leaned back in his chair, gasping for breath, hands tracing the low collar of his shirt, undoing the top buttons.

How long was he to suffer this travesty?

Why should he martyr himself any longer for a dead man's wish?

The flames of his aggravation were further fanned by a new adversary.

Raoul de Chagny.

Who had the guts to disobey his orders and underestimate his warnings.

His theatre was seized by worthless imbecile, an ignorant, but a persistent pest that needed to be eliminated, crushed and annihilated.

Could a man hate another man with such vengeful, venomous hatred?

For a little, naive, unworldly, wide-eyed girl?

For Christine?

A vicious sneer twisted his sensuously carved lips.

For a thousand lifetimes yes.

A throng of shadows writhed in unison, in approval of their master's thoughts.

Tonight, Tenebrion Himself was coming to descend with his abyssal wrath, his black vengeance on the unsuspecting, defiant fools of Opera Populaire.


The theatre was a pandemonium for the evening's performance of Il Muto. The Opera Ghost's orders had been rejected and his threats dismissed. Carlotta had returned, reclaiming her position as the Prima Donna, musicians had filled the pit, the stage decorated in the trappings of the eighteenth century, a huge canopied bed dominating the centre stage.

Inside the communal dressing room, every single taper and lamp was lit, drowning the chamber in their dizzying brilliance. Christine had brought a small lantern as well, to enhance the brightness.

She had been shaken when Meg found her in the ballet dorm, unusually quiet, demanding light…more light.

Meg squinted her eyes against the blinding artificial radiance and tightened the binds on Christine's corset, leaving her to slip on that appalling man's shirt. Blue half-trousers hug her shapely, white stockinged legs, accentuating her narrow waist and softly rounded hips.

Not a trace of make-up veiled her natural Scandinavian beauty.

Serafimo was ready to conquer the Countess's heart.

Meg leaned in to the mirror, dabbing a dark-plum shaded rouge on her lips, her ample bosom nearly spilling out of her creamy corset, resembling more a courtesan than a maid.

Christine sat in complete silence, eyes downcast and shadowed with her secret burden.

Meg laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, sympathising with her friend's suffering. She wanted to utter words of comfort, but she couldn't bring herself to do so…

Christine closed her eyes, and immediately, the embodiment of her dreams and the manifestation of her worst nightmares assaulted her mind's eye, taunting and tormenting at the same time, that strange, luring darkness.

"Christine, we must go. Let's not make Don Atillio's faithless wife wait any longer for her handsome pageboy." Meg said flatly, a hint of involuntary bitterness creeping into her voice, though she smiled brightly.

Dark lashes fluttered open, Christine pulled out a strip of black silk and tied her unruly curls in a pony tail.

"Yes, Meg. Let's go and conquer milady's heart." Christine mumbled with a slight smile.


The netherworld opened its doors, hordes of black clouds marching forth and lowering over the Carpathian countryside with a tempestual wrath. The storm shook the thick stone walls of the castle towering over the winter-ridden meadows, the dense woods beyond and a vast frosty lake. The high windows rattled under the assault of the pounding rain, and shrieking wind in spectral concert with the dark celestial of the Romanian skies, still pagan at heart.

Ruxandra Dragutinovich drew in a sharp breath and turned her head with a slight grimace from the mirror to the window.

How the storm howled to her turbulent emotions, the painful memories of a son forsaken…

Her son.

With a small, elegant gesture of her jewelled hand, she beckoned the young man seated by the bed to her side.

Rurik Andrassy rose, his chair creaking quietly as he did so.

Despite her years, the old Boyarinya was an imposing sight. Her hair; which she adamantly refused to dye, was a deep brown that was almost black, streaked with moon silver, spilling past her shoulders down to her still graceful, rigid lower back.

The cruel lines of old age had not ravaged her sharp beauty, the merciless passage of time had not robbed her of her proud dignity.

Even as she lay dying, her head was held high, composed.

Cancer of the womb.

Her pale oval face was masked with a darkly toned, elegant make-up in defiance of her terminal sickness that was wasting her away moment by moment, in an agonizing fever.

How could not Death fall in love with her and claim her as his own?

"Yes, Aunt?" Rurik inquired slowly.

The Countess pulled forth a nondescript brown leather pouch, just large enough to fit in the palm of his hand, along with a yellowed-white, sealed envelope.

