The Escape

A/N: Thanks you for the reviews; I have made some adjustments to the story as recommended. Shout out to my wicked-awesome beta, Agent Sculder, who is writing a wonderful story called Contact. Check it out and please remember to review!

I've tried to make adjustments several times, but was not being kind. Hopefully, this will take.

"What the hell did you think you were doing!"

Erik raised his head and saw the gypsy, short and reedy, standing before him. His hair was the color and texture of oil, the thin, greasy strands tied back with a filthy scarf. He had a gaudy gold earring in his left ear and several missing teeth. The ones that remained were mottled by dueling brown and yellow. His lips were pulled back in a sneer, causing the lines of age around his mouth to become prominent with the streaks of dirt that colored his face. Erik watched, hatred burning in his eyes, as he began to unbuckle his belt from the cheap fabric of his pants.

"You dare to speak to the customers who pay to see your ugly countenance? We are in the business of illusion, sir," at this word, he spat upon Erik in disgust. "You play the role of the monster, and I play the role of the collector." The gypsy stopped speaking at the smile that had appeared on Erik's face.

Erik smile reached his eyes, but the emotion displayed was not one most associated with a smile. It was Erik's smile, though, and he was anything but normal. This man, this filthy, abhorrent man who came to ruin him, to spill his rotten seed inside him, had ignited feeling his Erik's heart. The familiar taste of bloodlust wet his tongue and he became insatiable for the gypsy's blood to spill from his veins like rain under his hand. When Erik's dreams were not haunted by Christine's face, he dreamt of the gypsy in a way that caused his waking to be filled with repugnant joy.

He had killed him a hundred different ways in his sleep. His hands had wrapped around the gypsy's neck, choking the breath from his lungs. He had reveled in the feel of the gypsy's pulse in the hollow of his neck as it sped up frantically like the crashing of timpani, then slowed to the sorrowful drumbeat of death. He had felt the crush of the gypsy's spine under his hands, the straining muscles in his throat. He had watched as his eyes bulged with panic. He had delighted in the slow sapping of life that caused the gypsy's eyes to glaze over sightlessly.

Every night, he had killed him. Under his hand, the gypsy had been strangled, stabbed, crucified, and beaten to death. He had envisioned every form of torture, from bloodletting to the breaking of his fingers, toes, kneecaps, spine and finally, the blissful crunch of his neck separating from his skull.

The gypsy let out a low laugh, tearing Erik from his fantasy. "You like this, now, do you? You're not the first. They always turn from hate to love." He dropped his pants, and Erik turned away in revulsion. The gypsy watched him, his face turning cowardly and his defenses dropping. He smirked and grew harder at the reaction of this deformed man. He approached him and knelt to stroke his hair.

The gypsy let out a scream as Erik's hands came around his neck. His eyes bulged as he felt his breath being sucked away by this man, whose eyes blazed. He clutched as Erik's chained hands, pulling desperately and grunting with the combined expenditure of his efforts and the asphyxiating hold Erik had on his neck.

Erik watched callously, recalling an incident at the Opera Populaire. Joseph Buquet had met his end this same way, only now Erik regretted it. Buquet was far less deserving of his death than the man who struggled like a fish on a hook before him.

"You bastard," Erik choked out, his voice raw with hate. "You filthy bastard." At this he tightened his hold, rejoicing in the familiar crack of bone. The gypsy's eyes rolled back as he reached frantically behind him for something Erik could not see. Suddenly, Erik felt a mighty blow upon his head. He released the gypsy and felt the instrument strike him twice more. Then, he felt no more.

Breathing raggedly, the gypsy stood above him, clutching Erik's steel water bowl in his hand. He cursed over and over, flinging the bowl at the man lying prone before him. When he had regained his stolen breath, dropped to his knees, pulling the unconscious form or Erik toward him. Fool, he thought. His disobedience will not go unpunished.

Christine drew her coat around her shoulders, feeling a cold chill freeze her body which she knew had nothing to do with the night air. The sky had turned a lovely shade of purple, navy blue creeping in to steal its glory. She silently thanked the clouds which threatened to obscure the moon's light. With hope, it would envelope the moon completely.

