A/N: Moo-ha-ha! No one guessed Erik's addiction! -Does strange little dance- That's good…I hate it when people guess my endings! But his mysterious ways are soon to be revealed… I've been looking forward to writing this part ever since I started, and I finally got to the chapter that I have deemed appropriate for the scene! Funny…it doesn't include Erik actually physically being there in the room… Hmm… Sorry, don't want to spoil it for you! I guess you'll just have to read and find out! Mwah-ha-ha! -Evil grin- Also, this chapter is a lot longer than my other two…nearly 5,500 words.

P.S: Thank you to everyone who asked to be my beta…I got a lot more replies that I anticipated! Muchas gracias! Mandie, should you read this, I haven't gotten a response back from you…email me and let me know what's going on! And special thanks to Julie, my beta! You're suggestions were so helpful…and I'll try to remember how to spell "reins!"

P.P.S: Two quick notes- One, no, that last chapter was not supposed to be entirely in italics… I've fixed it now, so if you want to go back and reread it, it should be a bit easier to follow… Two, I've done some chapter title swapping…that last one is now This Shadowed Path, and this one is A Voice, a Face, a Name. Sorry about the inconvenience! Enjoy!

Close every door to me,
Hide all the world from me.
Bar all the windows,
And shut out the light.

Do what you want with me,
Hate me and laugh at me.
Darken my daytime
And torture my night.

Close Every Door to Me, Andrew Lloyd Webber's Joseph

A VOICE, A FACE, A NAME

In over fifty years of life, François had never seen a day like that one. The sun failed to make an appearance throughout the course of the daylight hours, as if someone had forgotten to awaken it. A wind collected leaves at the wheels of the old carriage, a damp and musty odor wafting past his nostrils as he stared out into the blackened sky. François only became aware of the approaching twilight hours when he checked his ancient golden pocket watch that hung from a clasp in his jacket. Taking the oil lantern down from its post on the side of the buggy, he held it up to eye-level, searching for signs along the dirt road.

Nothing.

François let out a loud, aggravated sigh. He wasn't lost…no, he knew exactly where he was… Well, perhaps not exactly… He had gotten a little turned around back there in the last town… But he had found his way back to the main road, hadn't he? …Hadn't he? Running a thin hand down his aching back, he moved agitatedly from side to side until he heard the reassuring crack of his spine. He slumped once more against his seat, leaning his pounding head back against the carriage. His skull hit something flat and hard, and he glanced over his shoulder to see the small window that separated himself from the Vicomtess. "Madame?" he called, tapping on the glass. No reply.

François peered into the shadows of the inside of the carriage, his tired old eyes not yet adjusted to the overwhelming darkness. He tried pulling open the window, but it the lock was firmly fastened, just as he had set it before starting out. "Madame Vicomtess? Are you sleeping?" he shouted.

'If she were, she wouldn't answer, you twit!' sighed a weary, exasperated voice in the back of his mind. François frowned silently to himself, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Perhaps he shouldn't risk awakening her…but she hadn't uttered a single word throughout the course of the journey. It wouldn't hurt just to check in on her, to see how she was fairing…

Muttering to himself, François pulled his horse off to the side of the road. He had worked under the de Chagny's for a little over a year now and had yet to see the Vicomtess fly into a rage or become impatient with any of the servants…but having lived with his wife Jeanette (God rest her soul) for thirty years, he knew that to awaken even the gentlest of women while in a deep slumber could result in a…less than favorable outcome. He stepped down off the platform and walked around the buggy to the door.

"Madame, my apologies if I am awakening you, but…" He paused, ducking his head inside the carriage. A black riding cloak lay in a heap on the floor of the buggy, and inside the cloak was… "Madame Vicomtess!" he cried, jumping up the steps and into the coach. Her skin was a ghastly pale color, ashen and unnatural, and from her slightly parted lips fluttered short bursts of air, erratic and irregular. François pulled the hood back from her face, revealing her long mane of mahogany curls that lay flaccidly against her swan-like neck. He gently patted her cheek with a large, grizzled hand.

"Oh please wake up, Madame…please…" Oh God, he was in for it now. He sat back on his heels, wiping a sweaty sleeve across his forehead. Yes, he was done for. The Vicomte had said…

"If anything, and I mean anything, happens to her, François, it's your job that's on the line." He took the wide-eyed driver by the arm and pulled him away from the hubbub of the household. "I'm holding you responsible for her." The Vicomte glanced over François's shoulder, anxiously watching the carriage in which the Vicomtess sat out of the corner of his eye. "You know as well as I that these spells have been becoming more and more frequent. I want you to report directly back to me if something…unexpected happens."

