Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera, wish I did, but I don't.

Author Notes: For anybody reading this, I hope you enjoy this chapter. I need feedback about the death scene at the very bottom…Okay, there was actually some Erik in this chapter, kudos to whoever can figure it out, it's not that challenging.

Black Rose of Persia

Chapter Two

Small clouds of visible breath hung in the air before her face as she closed a door behind her. The innkeeper had not mentioned, at least to her face, any suspicions about the peculiar demands she made. Adara pulled the heavy cloak tighter around her shoulders in an attempt to ward away the freezing air she was so unused to, shaking her head slowly. The weather that seemed freezing during the winter in comparison to her homeland was just one more reason she added to the list that would keep her from ever coming back to France.

Within moments of her standing on the stone steps of the inn, a lush carriage soon rolled up before her. A slight smirk tugged at her lips as she took in the coal dark horses whickering, their eyes glinting red in the dusk. She touched the one of the equine's lightly on its neck, the cool material of her leather gloves doing little to mute the heat rolling from the animal. Somebody cleared their throat behind her and she slowly turned, the chips of amethyst in her face glowing unnaturally.

The driver shifted his weight nervously, his hat clutched against his chest as he jerked his head in direction of the closed door carriage. No words were needed and she simply glided forward, the entrance opened silently. She slipped inside and spread her skirts around her once she had taken a seat, the heavy gloom of the enclosed space a welcoming weight on her personage. A lurch alerted her that they had begun the journey towards the de Chagny estate, a frisson of wicked joy blossoming up her spine.

Revenge, finally she would gain closure over an issue that slowly had worn her sanity away since childhood. The man who had abandoned her expecting mother nearly two and a half decades earlier would meet the end that had slowly been creeping up on him since he impregnated Samara in his youth. Her carefully manicured fingers dug through the leather of her gloves into her palms as fury bubbled inside of her, begging to be freed in the seductive dance of power engaged in by the predator and her prey.

Contrary to popular belief in Persia, she was insane. Perhaps her soul had been tainted by the darkness exposed to her at a young age and it had take root within her, shaping her future. A fond smile tugged at her lips as she thought of the man who had taken that particular sliver of innocence from her, the naivety of never viewing that final moment of a person's life. The sultana's personal architect and assassin had showed her, perhaps without meaning too, that even the small and downtrodden in society could rise to the top and be respected.

Yet, no killer could be respected. They were feared, that was all. Such information had been one of the few things that would have kept her out of such a lucrative profession, but she had been in such a state when she was younger for money, it had tipped the balances. Within the short span of a few years, she had gone from being unknown, a hate bastard child between a Frenchman and a Persian of royal blood, to the most infamous assassin in all of Persia's history, the Black Rose.

To be honest, she thought the name given to her by the populace was terribly trite and generic, but the wicked never get a say in what they are called. Few actually knew of her existence before she began and she knew the current Sultan would be horrified if he had knowledge that the 'ruthless killer' was actually one of his closest blood relatives, his own second cousin. She suspected if he ever found out, she would most likely undergo an unfortunate 'accident'.

She shook her head, clearing it of such thoughts, and retrieved the elegant porcelain from its place on the cushioned bench beside her. The carriage's forward momentum came to a gradual halt and she pressed the cool mask against the contours of her face, completing her costume. It had not been difficult to have an invitation for the Vicomte's Masquerade Wedding Anniversary Ball, simply posing as a visiting noble from her home country and within hours of being within the country, she had been counted amongst the numbers attending.

Upon exiting the now stopped carriage, the massive front doors to the manor were opened by stiff backed butlers and she smoothly sailed through. After being directed by a man standing inside, Adara soon found herself standing at the top of a large flight of stairs that opened up into the ballroom.

'How generic.' She thought condescendingly to herself. 'All French mansions must have these; I cannot wait to get back to blessed Persia.'

She was soon swallowed up by the crowd watching the new arrivals, they all commenting on the costumes chosen. As she walked through the mass, it pleased her when several drew suddenly quiet. The gleaming skull mask that hugged her face gave the likeness of a skeleton, the bone hue a striking contrast to that of her flesh. Her obsidian gown that seemed to cling to her at some moments while flowing loosely around her at others depending on the position of her body, the garnet seeming almost fluid as if it stained the clothing she wore. Her golden skin gleamed beneath the light of countless hundreds of candles and those one of a kind violet eyes burned with an inner fire many would liken to demonic.

