And now, my friends, for chapter 8!

I am so sorry for my extended leave of absence. A month and a half! But I had the time of my bloody life with dad and in New York City. Updates will resume as per norm until band camp. Then I will most likely take another leave because band camp really knows how to kick you in the ass. On the positive hand, I lost 7 lbs in New York!

Disclaimer: All is property of Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lyod Webber and all those good people. The plot and characters you don't recognized (Zahir, Annfwn, Jacque) are MINE. No touchie!

Star Wars was awesome. Poor Anakin… (Snuggles him and Vader). For a full review see my live-journal (the link can be found under my homepage in my profile)

Warnings: The usual, language, violence, sexuality, and Raoul drunk. And cousinly hatred (not like that, pervs…)

Notes: I just want some feed back on this…I tired really hard to keep my story from revolving on a whim on my original characters (i.e. Zahir) but it really seems that it is turning out that way. What do you think of Zahir? Do I make him believable enough? Is he humane enough with strengths and weaknesses? If anyone out there hates Zahir's character, please let me know exactly why you hate him so I can keep my story from turning south. I will admit this right now; Annfwn will play a part also but just not as big of a one as Zahir. What do you think of her?

Author's Note: IMPORTANT: This story is NOT based off of Susan Kay's works. Erik's past in here has nothing to do with Kay's interpretation of if, and although I have said this before I will say it again, this is from the original Leroux version. Leroux left a lot of questions unanswered so this is more or less how I envisioned everything. Do not go flaming me saying that 'this-and-this' did not happen in Susan Kay's work, I know, because this is not based from Kay's novel. Get it! Got it! Good. All flames will be read, laughed at in their ignorance for not reading this, and deleted.

MXIXVXIXM

Erik's yellow eyes darted to and fro in his cavernous darkness. With Christine safely inside her old dressing room, he would have no qualms about killing the foolish sons-of-scum who dared to return. Ayesha's amber lanterns shone through distinctly as she slinked in and out of the shadows. A surge of affection hit Erik towards his feline friend; it had been she who alerted him to the presence of intruders. Ayesha glared at Erik, but then slid off out of sight. Erik felt no worry, she would be back, Ayesha would always return to him. Soon he found himself in the brink of the mirror entrance into his house. The sound of pillaging and ransacking vanished and instead was replaced by three sets of quiet voices.

Erik put his ear up to the door, listening for anything that might prove useful. He gripped his Punjab tightly just waiting for the right opportunity. Given the situation, Erik knew that he was not thinking with the best rational, but he didn't care. Wait a second, Erik pondered, if they wanted Christine, wouldn't they wish to keep their voices down and all other noise to a minimum? The three voices outside were clearly making no effort not to be heard and talked rather openly. Keeping his presence unknown, Erik listened and waited at the three intruders.

One, he could easily distinguish as a woman. Her voice was high pitched and heavily accented; Erik could easily tell that French was not her first language, or even her second. The second voice was man's voice, deep, calm and serene. It boomed deeply in echoes against the walls. Erik thought for a second where he had heard it before, but dismissed the thought; the only people that knew he was alive was Christine, the two bi-products if dirt he had killed, and that foolish little opera brat. The man's French was slightly broken, but spoken with general ease. Erik could not define the third voice, who rarely spoke at all. The main reason he knew there was three people was he heard three distinct sets of steps. Leaning in closer, Erik listened to their conversation.

"Cousin are you sure this is the right place?" the deep masculine baritone voice questioned.

"Or has he just simply led us on another wild goose chase," the woman's voice criticized.

Erik could hear the third person sigh with annoyance, "Would you have preferred it in your cell?" he said dryly. Erik could sparsely believe it. What is the Daroga doing here? For sure, if he possessed even the merest ounce of common sense, Nadir would have run as far from France as his legs would carry him. "Either you still your tongue, or I will do the world a courtesy by removing it. We are in the correct place, but where Ghazwan is I cannot say," Nadir finished.

Ghazwan…I have not been called that in many long years…but who else would know me by that name?