François nodded vigorously. "Of course, sir…you have nothing to worry about. She's in good hands, I can assure you." Taking one last look at his wife, the Vicomte sighed.

"I know she is." He clapped the old man lightly on the shoulder. "You're a good man, François…"

François rubbed a shaking hand over his chin, his gaze locked on the Vicomtess. It was a full day's journey back to Lyons, back to the de Chagny manor… But the Vicomte's instructions had been clear if she had another attack. He gave a loud, frustrated sigh. The woman needed a place to stay for the night, that much was certain… Hurrying out of the carriage, François snapped the reins of the horse and continued in the direction he had been heading.

It was almost fifteen minutes before he saw the any sign of life at all. A lone figure walked along the shoulder of the road, draped from head to toe in a long, billowing cape. He blended in so well with the surrounding darkness that François almost drove right past him. The driver quickly stopped the carriage next to the stranger. "Excuse me, monsieur…" he called anxiously. "Do you happen to know how far we are from Paris…?"

The man paused, his face shrouded in the shadows of his hood. He turned to him slowly, deliberately, and François flinched at the sight of him. The only aspects of his countenance visible through the blackness of the night were two glowing amber eyes that glared fiercely back at him. For a moment François simply stared, feeling the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He felt the sudden need to get away from this man, an overwhelming sensation of claustrophobia descending upon his mind. It was as if he were gazing upon the Devil himself…

"You have at least another day's journey, monsieur." François felt the air stop in his throat. That voice…nothing had prepared him for that voice, so low and hypnotic and utterly beautiful… And the civility in his tone! It was as if he were talking to the King himself!

Or had he detected a hint of mockery in that engaging voice?

The stranger turned away, and François was jolted from his momentary lapse in consciousness. Another day's journey? François let out a sigh of frustration, running his fingers through his thinning hair. He turned back to his companion only to find…nothing. Looking up the path, he saw the man continuing down the narrow stretch of road, his pace conspicuously quicker than before. "Wait, monsieur!" he shouted, taking up the reins in his hand. The stranger hesitated once more, but did not bother to turn around and face his pursuer. "Monsieur…do you know of any hotels in the area? A place where I could stay? Somewhere small, relatively inexpensive, just for the night…?"

"No." The reply was sharp and precise, revealing no emotion whatsoever. Biting his lip, François nodded dejectedly and turned away, pinching the bridge of his thin, bony nose.

"Thank you, monsieur. You have been a great help," he murmured distantly, relinquishing his attempt to hide the disappointment in his eyes. "I must be on my way now."

He started off again, his chin resting on his chest, when the man behind him shouted, "Wait…" François jerked his head around, glancing over his shoulder in time to see the stranger take a few hurried steps towards him. "There is one place…" he said in a deep, expressionless voice. Blinking, François almost missed the flicker of conflicting emotion in the man's brilliantly golden eyes. "It's just up the road…I will show you." He allowed no room for contradiction in his offer, and without another word he started towards the back of the carriage.

"Monsieur!" François called, sidling towards the edge of his seat. "I have another passenger, sir. She's asleep at the moment, and…she isn't feeling very well." The man glanced at the curtains that had been drawn over the windows, then turned his amber eyes back to François. "You are welcome to accompany me up here, though," the old man said lightly, indicating the driver's platform on which he was seated. He saw the hesitation in the stranger's stance, but then the man grasped the handrail with a black-gloved hand, pulling himself up onto the driver's platform. François took up the reins and started down the road once more. "You are very kind to be doing this for us," he said gruffly, taking a quick look at the man beside him. "A man of your benevolence is not often found these days, monsieur. You have my humble and sincere thanks…and the Lady's."

The stranger said nothing for a moment as he drew his hood down farther over his eyes, his arms folded within his cloak. "I was on my way there myself, monsieur; my intentions were certainly not altruistic," he muttered softly. "You make me out to be much more noble and selfless than I truly am. I can assure you, monsieur, that I am no angel."

