The insane one has returned for chapter 7!

Let me say this now, chapter 7 WILL be the final chapter before I leave for five weeks. I have no clue as to whether or not I can update using my dad's laptop. Even then, I still won't be able to write very often because he is a truck driver and I will only be able to update at truck stops. That is a slim chance to itself. Do not yell or flame me because if this. I might be able to update when I am in New York, I don't know.

Disclaimer: Oh you know the usual. Nothing belongs to me; all is property of Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lyod Webber and all those people. I DO however own Zahir, Annfwn, Linette (as well as all of her family), Maslin and Jacque. Leave them alone. No touchie…I spent too long looking up French, Irish and Arabic names for them.

ShadowDragon: Two points to that. The romance has already begun…and now how to dump Raoul with out every Raoul-lover under the sun out for my blood…hmm…such a daunting question….punjab'ing him wouldn't satisfy me, I must admit…

Notes: Thank you to all you absolutely wonderful people who have reviewed. I love you all, thank you so much.

A/N1: SPOILERS: The name I chose for Erik dose not mean "Trap-Door lover" which is what Leroux states it is in Persia. I spent forever looking for an accurate translation, but could not find a single one. So instead I chose a different name, you will find out what it is below, and it means "one who conquers".

Warnings: The usual stuff, violence, language, sexuality.

POLL TIME!

Do you think that I should up the rating to M? The official M rating is PG-16, but this story really doesn't go above PG-15. Should I up it just to be safe? For those of you who have read my Harry Potter story, you know I had the same dilemma.

Enjoy…

MXIXVXIXM (A/N: Set a few hours after the last chapter left off, around midnight)

Zahir and Annfwn surveyed each other in boredom. It had been nearly five hours since the Vicomte left, and six days since their incarceration with only the other for company, not that either of them minded. Both Zahir and Annfwn had "partners in crime" of sorts for the past three years. In truth Annfwn had a much darker and deeper past with the police than what her record recorded. Rightfully the offence of burglary, theft, armed robbery, and attempted murder should have marred her record, but Zahir had struck a deal, allowing her to get off with a minor offence of prostitution. But on the other hand, Zahir had a much blacker past than she with what little Annfwn gathered from her partner and best friend. The Arabian man said very little on his past, only hinting that he had come from Persia and was on the run from three charges of first degree murder. She had found him shortly after he had escaped into France, lying on the street unable to speak a word of French. In a way the pair considered themselves no more than friends, but much closer than lovers. Zahir and Annfwn held a deep mutual respect for each other that connected them in a way that lovers would never know. "Do you recon they found his beloved Vicomtess?" Zahir said, breaking the silence.

"I don't know, and frankly I could care less. It is no concern of mine when a rich spoiled imbecile goes missing. I see it as one less person to worry about," Annfwn said viciously, her Irish rooted temper flaring. "What concern is it to you?" she inquired curiously.

"Very little—however it is not everyday that we meet a man that genuinely cares for his wife. That boy seemed deeply turned at the news of his wife's disappearance," Zahir replied. It was very strange the cultural difference from the world he had come from to what people expected in the French society. Back in Persia, Zahir had very rarely seen a man distraught at all over the disappearance of his wife, or rather one of his wives. More often than not, a man would have so many wives he would not take even the slightest bit of notice if one of them did indeed go missing.

"Do my ears deceive me? You told me just recently that that Vicomte rat was a man, not the whelp I deemed him," Annfwn joked.

"Do my ears deceive me? Or did you really not notice the guard at the door listening to our every word," Zahir said sarcastically. Really, he thought. Sometimes she could be so daft, and at other times there was not a man alive more acute than her. It had been her street smarts that kept him alive when he came to Paris. Yet Zahir often felt himself wondering how she had kept out of trouble before. Annfwn's temper was so unpredictable and her pride was so easy to prey upon.