"And how would proceed in removing it? Would you be the brute that double-crossed me and slowly saw it away with a dull knife, or would you take pity on your poor, thieving, uneducated cousin and use a sharp blade?" the unknown male voice replied bitterly.

"Neither, I would simply deport you back to Persia and allow the authorities to have that honor. After all, even twenty years later, the wrath of the daroga dose not fade the slightest bit," Nadir spat back. Erik, for the first time in many years, was confused by what was going on just on the other side of a piece of wood. Who were the other two people? Why would Nadir Khan lead them back to his lair, and most certainly death?

"I do not doubt that, and they will be even more enraged when they find your head wrapped in Baghdad silk on their stoop," the other man threatened.

A pause ensured afterwards, but even from the other side of the door, Erik could feel the tension.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, will you two just stop acting like foolish children and focus on the task at hand," the woman's voice piped up impatiently. "Honestly, men think with their jewels and not their heads," she added.

Deciding that Erik had enough of listening to their petty arguing he flipped the latch to his door. He walked through the door, Punjab in hand, with his cloak swaying menacingly. Immediately all three intruders silenced their squabbles and Erik emerged from the shadows with a smirk on his face. The unknown man and woman halted in their steps and Nadir said nothing, looking at his friend in a mixture of shock and friendship. "Daroga, what are you doing here?" Erik demanded. He enjoyed the looks of shock on all three people. Upon surveying the unknown man, Erik knew automatically knew that he was of some sort of Arabic heritage, whether or not it was from Persia, Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran, Saudi Arabia or any other Muslim country. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Nadir; the pair could practically pass as brothers save for eye color and bodily physique.

"Erik, old friend, you must listen to what I have to say," Nadir pleaded to his old friend. "This is Zahir, you may remember him from Persia," Nadir pointed to his cousin.

"Zahir? Is he not the one you referred to as 'my accursed blood abomination'?" Erik teased darkly, noting the extremely offended look on Zahir's face. Now that he thought about it, Erik could recollect meeting Zahir around the same time when he had to be smuggled away. Erik had originally thought of him to be a clever man, and not one to linger in trouble. How wrong I was. If Zahir was smart enough, he would have remained in Persia, even under a false alias, than come to his dark lair. "Yes, Daroga. But that still dose not explain why he is here. You are lucky," Erik directed at Zahir and the redheaded woman next to him, "If you were with anyone but the Daroga then you would find my lasso on your neck"

"I was getting there my friend," Nadir said. "Listen, you are in danger. It is no coincidence that Christine was captured and brought here, of all places. I doubt those two bumbling morons knew any more than you do, my friend," Nadir continued in all seriousness. Erik looked at his old friend. Why would he be in danger? Only he, Christine, and now Zahir as well as the woman knew he was alive. Everyone else believed him to be dead.

"Daroga, why do you say this? None besides yourselves know that I am still alive…I made sure of that," Erik said impatiently and slightly annoyed. It was strangely ironic that in a futile attempt to produce his own death that those around him did indeed to believe the Phantom to be gone. Originally he had been furious when he woke up a few short hours later in much the same condition, only with a severe aching temple. Apparently overdosing on Opium was not the smartest path to commit suicide. It took him three weeks to regain his motor skills fully without the aid of a professional, and Erik would be damned before he revealed his lump of flesh to still be breathing. No doubt that the Vicomte boy would march right down to the Opera Populaire and shoot him on the spot. The mere thought of Raoul sent Erik's blood boiling and he soon dismissed all traces of the Vicomte.

"Alas, in France you are thought to be dead. But in other places—"

"The Persian royals know me to be dead, unless you bumbled my smuggling and fake death," Erik sharply cut Nadir short. The Sultan and Sula knew him to be dead. That was it, case closed. Who else would know he was alive? Even more so, who would know he was here and would take Christine?

"I am not talking about Persia. My friend, I know very little of your past, but word has reached my ear that Fadil is still alive and eager for revenge," Nadir finished quickly, not daring to take in a breath. Even Erik spoke sparsely on the subject of Fadil and the Gypsy circus camp. Nadir couldn't blame him, if he had that sort of past, there was no doubt that he would never speak of it.