He watched as the driver paled at his words, and he turned his eyes back to the road. If the old man had seen his face, he gave no sign of it; he said nothing, and he was quite thankful for the silence that had descended upon the two unlikely companions. 'This will be a lot more trouble than it's worth if he sees your mask!' an accusing voice in his mind murmured, mentally nudging him with a nonexistent elbow. He swallowed thickly, clearing his throat and breaking the stillness. The driver glanced at him out of the corner of his eye but said nothing.

Good.

The old man had said he has heading for Paris. The frown on his face deepened. Paris… Now there was a city he could do without hearing of for the rest of his (hopefully brief) life. He had not set foot in Paris in nearly two years…and he had no intention of doing so now…

:-:-:

He had left Paris on horseback in the dead of the night, alone…but he was not surprised. Solitude was the one companion that stayed with him throughout his life, the one friend he could count on. The wind whipped the cloak back from his body, and his eyes brightened momentarily at the thought that he must look something like Death itself sweeping across the vast plains of France. He smiled in what felt like the first time in years, his cheeks unaccustomed to the expression. Running a hand over his right cheek, he felt the grin melt slowly from his face, his fingers trailing broodingly over the ravaged flesh.

The horse slowed to a trot before stopping on its own accord, swinging its massive head from side to side like a giant, unblinking pendulum. Its rider turned slowly around to glance over his shoulder at the glowing outline of Paris…the world's metropolis for music and art and beauty, a city that should have been his domain. It was a place known for its soft candlelit evenings donned in deep crimson and ebony, a place that embraced the wonders of the night.

He hated it.

Digging his heels into the horse's sides, he started off into the moonlight. He did not let himself turn back again…he couldn't. He rode all night and all the next day, telling himself that with each beating of the hooves beneath him, he was just a bit farther from her face. And yet as he rode through the empty fields, the images of the…events that had occurred in Paris became a little bit sharper, a little more poignant. …Her ghostly white figure drifting towards him like the angel she had believed him to be, her lips sliding against his own, molding themselves with his as if they had been coated in an exquisite oil.

The first of many tears slipped down his naked cheek.

He passed through the unusually cold forests of Dijon without even noticing the subtle change in terrain, the ground beneath him becoming rock-strewn and potholed. Trees flew past him like fireflies, darting in and out of his thoughts through the thick opaqueness of the fog. He was so absorbed within his own mind that he almost passed right by the angled shadow that stood out from the lofty, limber trees swaying in the light breeze…

A house.

Stopping the horse with a swift kick to the ribs, he slid gracefully from its back and led it towards the quarters, his eyes flickering cautiously from side to side, searching with an acute awareness for any residents that may be dwelling therein. Seeing none around the front of the building, he stepped sinuously onto the front porch, ears tuned for any noise.

He was so engrossed in his hunting that he failed to notice the empty carriage that sat, unoccupied, around the back…

Stepping lightly up onto the porch, he peered inside the dust-covered windows, his hand shielding his eyes from the grime. A low, muffled moan sounded from within the house and, blinking in surprise, he took a step backwards. A few moments later a man stepped outside, scratching unabashedly at the large gut that spilled from above his hastily-buttoned trousers. An empty bottle of cognac was grasped loosely in his grip, the remnants sloshing about inside the glass. His eyes, bloodshot and half-closed, wandered aimlessly around until they fell upon the man in black standing stock-still on the other side of the porch. The heavy man squinted into the darkness.

"Who're…?"

His hand fumbled clumsily with the pistol tucked unceremoniously inside his belt, bringing it up to eye level and aiming it at the intruder…or at least at the spot in which the intruder had been standing moments before. The creak of floorboards echoed behind him, and he turned to see the eyes of the Devil staring fiercely back at him. Giving a gasp of surprise, he stumbled backwards, falling against the wooden paneling of the cottage.

"I suggest you put that away before you hurt yourself," the stranger said coldly, his voice resonating through the porch. Instead of pocketing the revolver, the man, in his drunken stupor, took an uncoordinated step forwards, his hand shaking in his intoxication.

"Who're you ta tell me whatter do?" he mumbled, jabbing at him with the barrel of his gun.

The man in black closed his eyes against the anger that was rising to a dangerous point within him. Despite the fact the brute was drunk, despite the fact there was clearly no comparison to their levels of efficiency in killing the other, he felt his hand twist itself around the lasso hidden away inside his cloak. If this man valued his subsistence, he would do well to remain silent…

"I don' take no 'structions from no thief. I have half a mind to jab 'dis thing right up your…"

Something within him snapped. The Punjab lasso was out in an instant, coiling its way around the man's thick neck with deadly accuracy, and within a few moments, the drunk fell to the hard wooden floor with a sickening thud. For a moment, the lone survivor simply stared at the body with wide, calculating eyes. He looked down at his own hands, covered by thin black leather gloves…and he clenched them into fists. Damn you!

