I accidentally downloaded more of this story than I intended to, so if you read this chapter before July 30th, 2005, please re-read the ending. Sorry about the confusion. And disregard what you read before because I may not even want the story to go that way. Thanks.

Later that night, sleep proved to be impossible for Christine. Even after her unrest from the night before, she could still find no respite. In order to sleep, one needed peace of mind, yet her mind was consumed with the man upstairs. Repeatedly, the events of the past few days played in her mind. The conversations with "Mr. Tomkins". The real Mr. Tomkins outside of the Savoy Opera House. The mysterious disappearance and reappearance of her novel. Jeanette's encounter at the music store…of a masked man...

How could she sleep?

How would she ever sleep again, knowing that he might be up there, watching her, waiting for her?

Christine stared at the ceiling intently as if she could somehow see through the wood and plaster to the room above by sheer will. What should she do?

A sensible person would call the police. But what would she say? That a masked murderer, assumed dead, was stalking her in the room above? They would think her mad. And even if they did not, she did not have the heart to turn him in. She had betrayed him once before in such a fashion and had bitterly regretted it every day, even when common sense was against her self recriminations.

Turning onto her side, she closed her eyes, futilely attempting to sleep. But not only could she not put the Phantom out of her mind, but she was haunted by memories of that fateful night that she had tried so hard to forget...memories that she knew she would never forget...never…

Pitiful creature of darkness...what kind of life have you known? God give me courage to show you you are not alone...

Pulling the Phantom's face to her own, Christine braced herself for the repulsion that she would inevitably feel when her mouth would press against those misshapen lips. She was trembling with fear. Yet she had to do it. Raoul's life was at stake.

Breathing deeply, she plunged ahead, assaulting his mouth with her own, hoping to win him over to compassion for Raoul if not for herself. What she had not counted on was a kiss that shook her to the core. It was more than just the sensation of his kiss. She became aware of everything about this man who had been hunting her down for so long. His scent, his strength, his own tremors of passion as he returned her kiss.

Nothing else existed but this man. No murders, no violence, no mystery, no mask…just him…and how he made her feel…as if she were being awakened from a deep sleep…

Christine drew back in confusion, able to do nothing but stare into his turbulent eyes. Raoul's kisses had never felt like this. Nothing in her life had ever felt like this. Raoul's kisses made her feel safe and protected, blanketing her with a warm feeling. Yet this kiss stripped her to the core. It demanded everything of her that she could give.

Again, she fell back into his embrace, unable to stay away from her fallen angel if she had tried. This was right, despite all reason. This was her destiny.

When the kiss ended, she was capable of nothing but looking deeply into his eyes which were alive with so many of his own turbulent emotions. He knew how their contact had affected her for he experienced the same storm.

What could one say after such an experience?

Mutely, she could only blush and smile shyly with anticipation for her wedding night...

But then he broke down in tears and pulled away from her.

Loosening Raoul from his bonds, the Phantom shouted at him to take Christine and go. There was no time for further thought or action. The mob was coming upon them, hungry for the killer's blood. Yet she still returned one last time to give him her ring.

Could she ever forget the sad sight before her of the Phantom crouching over his music box, singing sadly to himself in the dark, waiting for his own death at the hands of the mob? Could she ever the way that he looked back at her with such hope in his eyes that she would stay?

Christine, I love you…

How had she managed to walk away? Everything in her wanted to stay by his side.

Yet the Princess was supposed to marry the Prince and live Happily Ever After. There was no other choice than that, was there?

Even as she reunited with her fiancé upon the underground lake, Christine could not keep from looking back at her Angel until he had disappeared out of her sight forever.

She would not cry, she promised herself. If she started to cry, she would never stop.

So instead Christine reasoned to herself. She could not love a man who was a killer. She could not live in darkness the rest of her days. She could not forsake the man she had promised to marry. She could not give her heart, soul and body to a man who had tried to blackmail her into some sort of illegitimate marriage with lethal threats. She would go to Hell for giving herself to such a sinful creature.

But his kiss still burned upon her lips…and his word of love still echoed in her ears…

Even though the Phantom of the Opera had released her, she felt more chained to him than ever before...

Stooped over a small table that he had acquired for himself, Erik was furiously scratching out musical notes when he was not re-reading passages from his own recently purchased copy of Wuthering Heights. At first, he could not seem to get past those first few melodic strains that had reverberated throughout his mind. Yet once he had started, the music started to come to him just like a faithful lover. Painstakingly, he continued to work through his sluggish brain and imagination. Now the muse of creativity had him firmly in her grasp as he now seemed to be capable of doing nothing but writing his music.

The knock on the door infuriated him. It was the middle of the night! Who was fool enough to disturb him now?

His stomach lurched when he thought of Mildred Hobbes. If that saucy wench thought that she could come into his room at night and seduce him, she was sadly mistaken. In fact, if she dared to darken his door, he was sure that he would throttle her to death and think nothing of it.

"What the devil do you want?" he growled out at the door.

"Mr. Tomkins?" the soft voice called out. "It's Christine Daae."

For a moment, his world shook off of its axis. Christine! What on earth was she doing here at this time of the night!

"Please, I must speak to you...it is quite important..."

He reached for his mask and slid it over his face, although why he did so, he did not know as she would not see him. It was merely out of pure habit now, he supposed. It was in his nature to hide, even if he was only going to hear her voice through the crack of the door.

"Could you not wait until the morning, child?" he rasped, hiding behind the door. "I am an old man and not accustomed to being awake at this time of..."

Before Erik could finish his sentence, the door slammed towards his face suddenly, completely taking him off guard. Only due to luck and his own natural grace had he not fallen onto his backside in an embarrassing heap! And he could not help but be impressed for he had no idea that Christine was capable of such swiftness and strength.