"Fadil is dead! I murdered him myself. My first victim," Erik growled dangerously. Nadir was stepping onto unsteady soil and he would not tolerate his jokes. Fadil deserved every once of pain he slowly inflicted on the man. Even Erik wouldn't call that brute, Fadil, a man.

"Alas, Allah has carved out a tedious path for you my friend. Indeed, Fadil is dead, but his son Fadil II still draws breath. He will not forgive his father's murder. He was a mere lad when you killed his father, as you had the right to, but now he lives for revenge," Nadir confessed. It had been by pure accident and coincidence that he knew of Fadil's plan for revenge.

"Daroga, how do you know this?" Erik skeptically inquired. If Nadir was lying, Erik would kill him slowly, painfully and tortuously, as well as Zahir and the still unidentified woman. No one had the right to tread upon his past, and Erik would kill all those who dared. Although I doubt that none would want to venture down that way. His past would leave most people scarred just from listening to it, much less living it. Erik would not tolerate it. The past was over, never to be tread upon again.

"I cannot say, my friend. My head would be upon a wooden pike if I were to speak it aloud. Erik, why would I tell you this if it were not true? You must leave at once. Christine as well. I have no doubt that it was you who killed at least one of cronies he sent to take Christine. The other is alive, barely, but still breathing none-the-less"

"Do you mean that strange man who was after the Vicomtess?" Zahir asked, daring to speak up in all the confusion. He knew not who this Fadil was, nor did he care. But at the sight of Ghazwan alive, even well, was shocking and confusing to no end. Zahir almost pitied Annfwn; she knew even less and surely was more flaggergasted than he. "But what dose the wife of that whelp have anything to do with this 'Christine'?" Zahir demanded.

"Zahir, remain silent. You shall be informed in due time," Nadir glared at his cousin.

"No cousin, I will not be kept in the dark about this matter. I am already free, I could just leave now and be done with you all," Zahir said acidly.

"Yes, you could leave. But by next light, the bounty on your head would total in so many Francs that every bounty hunter in France would be hot on your trail," Nadir threatened. Zahir was his only chance of getting Erik and Christine out of the country, he would not lose it.

"Both of you quit your boyish squabbling," Annfwn said, folding her arms in vexation.

"Ah yes, and what benefit would you bring by the Daroga freeing you?" Erik directed at the woman for the first time. He glared at her menacingly, but she just returned the cold expression with fire.

"Erik, I can buy you a passage out of France and to safety in Persia. I myself cannot return, my previous flight has ensured that, but my cousin can smuggle you two in safely. Fadil dose not expect you to return to Persia with your many enemies. Zahir can keep you two in safe hiding," Nadir finished.

Erik stood there debating what to do. There was no doubt he had many enemies in Persia, but he had enemies everywhere. But if Fadil was alive…or rather the spawn of the bastard he would find no rest. "What of the Vicomte?" Erik questioned.

"He thinks you to be dead, or else he would have ravaged this place already. He is searching everywhere for Christine but you are not on the list of suspects," Nadir informed.

"And it will remain that way," Erik said. "Whether or not I flee".

"My friend, I cannot linger. You must choose now. Zahir and Annfwn will get you two to safety, and in safety you will remain until this is solved," Nadir pleaded.

"Then flee. I will not be moved. Let them come if they will. Let them come and meet with my Torture Chamber and become closely acquainted with my lasso," Erik finished. He would not move. Christine was safe as long as she was with him. He would allow no harm to come to her. The fool who even fathomed of harming her would soon meet the light at the end of the tunnel.

"Would you really gamble her life on such unsteady circumstances," Nadir said, hitting Erik's only weak spot. He would do anything for the Vicomtess, as Nadir well knew. It was the only way that his stubborn friend could be consoled into safety. Nadir knew it was a very low blow, but fouls were always permitted in dirty matters.