"Monsieur?"

He paled beneath his cloak. The voice had sounded from within the house…the voice of a woman… He wiped a shaking hand across his forehead. Oh God, had he just killed a husband in his ungovernable rage? No, a voice reasoned within him. She had called him monsieur… Since when was it custom to refer to one's husband in such a formal manner?

Stepping inside, he found himself staring at an incredibly plain existence: a table, two chairs…and a large, unmade bed. A bed that held a young woman in its tangled sheets… "Where is Monsieur Frederick?" she asked innocently, her wide gray eyes traveling languidly over his body, analyzing the man before her like one might observe a particularly fascinating piece of artwork. "Is he still outside, the drunken brute?"

The girl laughed softly, wrapping a thin silk robe around herself and getting up off the bed. She took slow, deliberate steps towards him, and he quickly turned his face away from her. There was no denying her beauty…a small, heart-shaped face framed by long, strawberry blonde locks. She trailed her hand lazily from one cream-colored shoulder to the other, pressing a single finger to the corner of her full lips. Standing only a few feet from him, she asked in barely more than a whisper, "Are you his friend? He mentioned he might be…"

Her eyes fell upon the body that lay just outside the door. In a flash, the girl fell to her knees on the ground, grasping the hems of his pants in her hands. "Oh please, monsieur…" she cried, sobbing against him. "You may have my money…I swear I won't tell a soul! You have my word! The money…it is in the pocket of my coat…take it all…I won't tell a soul…"

Gradually her heaving, shaking breaths became the only sound in the house. He stared down at her, eyes wide with bewilderment. Slowly she raised her head and met his gaze…and she saw the uncovered flesh of his right cheek. He made no move to cover it, and she made no move to turn away. Instead, she stared back at him with fascination and…something else, something he could not name. An expression he had never seen before sparkled in those large, grey eyes, and he felt the air become lodged in his throat. In those moments, he became aware of her own dawning understanding, the tears evaporating from her face. She knew he would not harm her…she knew that was not why he was there…

Her hand grasped the top of his trousers, her fingers entwined in his belt. Her other hand slid gracefully down to his pocket, the silver jingle of coins echoing through the room. Her hand moved farther down still…

She had been the first. The first of many…

:-:-:

He hated himself with such a burning, loathing disgust. Wiping a hand across his cheek, he turned back to glance at the driver. His gaze remained locked on the road ahead. Closing his eyes, he remembered the night with the first prostitute. He remembered the emotion that churned within him as he lay in the darkness…emotions choked with bitterness, self-resentment…guilt. Fool! he thought to himself. How many times do you think she will consummate her marriage to that boy during their honeymoon? How many times do you think they will try to produce an heir to carry on the proud de Chagny name?

But he didn't want to think about that now. All he wanted was the warmth of a body…the joys of the flesh…

"How far are we?"

The old man's voice broke him from his thoughts. "Excuse me?" he mumbled softly.

The driver glanced over at him out of the corner of his eye. "I asked how far we are from the hotel. We've been traveling for quite a while, and you said it was just up the road…"

"It's there," he said abruptly, pointing to the tall, strangely angled house that sat alone atop the hill before them. The driver steered his horse to the right, starting up the steep slope. This is the last time, he thought to himself sullenly, staring at the building with bitter resentment. The last time…

He told himself the same thing every single time.

François kept a close eye on the man beside him as he pulled to a stop beside the front door. There was something terribly wrong with him…he had been muttering to himself all throughout their journey to the hotel, though François was only able to catch bits and pieces of sentences.

"Damn her…why…alone…last time…"

None of it made any sense to him. The man seemed highly unstable…perhaps he should mention it to the manager. "Thank you for directing us here, monsieur. We are eternally grateful, and despite what you may say, you are a good man," François said, extending his hand out to the stranger. The man hesitated, staring at François's hand with stoic indecision, then after a moment, took it in his own. "I did not even catch your name."