Her arms remained loose at her sides, for she stuck out enough when one compared the hue of her flesh to that of the other ladies present. She had taken few steps before somebody lightly touched her arm. All her instincts, honed over the years, flew into action and it took all of her willpower not to rip one of the hidden weapons she had concealed on her personage and do bodily harm to whoever startled her. All thoughts of manslaughter fled from her mind when she took in the warm, smiling face looking up to her. Upon seeing the mask on Adara's face, the young woman's breath jumped and she pressed a hand against her chest in surprise.

"Your mask…is frighteningly lifelike."

She inclined her head, heavy curls staying pinned elegantly against her head. "It is my intention, my Lady."

"You must be Persian sultan's cousin, Lady Adara, correct?"

Adara fought the need the glower down at her, biting her tongue to keep an acerbic remark quiet. It would not be well if she insulted the hostess, even in France she had to hold some decorum.

"I thought the idea of a Masquerade was that each identity was to remain a secret." Her voice held the richness that had not been diminished when her blood became diluted with French genes.

The girl giggled brightly, her dark brown eyes shining with innocent excitement. "Of course, please forgive me." She winked at the Persian before continuing. "We'll just have to keep it a secret then, won't we?"

"What will you be keeping a secret?" A man perhaps a few years older than the Vicomtess appeared, wrapping one of his arms around her waist.

Adara's blood began to boil when she took in his features. He was a splitting image of the man who had given her half of her chromosomes and she knew in that instant that this was the boy he had fathered, the creature he had left her mother to spawn. The hand behind her back clenched into a tight fist, the delicate crescents of her nails biting through her gloves and sharply into her palm for the second time in less than an hour. She forced the hatred from showing in her eyes, instead shoving a kind smile onto her face. If she did not loathe France as much as she did, she would stay and eradicate all of her family in the worthless country her father made his home in. She refused to spend more time than she absolutely had to in the blasted land, no matter how tempting it was to remain.

"Monsieur le Vicomte." She inclined her head in greeting, biting back the urge to call him her brother.

His wife made a putout noise. "I thought we would be keeping each other's identities a secret!"

Raoul de Chagny chuckled and pressed a kiss against her temple, before looking down at the Persian assassin with an amused expression on his face. "I hardly think it is difficult to guess who we are, Christine."

Christine sighed before throwing an adoring glance up to her mate, that expression making Adara's stomach curdle with the warmth. Something, she refused to call it jealousy, that blasted green eyed monster, welled up inside of her at the obvious love the two shared and before she could let that treacherous emotion get the better of her, she dropped into a light curtsy.

"If you would please excuse me, my Lord and Lady." She did not wait for an answer from either, before turning and quickly fleeing,

Just as Adara was leaving, she caught sight of Christine's swollen stomach and the girl's impending motherhood simply sped up her pace until she was on the other side of the ballroom. She breathed heavily out from her nose and barely had time to collect herself before she heard a throat clear behind her. She turned slowly and shock filled her at the sight of a man dressed as a sultan standing before her. He grinned broadly and offered her his hand, a clear invitation. She laced their fingers and was pulled into the mass of waltzing bodies.

She lost count of the people she danced with, loosing herself in the pleasurable rush of letting her body take over and the music washing over her, the only conscious thing she registered. She did not return to full awareness until she suddenly caught sight of a man who appeared to be the older version of the young Vicomte. A growl rose up in the back of her throat as her gaze followed his dancing form and she quickly excused herself from her partner.

She walked with a purpose towards the nearest wall, snatching a delicate glass of champagne from a passing tray, her violet eyes never once leaving the man who broke her mother's heart. She watched him throw back his head in laughter and over the murmuring of the crowd, caught him speaking about something he needed from his study. Taking this chance, she pressed her full flute of alcohol into some faceless person's hands before striding smoothly, though clearly with a purpose, towards the direction he was going in.

She was absolutely content with the knowledge that no one would be looking at her as she slipped out of the door her father exited mere moments before, for countless others continued to stream in an out of the portals to the massive room. The second the crowd thinned until she was the only one following at a distance, her fingers found the hidden string that kept the flowing material of her dress on her hips; deftly she untied the concealed knots. The heavy cloth fell in a graceful puddle around her feet and she stopped slightly, scooping it up.

She held the discarded dress against her and easily stashed behind one of the abominably sized plants that littered the de Chagny manor, her skull mask hidden in the folds. All that remained of her once proud gown was the tight dark under layer that other women would consider to be a chemise if it had not been something similar to a man's fencing shirt and pants that fit her body like a second skin. She reached into the pile of cloth and plucked a simply swath of fabric from its depths.