Erik paused and resisted the urge to wrap his lasso around the daroga's throat. He dared to use Christine as leverage. Again a pregnant pause took the room as Erik thought the situation through. Knowing he would regret it, Erik spoke up, "Tell them to return at first light of tomorrow. We will be ready," he finished. Erik knew he was over-reacting to Nadir's deliberate usage of Christine, but he was willing to live with that. If Fadil's spawned brat was anything like his father, it would be in her best interest to leave.

XCICX

"Christine," Raoul groaned in agony. "Where are you?" he asked to no one in particular. The police had informed him that there had been no trace of Christine to be found at all. They had checked the Populaire, as well as every other opera house within the boundaries of Paris. She was no where to be found. It was as if she had just vanished into thin air. Raoul didn't know what to do. The phantom was dead, and there was no where else she could be. Raoul could only hope and pray with every fiber in his body that Christine was alive and not at the hands of some street scum thief. Raoul's head pounded painfully. The previous eve he had drowned himself in alcohol at the local pub. Raoul did not know where else to turn, everywhere else people shunned him away or called him boyish and stupid to get so worked up over an 'opera singer' wife. Luckily for him no one recognized him as the Vicomte de Chagny, just as another drunken fool drowning in grief and whiskey. The whiskey had been his only real release; nothing the police said helped to soothe his pains and worries. In just mere minutes Raoul had been caught up in the world of drunken ecstasy as he found himself in the midst of nearly a dozen beautiful street girls. The alcohol had been the deciding factor in bedding one of them, a slim blonde haired, blue eyed with more curves than he could shake a stick at. The Vicomte did not even recollect the memory of taking her, just the wild lust he felt as he released himself into her, and away from reality. He paid her well for her services, but and Raoul swiftly left returning to the de Chagny mansion smelling of whiskey and sex. He cared not for what whisperings that was no doubt being spread among the servants. With no questions asked, Raoul had been immediately taken to his exquisitely furnished room and lied down to sleep off his drunken stupor.

A gentle knock to the door pulled Raoul out from his trance. "Monsieur, it is me, Hans," said the cheerful voice of one of his man servants. In a click, Hans entered the room with his bright complexion and sparkling eyes. Raoul was almost sickened at his bouncy nature and attitude so early in the morning. Raoul watched as the youth went across the room and spread the large mahogany draperies. The Vicomte squinted in pain as the sun hit him and drew his hand up to block out the light. "Master was sure out late last night. You would not even begin to fathom the rumors being spread," Hans piped up.

"Rumors are just that, rumor. I care not for their words," Raoul said dryly. He was in no disposition to deal with Hans so early in the morning, especially with a pounding hangover.

"That's true. Are you alright? Is there anything you need to talk about?" Hans inquired, taking a seat on the brink of the large canopy bed.

"No—thank you Hans. It is just concern for my wife," Raoul replied, just wanting for Hans to disappear into thin air, knowing that it would not happen. He had a business meeting that day and had put off too much work looking for Christine to avoid it. Raoul cursed his high ranking title.

"Oh, I see. Don't fret over it, everything will turn out all right in the end," Hans consoled cheerfully. "In any case, Mousier Smith from England is awaiting you downstairs. I told him you would be several minuets," the youth bubbled.

Raoul moaned in annoyance. Mr. Smith was the very last person he wanted to deal with, especially with a hangover. Mr. Smith was a rough tongued and brutally honest business man, clever in his own work experience but deaf to the world around him. He could smell a scam a mile away but not know, or even care, of his own wife was eloping with another man. Raoul sent Hans away and went to go dress. It was going to be one long day.

MVIVM

"Oh Christine," Meg consoled her best friend, who was sitting in the dark corners. Upon hearing her story, Meg understood why Christine chose to keep it to herself. But on the other hand, she scarcely dared to believe that infamous Phantom of the Opera was still alive, kicking and living in the lake under the Opera Populaire. Surely the new owner, Monsieur DeCour would have spoken or at least given some indication if the Phantom was writing letters to him, as he always did with each new owner. Unfortunately Firmin and Andre were just two stupid to comprehend his demands. Her mother had told Meg everything about what had transpired shortly after the chandelier feel.