Yet the sight of her made him forget all other thoughts.

With her long brown tresses flowing down her back, wearing a white silken nightgown covered with a floral-printed robe, she looked like an avenging angel as she stood before him. Her lovely eyes were wide with shock and surprise at the sight of him, although she must have suspected of his existence to justify her actions.

Oh, it had been so long since Erik had seen her like this…so painfully close! Not from a distance on a busy street corner, not on a stage or in the arms of her Vicomte...but here, alone with him, her skin aglow in the candlelight of his small room.

For a few tense moments, they were silent as they only stared at each other in shock. Erik's heart was beating so fast he was sure that he would die at any second. What was she thinking? Was she afraid? Was she angry? Had she missed him?

Finally, she tore her eyes from his gaze and looked about the room, noting his odd sense of decoration. She took in the black curtains and the lit candles. He could see her horror as she made the association between this refurbished room and his old home in the catacombs.

His heart sank as he witnessed her crumple up with emotion as tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Why?" Christine cried out violently, looking upon him again. For a moment, she paled as if she were going to faint and sunk down to her knees hard upon the floor.

Out of sheer protective instinct, Erik rushed to her side, kneeling beside her prostrate form in the dark.

"Christine, are you hurt?" he asked anxiously, reaching out for her arm. She was in distress. And he tried hard not to think about the sweet softness of her skin or the view of her ample breasts heaving from beneath her gown.

She pulled away from his touch as if he had scalded her.

Erik swallowed with an effort. Even after having known another woman, even after all the time that had passed, her rejection still cut into him with the silent swiftness of a dagger.

Of course, nothing had changed between them! His dreams of Christine had been only that…dreams…but the reality of her disgust and hatred of him was there right before his eyes.

Coming here to London had been a mistake. Following her had only opened up those gashed wounds yet again.

"I thought you were dead," she whispered softly, keeping her head bowed, unable to even look upon his frightening masked visage. "Everyone thought you were dead."

"The papers exaggerated my state of health a bit…" he responded blithely. "Sorry if I've disappointed you."

Damned fool, he cursed at himself. What a time to make such a poor joke! Yet he did not know how else to respond. And he was determined not to break down in the face of her repulsion. So he resorted to his black sense of humor.

She said nothing but only looked out at him from the dark, looking horribly frail.

"After the fire, the gendarmes had tried to hunt me down every day," he explained. "It was easy enough to fake my death with an old skeleton I knew about from the catacombs. And of course, I had some help from my Persian friend."

"And you deceived everyone…" she stated, looking at him pointedly with a pained look in her eyes.

"Merely a matter of survival," he answered. "Do you mean to tell me that you actually cared about my demise, Christine?"

She did not answer him.

"Is that why you did not marry your dashing Vicomte? Out of grief for me? I suppose a bride would look a sad sight wearing a black gown on such a festive occasion…HA HA HA!"

Erik hated himself when he was this way, yet he could not help himself. He knew he was being the worse sort of blackguard. But he kept on laughing with his loud maniacal hysteria. It was either that or give in to the despair ripping at his guts.

"Stop it!" she cried out, rising to her feet. "I hate it when you are like this!"

Erik did not know if she meant his cold manner, his black sense of humor or his laughter. Yet he was almost relieved when she began to beat upon his chest with her fists. Her assault almost felt good. He wanted her to beat some sense into him. He did nothing to stop her pounding away at him until she wore herself out.

"Why are you here?" she pleaded, crying. "Why?"

"I had heard there was no wedding," he responded. "I merely wanted to make sure you did not get your fool self killed when you ran off to parts unknown, an unprotected woman in a foreign land."

"And I'm supposed to believe you when you say that?"

"It is the truth."

"The truth!" she shouted, her small body tense and wracked with rage. "What do you know of truth? You lied to me about being an Angel of Music! You lied to me about being sent from my father! You lied about being a ghost! You lied to me about wanting nothing from me but to share your music with me! You lied about being Mr. Tomkins! You even lied about dying!"

Erik turned away from her, unable to stomach her words, unwilling to hear them. What did this naïve child know about survival? The Bible could preach away about falsehoods, but he had learned the hard way that sometimes violence and deception was the only way to survive in this rotten world that he had been cursed in. From birth, he had been destined to sin. How could he do otherwise with such a face?

He should never have come here. How much more did he have to see and hear before he got it into his thick skull that she never wanted to have anything to do with him again?

"Thank you so much for the Sunday School lesson," he snarled.

"You are right, of course," he said woodenly. "I am a monster of the most sadistic kind…"

"And now you have followed me here to London!" she continued, unheeding of his words.

The most horrible sobs wanted to escape from his chest. He wanted to scratch and screech and rage at all mankind for being denied this woman who had such a hold over him for so long. He wanted to throw himself at her skirts and plead for her forgiveness. A few months ago, he would have done so without hesitation.

But then he felt the briefest touch of fingers running through his hair...his real hair and not the dashing black-haired wig that he wore so often that it was practically as much of a second skin as his mask. When she had arrived at the door, there had been no time to retrieve his wig.

"God help me!" Christine cried, her voice trembling with emotion. "God help me!"

Suddenly, he was whirled about and enveloped in her embrace. Before he could even recover from the shock of contact, she had ripped off his mask. And before he could protest her bold action, she pressed baby kisses all along his bare mottled cheek. He could not have been more surprised if she had ripped his clothes off in a heated passion.

And the scent of roses in her hair assaulted his senses. He felt her slim body pressing against his own. He could hear her small gasps of surprised excitement as she continued to torment him with her lips. And he was lost…