"In you go, you mongrel…or else you'll be meeting an early appointment with the racks," a guard said coming in through the doors. Zahir and Annfwn quickly hardened and tensed at the sight of the police officer. There was no doubt he had been listening to them, but neither one cared. Neither Zahir nor Annfwn was stupid or bold enough to speak of their crimes in a temporary holding cell. Next to the guard was a man with grizzled rustic auburn hair and whiskers. He was strongly built, but the guard handled him like a toddler would a toy. He did not protest as the guard threw him headfirst into the cell and remained silent as his head collided with the concrete floor. Zahir and Annfwn exchanged glances. "And I suggest that you two better not be getting any funny ideas," the guard threatened.

"Don't worry your fluffed and puffed head about it. If we have any ideas of escape, you will be the first one to know," Annfwn mocked cruelly and spat at the guard. Zahir could not help but laugh, she was either really bold or very stupid. But mostly Zahir figured she was both. The guard said nothing but his face racked into a scowl at the mention of her petty insult. Only a foolish up-breed would get so bent out of shape from such a petty crack. But Zahir reckoned as much, most of the police officers were nothing but men with fancy titles and a rifle. It was no different in Persia.

The guard slammed the door shut furiously from his wounded pride and Annfwn smiled in triumph. "One day your insults are going to get us killed," Zahir said.

"Then let the fools who do so with the right state of mind…let them always remember our last words of sarcasm," Annfwn mused to herself. She then turned her green gaze to the man the floor. "Are you alright," she inquired routinely without much feeling.

"Not that it would matter to you," the man said.

"You are right in assuming that," Zahir answered. It mattered little what the condition of his fellow thieves were. He could care less, just so long as he and Annfwn were alive and roaming the streets as the "ravaging wolves" the Vicomte de Chagny blindly hated so much. Zahir didn't know why the Vicomte's words upset him so; he had met with many Vicomtes, Barons, Lords and even a Sultan in his lifetime and all of them were the same. Shaking his head, Zahir said, "What is your name?"

"Why do you care?" the man said as he propped himself up on his knees. From what Zahir could gather he had seen better days. Bruises formed up and along every limb in his body. Both of his eyes were bloodied as well as his lips. Around his neck were vibrant red marks that suggested a noose or lasso of some sort had been wrapped around his neck. Zahir examined the imprint closer and quickly found that it had come from a Punjab Lasso. The mark was perfectly rounded and clearly a master of the lasso had administered it rather ruthlessly on the man. Strange, I only knew one person who could exert the force of a Punjab so efficiently and he never left anyone alive, Zahir mused.

"I don't, but you obviously do in your reluctance to answer anything," Zahir said, forcing his mind off the lasso and onto the man.

The man crackled, "An intelligent crook, now I have seen everything," he said. "Fine, if you really want to know my name is Jacque," he said.

"What brings you here, Jacque?" Annfwn asked, unfolding her arms in interest.

"For reasons not so different from yours," Jacque said. Zahir listened intently, wanting to know who had been the expert Punjab master. The only person he knew that could make a Punjab so efficiently was Ghazwan back in Persia. Often Zahir found himself wondering what had become of Ghazwan. His cousin, Nadir, had smuggled him from Persia shortly prior to Zahir leaving. Zahir had only met the man once but he would never forget it. Ghazwan obviously not of Arabic blood, but he spoke the language so fluently and perfectly as if he had resided there his entire life. He was much taller than the average Persian, and always clothed himself in black despite the unforgiving Persian sun. At first Zahir thought Ghazwan was English, or French, or even German. Ghazwan had been a perfect executer of pain and physical torture on the body, mind and soul. Compared to his own crimes, Zahir would be a saint in Ghazwan's shadow. Yet for all of his seemingly infinite knowledge of torture and weapons, Ghazwan preferred a medieval way of killing people—The Punjab Lasso. But the strangest thing of all about Ghazwan was the fact that Zahir never saw his face, or at least the right side of his face. He would always wear a white leather mask to hide his visage. Zahir got the distinct feeling that he never wanted to see beneath it and never brought it up.

"And what would that be?" Zahir said, beating Annfwn in the race of tongues.