His companion paled a bit, his eyes gravitating to his gloved hands uncertainly. "My name?" he muttered, glancing up at François. "The, uh, people around here refer to me as…"

An incoherent mumble sounded from inside the carriage, and François immediately responded, silencing his escort with a wave of his hand. Jumping from his place upon the platform, he hurried around the side of the buggy and opened the door. "Madame?"

When he returned to his driver's seat, he discovered that the strange man in black had disappeared.

The room was shrouded in clouds, as if a veil had been draped across her eyes. She blinked a few times and found herself lying in a bed she had never felt before. How strange.

Rubbing her eyes with her fingers, Christine sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. Now…where exactly was she? The carriage…the carriage was the last thing she remembered. Another spell, apparently. She sighed, pushing the blankets from her body and dangling her legs over the side of the mattress. Clutching the edge of her nightstand, Christine pushed herself up onto her feet…and promptly fell back down onto the bed. She frowned, expecting nothing less. Her legs were always a bit unsteady after her fainting spells.

Where the devil was François?

As if on cue, the door to the room opened, and Christine turned to see whoever was entering with mounting expectance. Instead of the friendly, wrinkled face of her driver, however, she as greeted with the sight of three unfamiliar young women. They came in one by one, each carrying a cup, and each noticeably more voluptuous than the next. The first two were quite obviously twins, with identically round, tanned faces and long, full chestnut-red hair that glistened despite the lack of a light source within the bedroom. They smiled in unison, their deep, emerald green eyes twinkling with affable warmth.

Their companion was very different. Though the deep olive color of their skin was all alike, the last woman was much taller, her face, longer and vacant of the innocent glow of the twins. Dark, intelligent eyes gleamed from beneath a head of short, choppy black hair, and she sat down on the edge of Christine's bed. "Good morning, my dear," she said genially, her voice thick with an accent Christine could not place. She smiled politely.

"Good morning…" she replied slowly, her gaze traveling between the three women. She peered between the cracks of the window opposite her. "Is it really morning?"

One of the twins nodded. "Oh yes…nearing noontime, I believe."

Christine sat up a bit straighter, her hand suddenly flying to her temples. "What is it?" asked the other twin.

"Just a bit of a headache…" Christine said, eyes squeezed shut against the rhythmic pounding of blood in her ears. "It's nothing, I'm fine. Quite used to it, in fact…"

The woman who was presumably older than the twins nodded knowingly. "Madame thought nothing less. Here," she said, holding out her steaming cup. "Drink this."

Christine brought the mug to her lips, inhaling the aroma of fresh herbs, but she did not take a sip. "Who is 'Madame'?" she asked cautiously, glancing between them, eyes wide.

"Madame is the manager of this hotel…she's really quite good with medicines and remedies and such, so you needn't worry about…" the taller woman started, her voice trailing off.

"Where is my driver?"

One of the twins edged a bit closer to Christine. "He went off to alert your husband of your condition. Apparently he was to report back to him if something went wrong." Her two companions stared at her with questioning eyes, and the twin shrugged. "He was speaking quite loudly. I couldn't help but overhear bits and pieces of the conversation…"

The older woman sighed, then turned back to Christine. "You mustn't mind Chantal…she allows her tongue to run rampant…" She shot a warning look at Chantal, who blushed and looked away. Smiling widely at Christine, she said, "I'm Roslin…this is Fantine." Roslin waved a thin, elegant hand in the other twin's direction. "We…work here." Chantal and Fantine chortled quietly, and Christine glanced at them, eyebrows raised.

"Why…? What do you mean?" she asked bemusedly, her eyes still locked on the twins, who pressed the backs of their light brown hands to their mouths to refrain from laughing.

Roslin smiled exasperatedly. "We come from outside the city, ma'moiselle. Not from your class."

"Are you gypsies?"

Roslin's head bobbed back and forth lightly, gesturing a nod. "More or less. Madame gave us work, and we find extra money doing…odd jobs, here and there." Here, Chantal and Fantine doubled over in silent giggles, and Roslin grinned at them, unabashed.

"I don't follow you…" Christine murmured.

"Our services are always open to the weary traveler. We make no distinction of status."

It finally dawned on her, and Christine's gaze slowly traveled between the three women. "You are whores."

Roslin shrugged indifferently. "We prefer 'women of pleasure,' but whatever term appeases you." Christine blinked, lips parted slightly. "My dear, our customs are so radically different from yours. You find our line of work appalling…we find it convenient."

Christine nodded, turning her gaze to her hands as she absentmindedly smoothed the linen sheets that covered her legs. "And what is your name, child?" asked Fantine gently.