Christine felt warm and numb all in the same moment. It was so strange to have someone to confide in. Living as the high class Vicomtess de Chagny did not allow room for friends, or confessions of your true emotions to someone other than God. She didn't even talk to Raoul, only on the rare occasion what it was needed. Christine shuddered at the topic of their last true conversation—it was not a memory she wished to relive. But with Meg she could tell her anything, and Christine told her everything. "I'm surprised that Raoul hasn't searched here yet," she commented.

"On the contrary, he came here twice. Once with the police and once on his own. He bribed the new owners with everything, money, power, posterity for any lead of sorts to your location. But to no avail, no one knew where you were. His daughter, Linette I believe her name is, seemed quite upset and distraught at your disappearance. I didn't know what to think when the Vicomte burst in here twice demanding information," Meg said, sinking down to her best friend's eye level.

"Please don't tell Raoul I'm here," Christine asked softly. She did not wish to ponder, much less see, what would transpire if Raoul found her in her current state and met face to face with Erik again.

"Why?" Meg inquired. Christine laughed; indeed it was a valid question. They seemed such a happy couple when they were together and now all the sudden she could not stand of Raoul knew the truth. "What happened?" the blonde young woman pushed.

It was a subject Christine would rather avoid in general. It was the subject of her marriage. It was not joyful and jubilant, nor was it the wealthy life of a happy, rich, sociable noble woman. And yet it was not bad either. That was the terrible thing about her marriage; it was terrible, gruesome and confining, while being comforting and secure all in the same moment. Most women had no problem distinguishing the current affair of their matrimony, but no—she had to be cursed with having it being many things at once, both happy and sad. There was no doubt her life had changed drastically to a life that any man or woman would kill, or commit any other crime at that, to possess. Christine did indeed have many maid servants to wait on her beck and call, but everything was cold and held no real warmth of human comfort. Her life had not the existence of hardship, but instead she had to deal with the dozens of stuck-up, snotty rich Countesses that cared only for money, the latest fashion, and the newest gossip. It was very cold in that aspect, especially considering the whole scandal that enveloped her former title of La Daae, and the connection with the infamous "Phantom". On more than one occasion it had been made widely known that most thought of her to have slept with Erik before marrying Raoul, and that she was nothing but a deceiving gold-digger. Christine cared little for their petty unknowing words and insults, but it was lonely not having a true friend to confide in. The issue of producing a child had become more and more relevant. She was asked on nearly a daily basis on whether or not she believed to have conceived. Raoul arranged monthly doctor visits, becoming frivolously desperate for any news of an heir. Sex was little more than a nightly duty to fulfill with her husband, and there was little, if no pleasure taken in it.

Christine dodged Meg's question and said nothing in return. Meg sank down to her level and hugged her friend consolingly and comfortingly. Christine was grateful to have a real friend again—or rather see her best one. She was just about to answer Meg's inquiry when the sound of banging metal and wood was heard. Both women turned to see the mirror jump to life and Erik step out from beneath its murky depths.

Meg gasped. "You're supposed to be dead," she shrieked! Her mother had told her as much, and when the paper headlines read Erik is Dead it confirmed Madame Giry's words.

"And by all means, I will remain dead," Erik growled at the blonde trembling figure. His yellow eyes flashed danger and heed to his words. He had entered on the butt end of their conversation, and as tempting as it was to listen to what Christine had to confess in the presence of her best friend, he was in no mood to listen to anyone's harping.

"Erik wh—" Christine began but was acutely cut off. Erik had grabbed a hold of her wrist and drug her back into his mysterious labyrinth.

MIXIXVIXIM

END CHAPTER.

Again, I am so sorry this took so damn long to get out.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the book, Erik was no abused or tortured at the Gypsy Camp. He ran away and joined the gypsies and traveled with them. That is one thing that REALLY PISSED me off about the musical and movie. Baka ALW. How do you think he became a magician!

Enough said on that, thus give too much away.

Please R&R. Don't flame me about my absence. All flames will be read, laughed at, and deleted. Much to my amusement and to your dismay.

I remain, readers, your obedient author,

E.M.