Jacque laughed grittily and said in a hoarse voice, "Kidnapping. Although it was my partner that got a bit…carried away," Jacque smirked. "She was quite the catch I admit, in both looks and money. But Maslin was a fool to let his emotions rule him," he crackled darkly. Zahir said nothing. And Annfwn dared not interrupt him. "Oh yes, the Vicomtess de Chagny has quite the chip on her shoulder, especially after that whole 'phantom' scandal. It was my boss's idea to kidnap her—something about revenge—but the pay was good as were the perks. But that bloody bastard who harbored more balls than brains decided skip the pay and head straight for the perks. That little wench was so impudent that I thought it right for Maslin to break her in. But when the screams stopped I went to check and saw Maslin dead. I remember not what happened next, other than a cloaked stranger took the liberty of this," Jacque pointed to his neck. "I woke up with the nozzle of a gun in my back. And now I am here," he finished.

"Who was it that tried to kill you and murdered your partner," Annfwn questioned docilely, knowing that Jacque was not the normal street criminal. He had a heart of stone that had been chiseled away.

"I know not, except he wore all black and a mask," Jacque finished with a laugh. "She really was quite the catch".

"A mask!" Zahir exclaimed. Surely it could not be the same man. Why would Ghazwan be in Paris? Even more, why would the screams a woman drive him to kill?

However before Jacque could answer the metal and wooden door swung open again. Zahir gasped at the figure that stood in frame…it was Nadir. "Just what we need, more company," Annfwn complained, earning a silencing look from Zahir. First there was news of Ghazwan and now here he stood face to face with his cousin. But then it clicked in Zahir's head, of course, he thought, after all Ghazwan and Nadir were always close. Nadir looked more or less the same as he always did, in black robes and with a turban on his head, making sure that no bystander could mistake his heritage. His jade eyes were much the same.

"Cousin, what are you doing here?" Zahir questioned at Nadir.

"Cousin?" Annfwn said perplexed.

"Annfwn, for once in your life, be silent," Zahir ordered. With a 'humph', Annfwn resumed her normal composure. Jacque said nothing and fingered his throat.

"I see new of Erik has already reached you," Nadir said calmly.

"Erik?" Zahir replied. Who was Erik? What he related to Ghazwan some way?

"Pardon me cousin…Erik is only his French title, you knew him as Ghazwan," Nadir apologized.

"What dose Ghazwan have anything to do with this. Why would the lover of trap-doors and lassos be in Paris," Zahir said impatiently, taking on the aurora of Annfwn. He cursed himself for his impatience, but there were too many questions jumping around in his head.

"Alas dear cousin, first thing is first—and I feel you will agree on this: do we really want unnecessary eavesdroppers?" Nadir said, turning the table's cleverly against his cousin. Zahir grumbled; Nadir always had a point to make which was why he had made the position of Daroga with much more ease than he (Zahir) had. Nadir had his hands folded stubbornly across his chest, refusing to say another word unless Jacque was taken care of. With a sigh Zahir apologized for what he was about to do, and struck Jacque with the full force of his muscled arms. Jacque inhaled sharply upon impact but was quickly met with peace as he fell to the floor out cold.

"Satisfied?"

"Almost," Nadir said, looking at Annfwn. The Irish woman just glared back, as if daring the Persian to strike at her.

"She is with me cousin. Annfwn can be trusted," Zahir defended. Nadir gave him a reproachful glance, but Zahir met it full on. It was one of the only things that the two cousins had in common…both Zahir and Nadir were stubborn and refused to back down in a battle, whether or it was in war or wits.

"I wouldn't have thought you to become soft with a woman," Nadir mocked.

"Aye, and I wouldn't have suspected you to be fool enough to think that I would think of a woman in such a manor. We are partners, nothing more and nothing less. Whatever graces my lobes will do the same for her, and vice versa," Zahir said, protecting his best friend and comrade. Annfwn and he were bound by something thicker than blood; friendship. And although undeniable, Annfwn was a beautiful woman, Zahir really could not bring himself to think of her in the way of a lover.

"Fine, but let it be on your conscious, not mine. I will not be blamed for your mal-judgment," Nadir scowled at Annfwn who smirked. No, Nadir thought in the privacy of his head, she is much too headstrong for Zahir to think of her as anything more than a friend and comrade. "As I am sure you must have figured out, Ghazwan is in Paris," Nadir said.

"I should have figured as much. After all, wherever he is you are—tailing him like a bitch in heat," Zahir said coolly.

