A/N: Sorry again for the slow update. I was away at camp for a week, getting 30+ mosquito bites and a horrific sunburn. However, I was able to get quite a bit of writing done. I'm still not sure if I like this chapter, but here it is. :)

Nicole Gruebel: Because she's silly and she has some growing up to do. Which will be revealed later in this chapter.

EarthDragonette: Aww, thank you so much for that review. I love getting reviews where people tell specifically what they did or didn't like!

Ethalas Tuath'an: Ditto to what I said to EarthDragonette. :D

PhantomsHeart: That part of the chapter makes me laugh each time I read it. :P

All That Remains: Because I'm sadistic like that. j/k!

Misty Breyer: That's Erik for ya. ;)

Jpink: The book is "Phantom" by Susan Kay. Its quite pricey to buy a new copy, but you could try finding it at a used bookstore. Or I could send you it in text format.

erikphan24601: Weird obsessed Erik phan? Is there any such thing? It's all perfectly natural. How can you not love him:D

Captain Oblivious: gahhh! Am most jealous.

et-spiritus-sancti: No problem! I have to share the Phantom love! (and isn't Kay Erik the sexiest thing alive? Well… not necessarily alive… but you get my point.)

Phantom: I'm hoping I've been writing it so it makes sense to people who haven't read the book. :)

Chapter 23

Erik swept through the doors of the fencing academy as if he were a dark demigod, rage seething from his skin the way steam hisses from hot coals.

He had attended the prestigious club for years – anonymously. Members' names were all kept in a book in the office, but the club was frequented by the wealthy and famous, so it was automatically assumed that anyone fencing there hadthe right to do so. It was not as if anybody checked under his jacket, mask and gloves to be sure he was registered.

He slipped into the storage room and, finding it empty, changed into his equipment. Not many of the members stored their gear at the club itself, but the space was offered if they wished to do so. He finished and left the room, skirting alongside the main hall to the lounge, passing the shuffle of feet and clangs of metal on metal.

There were only two pairs of fencers out on the strips – the club was almost empty today. A group of older men stood in an uneven circle examining a saber, while a pair of youths bantered good-naturedly, their voices echoing throughout the wooden paneling and soaring ceilings of the large hall.

Nobody paid him any mind; every man there was either wearing or holding a wire-mesh mask tucked under his arm, and Erik's was not at all out of place. Most might have thought it odd that he wore it while at rest, but it had never been commented on.

Erik had only a few moments to wait in the lounge before he was asked to a bout, by a grinning young pup who tossed his hair as if it were a flag. With a sneer, Erik rose from the armchair, slipping on his glove and following the strutting boy to an empty fencing strip.

The boy grinned proudly at an older man in fencing whites – most likely his father – who sat in a row of chairs along side the wall.

"Good luck, lad," the man called out. "And remember, watch your point."

Watch your point? Erik thought. Only beginners were given such menial advice. In such a mood as he was now, he would easily demolish the young man's simple novice attacks.

The pair saluted, their foils whipping through the air before the men settled into the en garde position. The boy remained in the pose for mere seconds before launching into a quick lunge. Erik easily parried the move and his opponent countered with a hasty riposte, retreating quickly as Erik advanced. He moved swiftly, stalking the young man to the end of the strip before feinting an attack. The boy fell for the deception, thrusting his blade too soon and leaving his chest open for Erik's lunge. The tip hit his opponent's jacket solidly, and the youth let out a growl of frustration.

Erik let the boy make the next two touches, slowing his parries and over exaggerating his moves to make them predictable. As Erik expected, after that brief victory the lad began to get cocky… and after the touches, Erik toyed with him, feinting and false-attacking, moving slowly and leaving his target area vulnerable until the last moment, then parrying and retreating swiftly as his opponent attacked, leaving the boy confused and disoriented.

Erik was usually very focused on his fencing – but this boy seemed to have as much skill as a barnyard chicken, and it required no great expertise to evade his attacks. It was likely a good thing, too, because Erik had not the strength of mind to pay attention to the intricate footwork and deceptive moves that fencing required. His mind was still back in that bedroom, racing over the events of the morning.

Why, Christine, why? He fumed with anger at her consistent, prying little questions, so innocent to her but yet so painful to him. Why wouldn't she let it go? Why would she not accept his refusal to speak of Persia? Of the horrors that lay in his past, the brutal butcheries, the atrocities he had no desire to remember… he had unleashed his temper on her, maybe too harshly, but she had poked and prodded the unseen wound until he could not standthe painany more.

The youth launched into another weak attack and Erik reacted with too much force, his rage conveyed in the rapid defensive move as his foil clashed ruthlessly with his opponent's, sliding harshly down the other blade until the handles almost touched.

Damn you! Erik cursed her in his mind. Damn the bewildered, frightened look in her eyes as he raged at her, her slender body shrinking away from his touch as the terrors of his past screamed from his lips. She had spoken forgiveness, claimed to pardon any transgressions he had committed. But the fear in her face had disproved her naive words.

He lashed out in a quick series of complex attacks and the young man seemed startled by Erik's vehemence, but retreated quickly as Erik disengaged and put his opponent's blade into a forceful bind. Surprisingly, the boy recovered easily and crossed over several steps backwards. It meant that Erik was showing his patterns, revealing too soon what attacks he would use next. He couldn't concentrate on his moves.

No matter, Erik thought. His racing thoughts were far from fencing; how could he be expected to focus on the swordplay, even with an opponent so inexperienced as this one? But if he could channel that fuming anger and betrayal into the stretch of his arm and flexibility of his hands, the swiftness of muscles and sharpness of reflex, he would win this bout in moments, despite his jumbled mind.