Her grey eyes glittered hard, fixated upon the young man's questioning face.

"You must do something for me, Rurik. 'Tis my last and only wish. Will you do it?"

Inquisitive pale green eyes flickered with doubt, but he bowed his head slightly to indicate his agreement.

How could he refuse her?

Since the grisly demise of his parents, Rurik had spent most of the twenty-eight years of his life in this isolated castle that rose from the ground like a god-stone from the ancient times of Wallachia, where Olde Worlde Voivodes of a bygone era ruled as warlords with a tyrannical fist.

She straightened in the bed, holding up a swift hand haltingly as Rurik made a move to help the old woman.

She held out the pouch and the sealed envelope, which he took gingerly.

"My will, is that you find my son, and give him these mementos which I have trusted you with."

Rurik shot up a dark eyebrow. As far as he was concerned, the Countess was childless.

Noting the lines of confusion deepen in her nephew's face, Ruxandra added as an afterthought.

"I had a child once…A boy..." She murmured with an uncharacteristic sorrow. "No one was to know he had been born deformed, so all they were told was that he was stillborn. But he lived. He lived…" Her voice trailed off into a whisper.

No priest would baptise the child, no faith accept him into its hallowed ground.

Her son…

Rurik was silent, understanding, as he listened.

"Very well, aunt. I will deliver these to your son. But why such an unusual choice of conveyance, pray tell? Where is he now?"

Where are you, heart of my heart…Flesh of my flesh…Sin of my black sin…

Ghostly lashes lowered with a sudden choked sob, the calm, carefully composed façade toppled, crumbled to dust, within the same moment her face lit with the burden of her long rejected emotions.

Behind glassy grey eyes were something akin to…remorse?

"I do not know. On his eighth winter, I sent him away with the gypsies. Before you judge me, I should tell you I did this for his own good. After that, I lost all contact. His father wouldn't permit it."

Rurik went rigid, stared blankly. This powerful, proud woman was confiding him with her deepest secrets?

"How do you know if he's even alive aunt? How many years has it been?"

Grey eyes flashed with a sudden surge of emotions.

"I know he's alive! I can sense it! He's been tormenting me all these years, out there somewhere in the world uttering my name only as a curse, not knowing it was I who saved his life from a…from.." The countess trembled, her words dying on her lips…

And delivered him, your own son, into the hands of another foul lot.

Rurik stroked his chin, his face expressionless, his green eyes thoughtful. The old woman must be delusional in her last hours.

"Indulge me, Rurik. Promise me you will do all in your power to find him. I have drawn up the appropriate papers for your allowance. Spare no expense."

"And what if I never find him? He could be anywhere, if he's still alive."

"Oh, trust me, he's alive." She mumbled darkly.

"But you must consider the possibility he might not be, aunt." Rurik remarked gently.

"Then you shall return."

"And what of these?" He indicated the pouch and the envelope.

"In the event that you are absolutely certain he's no longer alive, you shall dispose of them immediately."

Rurik contemplated in silence. This was a fool's errand. One he would set about as soon as possible.

"Very well, I will require more information, his name, the gypsies, everything you can tell me will be useful."

" His full name is Alexei Mircea Maximilian Dragutinovich. The rest of the details Anica will provide."

"How do I recognize him?"

"You…can't miss him. His face is deeply malformed. The left side of it, as far as I remember. He's.. one of a kind." She said bitterly.

Rurik considered this.

"Will you do as I bid?"

"Be at peace, aunt. I shall do it."

Ruxandra smiled , not her usual hollow, spectral smile, but a genuine smile of relief, of warmth.

Her nephew was a man of honour, and once hegave his word, he would never back down from it. In a world where chivalry was next to nonexistent, Rurik was a gallant champion all the way.

"I shall find peace when my soul is purged of its sins in hell, Rurik. Now leave me to greet my final paramour, he must be most anxious for our rendezvous."

Rurik headed for the door, then paused, not quite understanding.

"Your paramour, aunt?"

"Death, is the last lover of all of us, Rurik."

He bowed politely, walking out the door, closing it silently behind him. Death had not been a kind suitor to his mother and father.

He hoped Ruxandra was right.

He cleared his mind of the morbid thoughts and focused on the task ahead.

Alexei Dragutinovich must be found.