"Your insults are not necessary. I do not come for a fight, but if it is a fight you want I will give you just that. And make no mistake, I will win," Nadir threatened. Zahir scowled, knowing the truth behind his cousin's words. Although physically Zahir clearly had the advantage, Nadir was on good terms with the law and he was on the one sitting inside of a barrier of cold iron bars. Swallowing his pride, Zahir remained silent and allowed his cousin to speak. "I can also assume that you know that it was Ghazwan that nearly cost this man his life, and the life of his partner," Nadir said.

"I assumed as much. Only Ghazwan could construct and execute a Punjab with such accuracy," Zahir replied tonelessly.

"Cousin, instead of wooing you with petty words of blood oaths let me be honest. I come here in need of a favor, something that I cannot accomplish but you can," Nadir pleaded, losing all sarcasm. Zahir gave no reply so Nadir went on, "As you well know, Ghazwan is my friend and comrade, of sorts, much the same as her. He is in trouble and needs to leave the country. I cannot smuggle him out, my name is too well-known and dirtied. You, on the other hand, have a clean record in Persia. Well…a clean record under a presumed name, but I do not feel that you would be foolish enough to use your real name. You can smuggle him to safety. Many men are out for his blood in Persia, but nothing compared to who wish for his head here. Ghazwan would be much safer and in better hands if he were in a country of familiarity, on both your parts. Please cousin, I care not for blood oaths and words of our forefathers," Nadir begged.

"And so you just want me to ignore every moral fiber in my body, much less my hatred for you, and risk my neck (as well as the lives of others) to save some friend of yours who is in over his head? Nadir, cousin, have you been into your opium just a few too many times tonight?" Zahir exclaimed. After everything Nadir had done to ruin his life in Persia, he had the nerve to come and confront him in prison and ask to the favor of some fool's mission. And people always thought that I was the bad seed.

"I can compensate you," Nadir said quickly. "Money will be offered, of course, as well as free passage into and out from Persia again. I can clean your record in every country you have come across in. I can give you your freedom," Nadir bribed. "And her's," he added at Annfwn.

"I'm listening," Zahir said simply.

"I will get you out of here, and then you must come with me and get Ghazwan out of France and into Persia. Please cousin…if you do this I will compensate you and you will never hear hyde or hair of me ever again," Nadir begged.

"There is just one problem in your master plan," Zahir said acidly.

"And what is that?" Nadir replied just as coldly.

"I'm in here---you're out there," Zahir snorted.

"Tsk tsk, you would think in almost twenty years to know that your cousin is never without his tricks," Nadir said smoothly. He reached inside his robes and pulled out an iron ring with about half a dozen keys dangling from it. "Rest assured, I learned a thing or two from your habits," he said sarcastically and began testing the keys for which one fit the jail lock.

"Then by all means, lead the way," Zahir said. He then turned to Annfwn who looked surprisingly calm, "Are you up to another adventure?" there was no denying that they both could use the money and freedom. It was a good deal if both of them could benefit from it, and even better, I won't have to see that backstabbing bastard ever again, Zahir thought glaring at Nadir who was fumbling with the locks.

At the sound of a soft 'click' Annfwn smirked and said, "Bring it on. Anything is better than this dismal confinement," she laughed and stepped out from the jail cell with Zahir in her wake. Nadir motioned for them to follow and the pair followed.

MXIXM (the next morning)

Christine moaned out loud as she felt a strong grip shake her shoulders. "Alright alright," she said dryly and was glad when the assault ceased. She opened her tired eyes, for it could only be very early morning, to find Erik looking down at her with all seriousness. The expression he bore was a mixture of emotions that Christine could not quite put a name it. Something had to be wrong. "Erik, what's wrong?" Christine inquired.

"Hurry up and get dressed. It looks like the accomplices of the fools who took you are back," Erik growled impatiently. Christine's eyes shot open wide. What would happen if they found her? Nodding in understanding Christine watched Erik leave allowing for privacy. Christine took advantage of it and dressed as quickly as her injured state allowed. She wore the same peacock blue dress from the previous day; it allowed her the movement she would need in her healing state. It was not a second too soon because the next sound that came to her was the impatient racking on the wooden door. Christine opened it. Erik, in his usual black, grabbed her hand and began leading her through the house. Despite being underground, his lair was almost ridiculously complex with passageways and corridors just as any house would be on the surface.