Brigitte had readied the horses, and now the two dark mares stood mere feet before her. Brigitte had mounted her horse minutes before and now stood in wait for Christine. Christine rushed inside, much to the bewilderment of Brigitte, and came out shortly holding a small satchel. She stuffed the bag into her coat. The bag jangled as she moved, and Brigitte asked, "What's that for?"

Sliding one foot into the stirrup, Christine grasped the horn of the saddle and swung upward in a graceful motion. Although it was proper for noblewoman to ride sidesaddle, Christine had always preferred to ride with either leg slung around her horse, skirt or no.

"My dear, "she began, "if I have learned anything from marrying a Viscount, it is that people can be bought." With a tight smile, Christine dug her heels in and was off at a comfortable canter that surely turned into a swift gallop.

Brigitte gaped at her words, but took up with the same fervor. This woman, so pretty with an innocence that belied her experience, never failed to amaze her.

Christine did not tell Brigitte what else she had concealed in her coat. A small pistol, which Raoul had kept in his study drawer, lie quietly in her pocket. She was not so naïve as to think that only money would keep a greedy man away. A woman of her stature could fetch a prettier coin than the ones she had concealed on her person.

Soon they were riding quickly through the dense forestry of Bordeaux toward the camp of the gypsies. Brigitte had told Christine where the gypsy's had set up their carnival. Christine knew a shortcut and followed a brook which she knew led from the city's centre to the Mediterranean. Just before the city, they would come upon the camp. They would come upon Erik, she realized, a lump rising in her throat. But she shook her head resolutely, for tears would not save him this time.

It seemed that they had only been riding for minutes before they came upon a clearing in the woods. Christine reined in her horse, and gestured for Brigitte to do the same. They stood at the edge of the wood, peering out through foliage for a glimpse of the encampment. They did not need to look hard, for fires lit up the dark sky, giving light to prying eyes. Christine dismounted and began to walk when she heard Brigitte hiss, "Wait!"

Christine turned, and the girl answered her silent question. "We must go this way." Throwing the reins over her horse's head, she began to move westward and Christine followed her. "Where are we going?" Christine whispered.

"Shhh, you must trust me."

Then silence fell upon them and Christine allowed herself to think. A barrage of thoughts swelled upon her and she felt dizzy from the force. Panic dueled with fear and pity and another emotion she could not name stilled her heart. She felt a familiar ache, an ache from many years past that she hadn't felt since – since him.

Oh, Erik, she thought bitterly. I have done this to you, my love.

Even as guilt swathed her, she was taken aback by her own thoughts. My love? Surely, she had meant this in a facile way. He had been many things to her, a father, a mentor, a maestro, a friend, and something else she was afraid to name. As her feet carried her closer and closer to him, she felt as though she could burst from the emotion. Everything in her called for her to breakdown and cry out, sob until her tears paid for her guilt. But her heart called for her to do more than cry for him. She knew if she was to pay for what she'd done to him, she had to save him from this.

Suddenly, Brigitte stopped. She tied up her horse and Christine did the same. Christine had been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn't noticed their trek around the forest's edge. They walked until they could see another clearing. Now they faced the carnival site, littered with the junk of fair-goers. Cages dotted the grounds, and Christine could hear the sounds of animals shifting restlessly in their enclosures.

"Look! He's there!"

She turned to the girl whose face was lit up with excitement. She was pointing a shaky finger and Christine followed her meaning and gasped. There, less than fifty feet away, Christine saw him. His hands were bound to chains which glinted cruelly in the moonlight. His scarred face was turned toward her, his thin hair barely obscuring his profile. Unbidden tears ran down her face and she breathed his name. Brigitte did not hear her, so enamored was she with the task they had before them.

Oh, my beautiful Angel. What have they done to you? What have I done to you?

Suddenly, a man entered the cage and both women stilled. From their vantage point, they could barely make out his words. Christine watched in horror as he unbuckled his belt. He was going to beat her poor angel! When he removed his pants, her blood ran cold.

Christine had heard much gossip at the Opera Populaire among the dancers. She had heard of sex between two men, but had dismissed it as simply idle myth. This, she knew, was not between two men. This was rape. She covered her mouth to hide her gasp, and grabbed Brigitte to her with her free arm. She shielded the girl's face in her bosom, watching in petrified disbelief as he advanced on Erik. As he knelt to touch her angel's hair, a cold fury swept upon her soul. How dare he touch him! How dare he!

