A/N: Fondest greetings, my loyal readers. Sorry about the wait… Family vacation, you know how it is. The rating in this chapter is a bit higher than the others, just as fair warning. Also, it's a bit of a flashback in regards to the last scene: This is taking place from Erik's point of view on the night François brought him to the hotel.

P.S: Once again, thank you to all my reviewers! You help me type faster! …No, seriously! It's true! This update was an exception; I really do appreciate your support; so please excuse the length of time it took me to post this chapter… -Sheepish smile-

I closed my eyes, drew back the curtain
To see for certain what I thought I knew.
Far far away, someone was weeping,
But the world was sleeping…
Any dream will do.

Any Dream Will Do, Andrew Lloyd Webber's Joseph

A SCORPION'S POISON

Once he was safely concealed within the protection of the shadows, Erik turned to glance over his shoulder, watching the driver gaze out into the night, searching for his elusive companion. Had he been in a better mood, Erik would have laughed. But not tonight.

With a silent gesture, he pushed open the doorway of the hotel, his eyes flickering briefly back to the old man who continued to look about in bewilderment. Clutching his cloak tightly to his chest, Erik stepped inside. The foyer was just as he had left it a week ago: dark, musty, and utterly overpopulated. Men of all different shapes and sizes filled the hallway, crowding the small wooden tables, their deep voices echoing through the walls with thunderous conversation and drunken bouts of laughter. Cigar smoke was thick in the air, as was the smell of body odor and alcohol. A sneer worked its way onto Erik's lips.

How he deplored this place.

"Monsieur! Monsieur…" He felt a hand grasp the hem of his thick black cloak, and he whirled around with dangerous finesse, his eyes burning in pointed vigilance.

Madame.

His gaze instantly lost its dangerous glint, and he pursed his lips. The short, firm-footed woman before him placed her hands on her hips, eyebrow raised. "I was wondering if I had seen the last of you, monsieur. You haven't been here in nearly a week and a half…" Erik looked away uncomfortably, unable to meet the woman's stern gaze. "Rumors have been circling, my dear sir." Madame (for he knew her as nothing else) tapped her foot impatiently, aggravated by his lack of response. Her management over the hotel was never questioned, her authority never crossed. It was a dangerous power game between them, neither readily admitting their headlock of stubborn, unyielding supremacy: Madame, the acknowledged keeper of the artifice, Erik, the nameless presence of sexual conviction. Bated, apprehensive breath awaited either arrival, the very air stilled in their company. And yet there was a bridge of unspoken, mutual respect between them, and this reverence prevented any arguments more aggressive than mere bickering.

It was quite obvious that Madame had been beautiful in her earlier years, but now, as she spiraled down from the pinnacle of her life, the wrinkles and dulling spark in her eyes betrayed her good looks. "…And you know as well as I how your visits affect both the girls and my income. When you don't show up, my business pays for it." She eyed him thoughtfully. "As do the girls." Her eyes remained locked on his face, awaiting his reaction.

A gentle, mocking snort escaped him, barely more than a heavy sigh. Meeting her gaze, he returned her stare with a dark, alluring glance, his eyes sparkling in sinister amusement. "Are your words meant to affect my schedule, Madame?" She scowled. "If the girls lack sufficient funds, perhaps they would do better with a real job, a job that requires talent other than the ability to lie on one's back and moan with the proper enthusiasm." He swept past her with the wave of his cloak, feeling her angry gaze as it bore into his back.

"You mock them, sir, and yet here you are," she replied tartly. Madame put on a sickly sweet smile. "Shall I fetch Brigitte for you then, monsieur? I know how you favor her…"

She grew silent at his look, a glance of warning anger. Any humor in his eyes had vanished, his stare once again taking on a threatening glaze. "I believe, Madame, that I passed her on my way in tonight. She appeared to be…otherwise engaged."

The words fell from his lips with quiet disdain, and Madame clicked her tongue. "Perhaps you would care to try out the newest member of our loving family… She just came in a few days ago." Without waiting for his response, she turned on heel and disappeared into one of the back rooms.

Erik sat back on his heels, running a gloved hand over his face. God, how he hated this place... He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "Last time," he muttered vaguely to himself. "This is the last time."