"Erik, where are you taking me?" she asked as her wrist was beginning to hurt under his massive grip.

Erik said nothing as he went through his home. He would not allow them to get their hands on her again. Never. He would personally see to it that he would Punjab their heads from their bodies. As he raced madly through his cavernous house, Erik cursed himself for making the blasted mirror so entwined in the dark. It was the only exit from his lair that would physically ease Christine's passage. The man hoped that Christine's dressing room had remained empty in her two year leave, it was the only real hiding place that Christine would be at least semi-safe in. ignoring her questions, Erik soon found the tapestry that concealed the mirror entrance.

Christine silenced her questions as she saw the tapestry. Fiddling with levers on the wall, Christine watched as Erik pulled the correct switch and the mirror swung open. Without a word, Erik pulled her inside the dark corridor. Normally Christine would have been frightened when she entered such piercing darkness, but with Erik guiding her hand Christine did not fear it. The corridor only went one way and there were no traps or junctions that interweaved within it. Erik designed it that way, as Christine well knew.

Soon Erik eased his pace and eventually it came to a halt as he again began to finger the cold stone walls. "Ah ha!" he said in triumph as the click of another lever was heard and yet another mirror swung open. Taking her hand in his, Christine blushed guiltily as her heart skipped a beat; Erik led her into her former dressing room. It was extremely nostalgic to be in the same room where she had once spent so many hours singing with her mysterious "Angel of Music". Christine could literary feel all of the happy memories flooding her. Who would have thought that her Angel of Music was no more, or less, than a tortured genius?

Christine was soon pulled back into reality, quite literally, as Erik tugged fiercely on her arm. She gasped in pain for a split second, but managed to turn it into a cough. "Stay here, don't move. Only ill can come of those sons of bitches find you again," Erik warned. In his golden eyes a flicker of emotion that Christine could not quite catch flashed but was gone in the next instant. She nodded her head in understanding and watched as Erik crept back through the mirror. Now that Christine could see the entirety of his figure, her gaze was immediately drawn to the Punjab lasso he grasped. She watched as the door slammed shut behind him. Christine suddenly became frightened of the fact that she felt absolutely no pity towards the fate of the men below. Normally she would always drown in sadness at the thought of another soul being murdered but not this time. This time she cared nothing for the things that had violated her so horribly, even if Maslin hadn't raped her.

After pondering the subject the entire previous eve, Christine had quickly found that indeed Erik had saved her from the brink of being violated. While she lived with her father, Christine's young ears often heard the terrible stories of street women being raped and although at the time the 6-year-old child did not understand, Christine now recalled their tears of shame and humiliation. One woman, who had been a dear friend of her mother before she had passed, had lived through such a horrible ordeal. Christine could barely recall her face, much less her name, but vividly remembered the many nights of endless sobbing that her mother's friend had endured. However in comparison to her attack, the pain from her womanhood recovered very quickly and she found that within a day there were no more tearing pains or aching pulsations. No, she thought. It all had to be from when that bastard had kicked her or at least from that blow in particular.

Surveying the dressing room Christine found that the general structure of it remained, as most of the Opera Populaire, unchanged. When she had occupied it the walls were, at the very least, five feet thick in flowers and gifts from admirers. Now the walls were bare and the creamy white wall paint chipped away in many places. The large oil painting of La Carlotta had been removed from the far end, of course it was removed only after I left, Christine thought, remembering all the countless occasions she had requested for the picture to be removed. It was not like Christine had anything personal against Carlotta, but having a portrait of your rival in your dressing area was a little out of the question. Near the mirror was the same dressing screen that Christine had used so many times in the past. It remained much as it had been in neither good or ill condition but in a mediocre state.