Christine made to move, but was stilled when Erik suddenly wrapped his hands around the gypsy's neck. A struggle ensued and Christine found herself praying for the gypsy's defeat. Never had she wished for death before, and frankly, it frightened her. But her ferocity could not be quelled. Just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The gypsy struck Erik about the head and was free. As he moved toward Erik, Christine released Brigitte. Holding her at arm's length, she looked into her eyes and said, "Stay here. Whatever happens, you must stay where you are. Only when I call for you will you come near. Keep the horses at the ready. Do you understand?"

Brigitte's face grew solemn and Christine was immediately sad for she recognized that the poor child's innocence was leeching away – just as her own was, she thought. Christine touched her hand to the girl's face and planted a quick kiss on her forehead. As quickly as her skirts would allow, she sprinted under the cover of the trees toward Erik's cage. When she got near, she slowed to a walk so as to move as noiselessly as she could. Surreptitiously, she looked around and saw no one. Sure that she was alone and that the gypsy's back was turned away from her, she crept forward.

The gypsy turned Erik over so that he was lying on his front. He was discouraged to see that he had lost most of his erection during the scuffle and began to pull himself heedlessly to hardness. He threw his head back, murmuring to himself.

"Filth."

The gypsy was snapped from his reverie at an unfamiliar voice. He turned around savagely and saw a young woman, small and lithe, standing behind him. He took in her long curls and clear pale complexion, reverently licking his lips. So it would be two tonight.

He stood without a word, not bothering to pull his pants back on.

"You will give him to me," Christine said quietly. She took in his nearly naked form with disgust, feeling the bile rise in her throat.

"What does a woman such as yourself want with a creature as monstrous as him?" the gypsy asked, taking a slow step toward her. He watched her face become tight as his words and smiled. She was becoming distracted and would be easy to overtake.

"The only one who is monstrous is you," she spat, nerves tingling. She watched him come closer to her and shakily took a step backwards. The gypsy's smirk grew uglier at this as he knew he had her. A few more steps and she would be his.

As he quickened his pace, he felt a sharp pain in his chest. Numbly, his ears registered a loud bang the moment before. He touched his hand to his chest and felt it spurt something warm and sticky. He opened his palm and saw his life's blood spilling from a hole in his chest. He looked up, finally registering the woman before her, desperation in her eyes and a gun in her hand. She was shaking harder than before and he watched as tears sprang to her eyes. He fell to his knees, wondering at how warm his blood felt outside his body. Funny, I feel cold, he thought as he slipped away.

Christine watched as he fell to the ground and his body became still. She heard herself cry for Brigitte and felt herself put her gun back in her pocket. Blindly, she ran towards Erik, ignoring the sickness that was threatening to spill forth. Never have I been so ill so often, she thought dully.

The sight of her angel lying before her forced a shock through her body. She touched his face, staining it with her tears. Quickly, she sprang into action. She removed a pin from her hair and straightened it until it formed a stiff line. She found the padlocks attached at each wrist and began to work feverishly on one of them. She thanked god for Meg, for when they had been children in the opera house, it had become a game to them to try to unlock the many secret doors in the Opera Populaire. There would be more places to play hide and seek, Meg had reasoned. Christine had not played that game for years and worried that she would not be able to do it as seamlessly as before.

When the lock popped with a satisfying click, Christine breathed a sigh of relief. She was aware of Brigitte and the horses outside the cage. Brigitte dropped the reins and ran to Christine's side, taken aback at the scene before her. Christine was working on the second lock; Brigitte made a mental note to ask her how she acquired such a talent.

When Christine had loosened the manacles from Erik's wrists, she caught her breath as she look at his face. Blood had been trickling slowly down his head from where he had been brutally struck over and over by the gypsy. The mere thought of the man, lying dead only a few feet away from her, inspired such overwhelming revulsion that Christine was taken aback. All of a sudden, she understood.

Gazing down at Erik, she saw his eyes flicker for just a moment. Bringing a hand to his face, she whispered softly to him. Just as quickly as he had opened his eyes, they were closed again and Christine figured that she had imagined it. Just one look into those mercurial eyes transported her back to another time when his eyes had reflected the inspiration and passion of her voice. She decided there and then that she would do anything to bring that passion back to his eyes.