He knew it wouldn't be.

"Monsieur…" Madame called.

When he looked up, Erik was greeted with a sight that reassured him of God's dark, twisted sense of humor.

It took him a few moments to realize that it was the hair… Yes, the hair was what did it. The girl before him had long, chestnut locks that curled lightly around her shoulders, framing a pale, oval face. It mattered little to him that she had small, sea-green eyes, and a thin, wide set mouth. All he saw was the hair…the gorgeous, brunette locks that would have looked so absolutely divine spread out across a satin pillow beneath him…

"No," he whispered hoarsely, damning his own voice for sounding so weak. "No, find someone else." Erik did not miss the flicker of self-conscious astonishment in the girl's gaze. Puzzled and hurt, she was led away by Madame, who cast a brief yet audaciously firm glance over her shoulder at him. Propping his elbows on his knees, he held both sides of his head with his hands, wishing himself out of this self-inflicted nightmare.

He allowed his eyes traveled cautiously around at the men who shared his company, men who were far from their home (if they had one), their wives, their children… Here, pasts were forgotten, not questioned; any gentleman with cash in his pocket could be delivered from one night spent alone in the dark. As Erik sat at a solitary distance, many of the women cast their gazes into his corner, eyeing the prize they would not find beneath them that night. Their customers, too drunk to notice, called for one more tankard to wet their pallet, their hands wandering aimlessly across the smooth flesh that took seat in their laps.

The sharp, calculating eyes of beautiful whores were locked on Erik, and he too remained oblivious to their stare…for he allowed only one woman to occupy his every thought.

"Monsieur…" came a low purr from the doorway behind him. He turned to find a tall woman with short raven hair standing beside Madame, her long caramel-colored fingers wrapped lazily around her hip. Erik glanced at Madame and nodded expressionlessly, his eyes falling back on the girl. He had taken her into his company before, though he could not recall her name; most of the time he did not even bother to ask.

"Roslin," Madame cooed sweetly. "Make certain that our guest is given everything he desires."

Running her hand down the length of his sleeve, Roslin replied, "With pleasure, Madame."

After a moment, Madame's glance flitted back to Erik. "I expect you back down here by three o'clock tomorrow afternoon, monsieur. The piano has at least an inch of dust on it…" She shot a fleeting look over at the ivory keys, which were covered in filth and grime, before turning back to him, her eyes sharp and unblinking. Her arms were crossed beneath her breasts, and she frowned scathingly. "Remember, you cannot fuck for free. I scratch your back if and only if you scratch mine." Erik's eyebrows rose in reply to her biting tone. "I will not go back on our deal; my people want entertainment, and they will have it."

Erik gave only a low grunt as his response, his gaze flickering to Roslin with a dark, unreadable glint radiating from his glowing amber eyes. She returned his stare with a bold, ostentatious glance, bringing her thick red lips into a wide pout. "Madame," she said suddenly. "Your idle chitchat is beginning to bore us." Roslin took Erik by the arm, her hand lightly brushing past the gentle rise of his trousers, and started up the stairs.

Madame's frown deepened, but she said nothing. Erik knew the restraint of her tongue was only due to the fact that Roslin had been a loyal and successful addition to Madame's brood since the very beginning…for Madame was never one to allow another the last word. She nodded curtly, her eyes following them until they were but two shadows in the darkened corridor. After a moment, she turned her back and hurried into the kitchen.

The flight of steps leading up into the lodgings of the hotel was dilapidated and damp, void of any natural light. Erik followed Roslin up the winding stairwell in silence, taking no notice of her occasional glance over her shoulder. His cloak was suddenly stiflingly heavy, and with a single gloved hand, he began to work at the lacing around his neck, loosening the velvet strings by pulling them away from his chest.

At the top of the steps was a long, narrow corridor, two rows of identical doors on either side. The spacing between the entrances allowed for very confined quarters, each with no more than three meters in width. The numbering on each of the doors ran in consecutive order, the even on the right, odd on the left. Roslin trailed a single, perfectly shaped hand along the uneven wooden paneling, her eyes flickering at the man behind her, hardly believing her own luck. It had been months since she had been called to service him…and now, she began to tremble with sheer anticipation of the night ahead.

