A/N: Crap, my muse needs to get back here RIGHT NOW. Sorry once again for the slow update and not-so-great chapter!

You know, I really should be putting a disclaimer on this thing, just in case the Copyright Police come and check out my fanfic…

Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of the characters. Dammit.

Thanks to all reviewers! You make my day!

AmintaKitten: Thanks for the input! I do agree with you... I sometimes get paranoid about writing really "in-depth feelings" because I'm afraid of messing up the characters. I will work on that though!

eriksmyhoney: Your friend cried when she read this? Wow... if thats not flattering, I don't know what is. THANK YOU!

Chapter 8

Erik's heart jackhammered in his throat as he led Christine though the passageway he had just used that morning. He felt as if a dark cloud of foreboding loomed over him, and he gritted his teeth in an attempt to quell his racing nerves.

"Wait for a moment," he said as they reached the rock door. He passed the stub of dripping candle to Christine as he slipped his mask into his pocket and pulled a wad of white cloth bandages and began wrapping them around his face.

"What are you doing?" she asked, staring at him in surprise and confusion as he began tying knots tightly in various places around his head.

"You don't think I'd go out in my mask, would you?" he replied. "Or without." He finished quickly and turned back to Christine, a ghost of a grin on his barely exposed lips before it flitted away. "You will pretend I am your elderly father, wounded in the wars."

Christine suppressed laughter - his entire head was swathed in bandages, crisscrossing around the back of his head and over his face, leaving just his eyes, mouth and chin exposed.

"Yes, I know it looks foolish, but I have no better idea," Erik retorted as she let a giggle slip out. "I wanted to wait until nightfall, but we just can't risk it..."

He pushed a deep brown top hat onto his head and it slipped easily over the tightly tied layers of white cloth. Christine smiled again, amused at the image of him in a top hat, but knew that they must do all they could do disguise themselves. The bandages and the hat made him look realistic enough so that he really could pass for an injured old gentleman.

He took the candle from Christine and stubbed it out, slipping it into his pocket.

"Can't leave any trace," he whispered into the dark.

His voice was calm – he must keep it calm, for her sake – but his stomach churned with anxiety and he shut his eyes tightly for a moment, glad that Christine could not see his unease.

He took her arm. "Are you ready?"

She didn't say anything, but could feel her nod. "Good," he replied, and reached for the tiny hidden knob.

The harsh grinding of the moving rock was quieter than it had been earlier, but the sound still made his muscles tense, and he had to fight to stay where he was and not to flee back into the safety of darkness.

Brilliant morning light spilled into the corridor and he said to Christine in almost a growl, "Move."

She stumbled from the passage, the light blinding her. Before she could even stand straight, she could hear the door closing behind her, and Erik was at her side grasping her elbow, moving purposefully along.

"Stand up, walk," he said, trying to sound firm but unable to hide the note of panic in his voice.

People, people everywhere! Thank God it was a Saturday, and the market was open several blocks away – it meant that there were common folk everywhere. It did almost nothing to calm him… noise, faces, everywhere, all around, were they staring at him? Were they looking for him? Where were the police?

He linked his arm through Christine's and forced himself to go at a steady, sedate pace. "I'm elderly, I'm injured," he mumbled to himself. He repeated the same thing to her, louder.

"We must go slowly," he added. "We can't look suspicious. We're not running. We're not hiding." He said the last part mostly for himself.

They strolled along the cobblestones – oh, it was so hard to stroll when they really wanted to tear away from the hustle and bustle of it all – weaving their way slowly through the chattering crowds going to and fro. A stream of laughing children running through the sea of adults, a tight group of housewives gossiping, a pair of storekeepers talking shop… The mere sound of people's feet on the ground made him jump, the clatter of carriages passing made him want to take off running. His entire body was uptight, and the muscles in his back were beginning to ache from the tension.

People hardly gave them a second glance, but just in case Erik made himself move even slower, adding a slight limp for effect. It was easier said than done, when his body was screaming to flee to the nearest dark hole.

"Where are we going?" Christine whispered out of the corner of her mouth, keeping a tranquil smile pasted on her face.

"I know a man who can help us," Erik replied, "A man I knew from long ago…"

They sidestepped to get out of the way of an oncoming carriage. When Erik saw the coat of arms on the side he tensed – damn, he was getting frustrated with doing that – but the carriage passed by without stopping. He tried to force himself to breath naturally, but found he couldn't, and gave up the attempt.

There was a knot of police and official-looking men clustered at the opposite corner, talking loudly. Erik stiffened, resisting the urge to balk like a horse. He felt Christine's clutch on his arm tighten and he glanced down at her. Beneath the shadow of the hood her face was placid and serene, but her eyes were wide and frightened, darting back and forth, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she sucked in quick little gasps.

"Shh," he murmured, though he wasn't far from doing the same. As long as he preserved his calm façade, she would do the same – she was hinging on his strength right now. Mustn't let her see him afraid. Oh God, what had possessed him to do this, it was broad daylight, they would not make it –

They strolled past the knot of uniformed men, and Erik forced him to gaze straight ahead as if without a care in the world. He was just an elderly gentleman, out for a morning stroll with his daughter…

One of the men was looking at him! What was he looking at? Did he suspect? Erik let his gaze slide over to him for half a second, and the man glanced him up and down, frowned slightly, then shrugged to himself and turned back to his colleagues.

The pair continued past them, Christine nodding her head politely to one of the men who tipped his hat to her. Her jaw ached with the tension of keeping the pleasant expression on her face, and her knees felt weak, but she forced herself to keep walking at the same sedate pace, to keep a hold on Erik's arm.

They were nearly four blocks away from the Opera House, mingling among the flurry of people when Erik whispered into her ear, "Hail a hansom."

Her fingers fumbled as he passed her a small leather bag of coins, the weight feeling heavier than it should in her shaking palm. A hansom, yes, she could do that, she'd done it before…

She worked her way around a gaggle of chattering women and stepped closer to the road, and had to wait only for a moment before she flagged down a passing carriage. It clattered to a halt in front of her, and with flash of yellowed teeth the beefy driver said loudly, "Where to, Mam'selle? Messieur?"

She froze suddenly, not having a clue what to say. But Erik murmured in her ear, and she repeated automatically, "My father and I wish to go for a drive in the country."

The bulky driver eyed them. "That's quite a ways…" but his eyes lit up as Christine quickly stretched out her arm and handed the bag of money to him. His mustached mouth curved into a grin as he tested its weight in his hand, and he slipped the bag into the pocket of his faded coat and said, eyeing Erik, "Will he be needin' any help?"

"No, we're fine." Christine pretended to lead Erik to the carriage, and she reached for the door, swinging it open quickly and guiding him inside as she would've done for a frail old man.

She pulled herself in and sat down with a thud, exhaling a long rush of air and sinking back into the seat as the carriage pulled jerkily to a start.