She wrapped it around the lower portion of her face, yet another mask to help protect her true self from being found out. Resting comfortable at her hip, clasped by yet another piece of ingeniously crafted black material, was a curved sword a little bigger than an averaged size dagger, a sickle. The weapon had been easily concealed beneath the voluminous folds of her skirt. She began to move, this time creeping along without a sound. She seemed to move in the shadows and had any seen her they would have likened her to the long since extinct ninjas of Asia, if they even knew what such devious assassins were.

She was extremely proud to say that she had learnt much of what she knew from a wizened old man who claimed to have ancestors that had been one of those elite few. Whether or not this information had been true, he had taught her well. She excelled in her dark profession and she could not smother the rising anticipation of the kill. She rapidly caught up with Alain. To her greatest joy, he entered a side room not long after she found him once more. She paused briefly before entering, taking a brief moment to take in several calming breathes to soothe the ferocious beating of her heart and the adrenaline pumping in her veins.

Her glove covered fingers wrapped loosely around the polished bronze of the handle, lightly pushing it and walked into the study. She closed the door quietly behind her and leaned against the wood, looking at the man with an expression of deepest detestation freezing her attractive features. She waited in silence until he turned around, the elegant spun glass orb in his hands falling to the ground and shattering entirely upon contacting the smooth stone floor.

"Who are you and what are you doing in here?" His sky hued eyes found the blade sheathed at his side and he moved to grab something from one of the drawers of the desk at his side.

In less that a heartbeat, she stood before him with the sickle grasped comfortably in her hand and the tip of the metal pressing lightly against his Adam's apple. Beneath the veil shielding her face from nose to chin, her lips were twisted into a furious mask of hatred. The emotion, however, was not restrained in her eyes. Those tumulus orbs of amethyst glowed from within with that same near demonic fire from earlier, swirling maelstroms of chaos that sucked in all that was good and pure in the world and warped it until it was something, horrible.

"Please, you can have whatever you want, just do not harm me, my family, or any of the guests. Please, no one will ever know that you were here."

Adara threw her head back and let out a cold chuckle, returning her disturbing gaze back to his colour drenched face. She smirked at him and with her free hand, ripped the shroud from the lower portion of her face, allowing him to take in her features for the first time, complete. His brow furrowed for a moment, his attention momentarily being drawn away from the sharp blade nicking his neck.

"You look like…"

"…Samara?" She spat. "Well fancy that, I just so happen to look like my mother."

His lids widened as his lips moved silently, clearly calculating something in his mind. His arms, which had been attempting to force her wrist away, fell to his sides as he came to a sudden realization. His stare swept across her countenance, as if trying to find something hidden that only the most searching of glance could find. He found what he was looking for.

She smirked frigidly at him. "Yes, you recognize this face, don't you? The face of your first born daughter."

His mouth opened and closed silently like a fish, horror sucking what little colour remained in his cheeks. She dug it further into his skin, thin rivulets of crimson liquid dribbling past the metal. She, simply with nothing more than the surprising intimidating force of her petite form, pressed him against the desk.

"You abandoned my mother before I was even born. You never considered her to be more than a summer fling, someone to get your most basic urges out before you married some blue blooded French chit and was respectable. So, you left your pregnant lover alone in Persia, the favoured niece of the Sultan, and fled like a animal with its tail between its legs. All my life I have hated you. I cannot tell you how pleased it makes me to know that my face will be the last one you will ever see, the face of the woman you scorned nearly two and a half decades ago. Goodbye, Alain."

She briefly pulled the sickle away from his neck and if a single, brutal gesture, slashed the razor sharp blade against his throat. The force of her blow cut easily through muscle and sinew, very nearly removing his head from his shoulders. She stepped away from his freely bleeding corpse, paying no heed to the spray of blood that stained her golden neck and face. She wiped the crimson stained steel against the fine silk of her deceased father's clothing, sliding the cleaned blade home in its sheath.

Without pausing to think, she left the rapidly cooling cadaver alone in the study and picked up bundle of clothing she had dropped off before completing her job. Within moments of the kill, the sweetness of the slaughter rapidly disappearing from her bloodstream, she had disappeared into the night. She did not stay at the de Chagny residence long enough to hear the high pitched wail of a serving girl stumbling across the carcass of her dead lord.

Galasriniel: Thanks for reviewing that was nice. I hope you like this chapter; it was so much fun to write.

Blessed Be

Ame the Pirate King