The next minute was a blur. His fury and resentment pounded through his head like an instinctive rhythm, driving his body and guiding each sweep of his arm. The boy's blade was knocked easily to the side by each stroke of Erik's, the youth's frantic attacks missing the target area each time as Erik hit touch after touch, finally driving his opponent off the end of the strip and sealing his victory.

The boy seemed momentarily upset, but bounced back easily from the loss. "Excellent bout, Monsieur!" he exclaimed, slipping off his mask and shaking his damp hair from his eyes, tugging off his glove and extending his hand to Erik.

Erik removed his glove but not the mask; he shook the boy's hand and nodded. If the lad was puzzled by the lack of the customary removal of the mask – which he obviously was by the slight frown on his face – then let him be. Almost every man he fenced with was confused by the absence of the courtesy gesture; some even offended.

Erik nodded his head again, more visibly, to compensate for not removing the mask. He turned on his heel and stalked away, flexing the blade of the foil between his fingers.

He felt no glory in his victory – the boy had been an inexperienced challenger, and the bout served only as an outlet for Erik's fury. The screaming, fiery rage had faded to an aching blend of betrayal and simmering anger.

The lounge was just as devoid of people as when he had left it. He set his foil into the wall-rack specifically for that purpose and settled himself into one of the leather armchairs in the corner, steepling his hands together and letting out a long breath.

Christine had never even mentioned what the Vicomte had done to him, Erik realized. Did she think it was an everyday occurrence for noblemen to order another man's execution?

It irritated him that his thoughts continuously returned to the subject. He gestured curtly to the barman and requested a cigar. The man brought one immediately and Erik removed his fencing mask, keeping the right side of his face to the wall. There was nobody here to see him anyway.

He drew in a deep breath on the cigar and exhaled slowly, the fragrant smoke curling around his long fingers and dissipating into the air. He had given up smoking years ago, to prevent damage to his voice, but he needed something to quell his strung out nerves; the lounge did not serve drinks this early in the day and there was certainly no morphine in the vicinity. He could ignore his own policy for once...

But it seemed that Christine made him break all the rules he had set for himself.

XXX

Marie could not convince Christine to accompany her to the train-station to pick up her husband. Strangely enough, nobody thought Christine's extreme distress was an unusual reaction to a burglar; but then again, many of the society women she had met so far had been squeamish, fragile individuals, so she supposed it was considered acceptable for her to be so distraught over the "break-in".

Marie left her with a cup of tea and a strong admonition to keep the windows locked. Christine did not reply that the windows had been locked the night before; the locks were easily overcome by Erik's mastery of such things.

Christine ran over his words in her mind as she lay on the divan in her room, sipping at the steaming tea and feebly smearing away tears every few moments. She cringed just at the memory of his fuming, towering form over her, his voice roaring the unspeakable horrors of his past.

Foolish girl! She set the teacup down on its saucer on the low table and huddled beneath the blanket that Claudette had settled over her. She wiped away more tears with the back of her hand; tears for her curiosity, for his rage, for her fear of the atrocities which he had thrown at her like bullets. And that was the way his words sat, like heavy bits of lead in the bottom of her disbelieving brain.

I have killed countless men! She shut her eyes tightly at visuals that flew through her head; Erik with his Punjab lasso, tightened around his victim's neck, a sneer on his face and blood on his hands…

She heard a faint whimper and realized it was from her own throat. She moaned again in the face of her ridiculous immaturity. She already knew he had killed; Buquet and Piangi were clear evidence of that. But somehow she had been able to ignore the actuality of the two deaths; maybe by covering up the image of Erik the murderer with an image of Erik the passionate, beautifuldark angel. Maybe by knowing that he had killed them for a purpose, instead of the meaningless carnage he had just spoken of.

However it happened, she had blocked out reality to save herself the pain that would accompany such harsh truth. Now she suffered the consequences.

Forgiveness, you said! Are you capable of forgiving now that you have heard all?

It was true; she had assured him of her eternal love for him, no matter his history or past deeds. But she could not have imagined the cruelties that he had spat like poison!

Did it change her outlook of him? Had she unknowingly lied when she proclaimed that she would forgive him anything? Could she ever look him in the eye without imagining murder there? She inwardly cowered at the visual of Erik's vicious glare, his eyes burning like flames in his skull while his strong hands cut short the life of another victim…

"Stop it!" She shrieked the words aloud, sitting straight up on the divan and clutching her hands to her head. The visual fled and she choked back a sob of anger; anger at herself.

She must stop this nonsense, these pointless fears of a threat that did not exist. Erik would never hurt her. She sucked in a ragged breath, and guilt swept through her like the air she inhaled.

Could she live with him, knowing the things he had done? Before she could answer her own question, another thought slinked through her head – he could live with her, knowing the things she had done. Twice he had disarmed him of his only protection; his mask. Twice! She had performed his Don Juan with the intent of betraying him; cast him aside on the roof of the Opera house; secretly planned to wed Raoul without a thought for her angel; cowered like a child when he placed the veil on her head. Erik had already shown her he had forgiven her these crimes; and they were only a few months past! And her she was, weeping like a sniveling spoiled brat, unable to forgive him for deeds that were older than she was!

She had been foolish; she had been childish. She had been thoughtless, careless, and irrational. Unlike Erik, who had always been by her side, despite her self-indulgent, juvenile acts. She felt shameful to think of the things she had done to him; shameful to think that even for a moment, she had thought she could not forgive him.

She pushed off the blanket and stood up, moving to the doorway with resolve in every footstep and her chin up high. She would find him; return to the hotel, kiss his lips, clasp his hands, fall on her knees if need be to show him that his past did not matter to her. She did not need to forgive him for anything; was his pardon that she needed.