She glanced up at them. "Christine."

The reaction gained from those two syllables was astounding. Chantal gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as she turned her now completely circular eyes to her sister. Fantine grabbed at the pendent that hung from her neck, squeezing it between her fingers in sheer alarm.

"That's enough!"

The twins fell silent at the authority commanded in Roslin's voice. Chantal gripped Fantine's arm, her knuckles turning a pasty white, but they said nothing. Christine gazed between the three, her eyes wide and glassy and completely uncomprehending.

Roslin sighed and turned to Christine. "You'll have to excuse them, my dear. They are allowing a mere superstition to overtake their normally rational minds." She pursed her lips with an air of arrogance, glancing at the two girls out of the corner of her eye.

"It isn't superstition!" cried Fantine. "Roslin, you know it to be true…you've heard…"

"I know what I heard!" Roslin snapped, and the twins shrunk away from her steely gaze. She placed her hand lightly on Christine's shoulder, her eyes still focused on her two companions. "You honestly think this is her? Look at her!" The twins lowered the glance slowly.

"You're right, Roslin," murmured Chantal. "We were silly to allow those stories to affect us so."

"Of course you were," Roslin replied matter-of-factly.

Christine stared at the three, the wide-eyed expression still plastered on her face. "Excuse me…" she said softly, turning to Roslin. "But…what was all that? What is it about my name that frightens them?" Fantine and Chantal glanced at Roslin, who bit her lip.

"It's just a story…a silly, childish story…" she muttered. Sighing, she dropped her hands to her lap. "I suppose it was a year ago…would you say a year, girls?" The twins nodded simultaneously. "Yes, about a year ago, a man came to our hotel. A stranger, not from these parts…very dark and mysterious, a certain…air about him, if you will."

"And rich, too," added Fantine, eyes glistening. "His clothes were so elegant…and his cloak…" A smile danced across her lips. "He had the most gorgeous cloak…"

Roslin interrupted her with a quick motion of her hand. "And so, one of us offered our services… It was Jacqueline, I believe." She glanced questioningly at the twins who nodded vigorously. "Yes, Jacqueline approached him first. He assented, and she took him to her room. The next morning, we spoke with her about him. Now, first off you must understand that our normal customers are old or fat or drunks or brutes…nothing like this man. Tall, silent, composed…powerful. There was no denying his inherent authority. We were all quite interested in what Jacqueline had to say, you see."

"She said he was a very skillful lover," Chantal cut in. "Quiet, but skillful. Well…" she shot a look at her sister, then turned back to Christine. "Not completely quiet…"

"This is where you come in, my dear," said Roslin quickly. "Jacqueline said that at the height of passion…" A blush crept onto Christine's face in response to Roslin's words. "The man cried out the name 'Christine.' She told us she assumed this Christine was a former lover or some sort, a slip of the tongue on his part. And so, when he came back the following week, I gave him a go. Again, right in the middle of it all, the same name…Christine."

"He has done it every time," Fantine said. "It wasn't long before rumors started to spread among us about this man…it was inevitable, for many of the women found themselves almost drawn to him, despite the…" Her voice drifted off, and she became silent.

"Some of the girls began to say he was a demon, or even the Devil himself," whispered Chantal eagerly. "I think it was probably his eyes… I have never seen eyes like his, golden and fiery…"

Christine felt the color begin to drain from her cheeks. "Gold…golden eyes?" she stammered.

"Yes…many of us Gypsies believe him to be a dark spirit, a black phantom." Christine's lower lip began to tremble uncontrollably. "And this woman, this Christine to whom he cries out every night he spends in our arms, she is the Devil's Lover, his Hell-Bound Wife."

"He has many names among us here at the hotel, names we only speak in hushed whispers when he is not around." said Roslin. "His most common one is Le Démon Masqué…"

"…The Masked Demon…" Christine breathed.

"Oh, didn't I mention?" asked Roslin lightly. She put a hand to her cheek, laughing quietly to herself. "He wears a mask…a mask that covers the right side of his face. We don't know why; he refuses to…"

She was interrupted by the crash of china. They all looked to see the mug Christine was holding shattered on the floor, its contents seeping out onto the flooring. They all glanced up in unison to find Christine trembling from head to toe, as white as the sheets in which she wrapped herself.

"Erik…" she whispered, the name only a faint murmur in the stillness of the room.