Christine sighed as she sunk down onto the cold floors. It seemed way too early for even for practices to even begin. Christine felt a wave of guilt wash over her as she sat in the corner. How was she going to explain this to Raoul? As a child one was always told to tell the truth, but in her case it was out of the question. 'I'm sorry Raoul. As it turns out I only love you in a friendship sort of way, and instead have fallen back in love with the Phantom of the Opera'. Even in her mind the words sounded too stupid and utterly ridiculous. What was she going to do? With every increasing moment she spent with Erik, the more her conflicted emotions burned. It was like someone had taken a white hot poker and inserted it right into her chest. However Christine knew that sooner or later she would have to return to Raoul and explain her absence. There was no doubt he would react in a rage. Who wouldn't be angry if their wife had spent an extended period of time with their rival? At the same time Christine knew that this whole experience had to be taking its toll on Erik as well. He had tried so hard to keep her from running away with Raoul and now suddenly his wildest dreams had come true and he was with his first and only love again. Everything must be worse ten-fold for him, Christine thought while scolding herself for thinking only of her own wants and needs. It had been something she had been doing too much of recently. Ever since she read the newspaper article everything on her mind had been for her own want and benefits. How could she just discard Raoul like that? After everything he had done and given her, how could she do that? The answer floated in her mind itching to be said out loud, but Christine refused to say it.

Because I love him.

No, she point black refused to say it aloud. Speaking it would only confirm it all the more and what would Erik say if he overheard her? It would give him false hope that she would remain at his side and cast away her high society aristocratic life with Raoul. Erik would no doubt lose what bit of his sanity he kept if she left him again. Christine let out a sigh of frustration. "You're damned if you do and damned if you don't," she resigned.

Strangely she felt no fear or apprehension to the fact that the men who had taken her were just a few yards below her feet. She knew that there was no reason to fear them. Erik was there to guard and protect her. There was nothing they could do to her while Erik still breathed. And even then, his spirit would haunt them till the day they died of fright from a ghost. Christine laughed, and then he really would be the 'Opera Ghost'. Christine jerked her head up at the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door.

Her heart began to race in fright. What would happen if she was found? There was no doubt that she would be returned to Raoul immediately, and that would only produce negativity and, no doubt, a few more lifeless corpses. Christine could feel the lump of dread begin to rise in her throat as the brass door handle began to turn. She could do nothing but pray that it was either Linette or even Papillon that opened that door. Bracing herself for the worst Christine didn't even dare to breathe as the door creaked open.

"Christine?" exclaimed a familiar voice. She could not believe it. Christine stood there transfixed at her incredible luck. There in the door way was Meg Giry. She rose to meet her best friend's flabbergasted expression. "My God, what are you doing here?" Meg said. The young blonde surveyed her friend standing right there before her. "What happened?" she said, taking note of Christine's many bruises and partially swollen eye.

"Please Meg, don't tell anyone," Christine pleaded. Without word nor warning, Meg ran head on and embraced her best friend. Christine stood there wide-eyed for a second but then returned her friend's gesture.

"Oh Christine… We were all so worried," Meg cried into her best friend's shoulder.

"Meg…" Christine said.

"But why are you here and not with the Vicomte?" Meg asked, pulling away from the embrace with jubilant tears in her eyes. "And what happened to you? You look like you have been beaten within an inch of your life," she said concerned.

"Meg, please you can't tell anyone….," Christine said. Even though Meg was her best friend under the light of the heavens, she needed her word of silence. If even a mere whisper got to Raoul…Christine shuddered at the thought.

"Don't worry Christine, no one will ever hear of it from me," Meg promised.

With a sigh and a heavy heart, Christine began to pour out what had happened to her over the past few days.

VIVMXIXMVIV

END CHAPTER.

Well how do you like it? I hope you like it a lot.

Like I said earlier, this will be my last update before I take off with my dad. Don't yell at me, I barely get to see my dad and I miss him.

I am seeing Star Wars this weekend! Booyeah! I cannot wait Darth Vader rules.

Please review, it makes me feel so happy and loved. It also helps you because I will write faster. Who knows, maybe if I get…lets say…10 review, I just MIGHT put my ass to the grass and get out one more chapter before I leave. Please note that is a big fat MIGHT, but you could always get lucky. 10 reviews…

57 days, 2 hours, and 50 minutes to Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

I remain, readers, your obedient author,

E.M.