She did not need to ask in which room he would be staying; her fingers reached unhesitatingly for the knob of the door at the end of the hall, his eyes following each and every one of her smallest movements in calculating silence. Without a word, he handed her a small bronze key from his pocket, and Roslin smiled at him from beneath a wave of short raven hair.

The room was part of his deal…that, and any woman he desired, in exchange for a small fee at predetermined intervals and a performance twice a month. Not a bad deal, she thought to herself as she inserted the key into the lock. And not only on your side, monsieur…

Erik stepped into the room after Roslin, glaring around at the peeling wallpaper and the unmade, disheveled bed. The room was permanently perfumed with the smell of burned-out candles, opium smoke (he kept a small stash locked up in the desk that sat in the corner), and women…lots and lots of women, each with their own unique scent and memory. His breaths became short and angry, nostrils flaring ever so subtly. Sometimes he wished he could just dowse the entire room in ammonia simply to rid himself of the reminders.

His hand wove its way around the base of his neck, rubbing the skin above his chest. Roslin, misinterpreting the gesture, stepped towards him and began what she believed was assisting him in unbuttoning his thin white chemise. Erik glanced down at her, eyes burning, and she returned his stare with a narrowed, suggestive gaze, running the slightest bit of her tongue across her lower lip. She reached the last button and paused, running her eyes and fingers across the smooth, sculpted flesh of his abdomen and chest.

Erik gazed at her, and suddenly he no longer saw a woman he barely knew, but an escape…a sweet, blessed escape from his own mind. The cloak fell from his shoulders and his hands snaked effortlessly around her hips, fingers working at the ties of the deep crimson dress that was shorter in length and lower in cut than would be deemed acceptable anywhere but in that room. He felt her unbuckle his belt and slide gently against him, her own fingers working wonders upon his skin. She was unbelievably good at what she was paid to do, he granted her that. But this was going too slowly…much too slowly…

He ripped the dress from her body, and he heard the excited little gasp she gave as he ran his hands up and down her smooth brown thighs, begging entry with his touch. He eased out of his trousers with a grace only he could have mastered and pulled her closer by the wrists, his fingers now dancing up her spine and across her chest. She reached her hands up to his face, pulling it down to claim his kiss, but he jerked away, turning his eyes from her.

No…his lips would not be touched. Never again.

She was not surprised; it was simply another one of his strange, mysterious, and ultimately intriguing eccentricities. Instead, she led him over to the bed that stood against the wall, grasping his hard waist and pulling him upon herself. He grunted against her, propping himself up on his arms as he stared down at her hungrily. Working his hips rhythmically against her torso, Erik once again asked admittance with his body, and without a second thought she allowed him in, groaning with an intense pleasure that she received from no other customer. His breath fluttered past her shoulder, quick and hot, causing her deep black hair to stand on end. Faster…he thought. Faster, faster…hurry up…

"Oh God…" she moaned into his neck, digging her nails into his shoulder. Her words were followed by quick gasps, her voice suddenly changing from the soft, feminine purr to the pleading whimpers of a little girl as she whispered, "Please, please, please…" He ignored her.

Don't think. Don't remember. He nodded to himself, the sweat dripping down his forehead. Don't remember… Erik realized he had squeezed his eyes shut against the darkness and he opened them, gazing down at the woman beneath him. Her hair spread like black fire against the downy feather pillow under her head, but as he watched, the locks seemed to grow, becoming long, silky chestnut curls. They spilled wondrously over the bed, and he could smell their fragrance…

Mine, said a voice in his ear.

The groans grew louder, and the girl's face grew paler, the nose becoming smaller and daintier. Her lips, once blood red, softened into a light pink, and she smiled up at him.

Mine…

Her eyes flew open, wide and innocent, a deep honey brown that made him thrust without even thinking, with all his might. She gave a gasp of both pain and passion, biting down instinctively on his shoulder. His skin broke, but he did not realize until he saw the tiny red stream drip steadily down his arm. Her hands grasped the bedpost behind her head.

"Mine!" he hissed.

"Erik!" she called out into the night, her voice that of an angel. Beautiful…captivating…the voice that had haunted his every dream, his every nightmare for two years.

No, all his life…

"Christine…"

She awoke in the dark, alone, disoriented and tangled in the winding sheets. The moon was high in the night sky, and she wiped the beads of perspiration from her brow. A small whimper escaped her lips as she remembered what had awakened her from her slumber…

His voice.

He called to her, beckoning, pleading…

Christine rolled onto her side and pulled her knees up to her chest. When she awoke the next morning to the sound of birds, before Chantal and Fantine and Roslin would enter her room and shatter every sane thought in her head, she would not recall the dream. She would not even remember waking up in the middle of the night to her angel's song…

Roslin awoke more exhausted than she had been in…well, longer than she cared to admit. Most of the time, she found that she could diminish any and all energy her men had to offer, tiring them out before she even broke a sweat. She yawned contentedly, stretching and arching her back like a cat. But last night…she smirked. No, her vigor was well and truly burned. She had been 'ridden like a well-used horse,' Roslin thought with a smile, remembering the many times her mother had used the phrase. Ridden like a well-used horse. She slumped back onto her pillow, glancing to her left at man beside her.

The mask gleamed dully in the dawning sun.

The grin slowly faded from her lips as she recalled their last discussion about the mask.

She had awakened to the sound of the window opening. Rubbing her eyes, Roslin stared as her customer ducked outside, preparing to scale the drainpipe down to the ground.

"What in God's name are you doing, monsieur?"

He started, glancing over his shoulder at her as she wrapped the sheet around her naked body and got up off the bed. Pursing his lips, he said, "I…was simply getting a breath of fresh air, mademoiselle."

Roslin grinned and stepped closer to him. "You're trying to get away so you don't have to play that goddamned piano this afternoon," she asked, black eyes glinting deviously. He said nothing, glancing away from her amused stare. "It's alright, I won't tell Madame."

"Thank you."

She traced the outline of his muscles through his shirt, her smirk deepening. "No, I won't tell a soul, monsieur; not Madame, not the girls, no one…if you would take off your mask."

The silence in the room was sudden and instantly overwhelming. At once his eyes coupled with hers, the golden irises piercing her very soul. Instinctively she shrunk away from him, unable to pull her gaze away from those beautiful, glowing, deadly amber eyes…

"Excuse me?" he whispered, his lips barely moving as he spoke.

She had not asked again.

Now Roslin stared at the mask as it taunted her with its awareness of what lay beneath the white leather. The man was so complicated, so fascinating… Was it really all that unfeasible that he should wear a mask simply to wear a mask? Perhaps it was a symbol of some sort, a mask to hide his face to cover the mask that hid his soul, something poetic in that sense… Nothing was impossible with this man, and she would find that nothing could surprise her about him. He had been so fervent in his refusal to remove it that she found her insatiable lust for his exquisite body matched only by her insatiable lust for knowledge…the knowledge of what he was hiding under that Godforsaken mask…

She inched her hand up his chest, her other arm wrapped tightly around his solid abdomen. He shifted in his sleep, and she held the air within her lungs until his breathing once again became steady. Her hand brushed against his gleaming black hair, and her fingers closed around the edges of the leather. Roslin bit her lower lip as she began to ease it from his face.

A hand shot up and grasped her wrist with a strength that made her gasp. Two burning golden eyes stared at her with a murderous glint shining from within, his skin suddenly cold to the touch. For a moment they stayed, unmoving, in that position until he dropped her hand.

"Get your clothes on, Chris…mademoiselle," he hissed, climbing out of the bed without even so much as a look back. Roslin chest heaved with utter fear of the man…and a twinge of disappointment. I do not give up so easily, monsieur, she thought bitterly to herself.

He left, and Roslin picked up a silk robe from the floor of the room (she would find out whose it was later, she mused), enveloping her body in its warmth. It was not until then that she realized that he had almost called her Christine in his moment of frustration. And then she remembered that once again the night before he had called out the name into the shadows.

Christine…

She shivered, wrapping the robe tighter around herself, and walked out of the room, locking the door behind her.