A/N: This chapter's a bit short...but I've already started chapter seven, so woot!

On this night of a thousand stars,
Let me take you to heaven's door.

On This Night of A Thousand Stars, Andrew Lloyd Webber's Evita

BURNING BOATS

…And in the flickering candlelight, his hand was elusively normal; it looked warm and strong and quite curiously reassuring, the hand not of a monster and a murderer, but of a gentle, loving man, who waited with infinite patience for one little sign of hope…

For a moment that contained a thousand eternities, she stared at the hand that was extended out to her, perfectly still. The deafening noise in the room had been reduced to an obscure roar in her ears, and with dawning apprehension, she looked up into those eyes.

The expression on his face was so foreign to her that for an instant, it took her back to the only time she remembered having seen it, the time she had betrayed the fragile boundary of trust before the world and revealed a broken man, a time that had haunted her every day, and at night, in her every dream… It was a look of utter disbelief, an appearance of shock that rooted him to the very spot in which he stood, illuminating his masked face despite the shadows that danced across his eyes. And during the few brief seconds in which they stared at each other, Christine was met with the familiar yet hypnotic jolt that burst up her spine, a controlling, eerie tremor that caused her fingers to tremble vehemently with the overwhelming instinct to accept his outstretched hand.

Erik closed his eyes and turned his face away, visibly berating himself. When he turned back to her, he betrayed no emotion. Whatever shock or horror lay within the regions of the mind behind the eyes, he made no distinction in those two glowing orbs. His breath, fast and irregular, flew from his lips in short bursts. But his eyes showed nothing…they were blank, expressionless, empty. Christine stared at his hand, her body shaking uncontrollably as shivers danced up and down her back, before reaching out and touching her fingers to his palm.

She still had yet to refuse such an act on his part.

Wrapping his fingers around her own, he pulled her up with effortless ease. Her own eyes had grown large and glassy, and for an unwilling moment Erik was taken back to their first encounter, the start of everything… How utterly innocent and powerless she looked, her childish yet strangely seductive lips quivering, their gazes locked securely on each other.

"Christine…" he murmured, his eyes coming alive in an instant. They glowed with a blaze Christine was all too familiar with, and at the sound of his voice, she drew a shuddering breath. He brought her knuckles to his lips and kissed them softly, his eyes never leaving her face. His mouth lingered on her skin a few moments longer than was customary, and as he gazed into her eyes, Christine was met with the sudden, intuitive impulse to hide her soul from him…for he could see all that went on inside the darkest regions of her mind…

"Er…Erik…" she whispered throatily, chest rising and falling heavily. Neither saw Roslin as she slowly melted into the crowd, glancing over her shoulder as she disappeared. Erik's Adam's apple bobbed hesitantly in his throat, and it took all his effort to resist the urge to bash his head against the nearest wall in response to his own unforgivable foolishness. What are you doing? he screamed desperately at himself. She isn't real… he thought silently as his thumb delicately brushed over her tremulous white knuckles.

She isn't real… Erik slowly drew her by the hand as he stepped out into the throng of dancing guests, his pace unhurried and dynamic. They stared at each other; neither daring to trust the steady, spellbinding beat of their own hearts. He had not even noticed a cloaked figure in the corner take a seat on the piano bench, paging studiously through Erik's work.

She isn't real… His hands found their way to the curvaceous arc of her hips, and he felt her tense beneath his ravenous, demanding touch. The hypnotized glaze of her eyes began to fade, and she blinked rapidly, glancing nervously around at the crowd. Turning back to him, her mouth open as if to protest his actions, he gently placed a single, ungloved finger to her lips, the warmth of her skin causing his eyelids to flutter shut.

Oh God, she is real…

When the music started up again from the piano, his eyes snapped open, mouth agape. Erik and Christine stared at each other, thoughts frozen. The song…the song could not have been better chosen if the Devil himself sat upon the piano bench. The people around them molded instantly into their partners' bodies; there was something about the melody that had a way of lighting desires aflame, causing any and all reason to flee. Christine's heart hammered against her breast, the logical part of her mind shrieking its incoherent protests as she remained, motionless, in the middle of the room, staring at him.

You have truly gone mad, my friend, Erik thought to himself as he watched her. Truly mad. She had not changed, not in the least, he noted pensively as he began to circle her with slow, dominating majesty, much like a hawk did before it swooped down upon its unsuspecting prey. Beautiful…always beautiful. And here she was, before him, at…at…

A brothel? A whorehouse?

The realization struck him like a blow to the gut. The color must have drained from his already pale cheeks, for Christine noticed a difference in him and flinched suddenly, taking a couple steps back. No, no, no…he was losing her… In just a few short strides, he had grasped her by the waist, staring down at her with a hungry fire in his eyes. Good Lord, he thought as his gaze flowed over her, she even looked like a whore, donned in a dress that was obviously too short in length and too full in cup for her tiny frame.

The rhythms of the seductive chorus began, and a sweeping surge of yearning literally cascaded down upon its audience. Erik wove his fingers around Christine's thin, delicate neck, leaning towards her until his breath gently caressed her jaw. He felt her chest heave violently against his own, each curve of her form accented against his hardened body. As he stared into her glazed, deep brown eyes, he realized with a dawning comprehension she had absolutely no conscious understanding of what she was doing.

A moment later, he concluded that he didn't, either.

Her leg found its way around his thigh, the heel of her shoe digging forcefully into his skin. He inhaled sharply, and then let out a deep sigh against her cheek. Christine's gaze had taken on a rather glassy look, her eyes unfocused and half closed as her hands grasped his shoulders. Whether it was the influence of his music or the animalistic instinct his mere presence cast over her, she found that still, after two years, she had no power to resist it. His hand crept to the small of her back, and with one violent movement, he pulled her small body against his own. The fingers of his other hand went to her face, gently caressing the dip of her temple and the rise of her high cheekbones.

Ever so slowly, Erik brought her body away from himself, extending her into a graceful dip as his hand remained against her back. His hand gradually fell from her face to her neck, sliding, flowing, until his fingers danced across the pale smoothness of her chest. He took a deep breath, then brought his touch to the rise of her breasts and lingered there.

Erik felt her inhale sharply, and when he glanced down at her face, he saw her eyelids had flickered shut, her mouth parted slightly as she gave a soft, guttural groan. Her back arched suddenly, ecstatically, as he pressed harder and harder against her, and he brought his other hand to the pale thigh that was exposed through the angled cut of her dress. After a moment his fingers ran slowly down the length of her firm abdomen and wrapped around her hips, covetously savoring the pulsing beat of her skin beneath his touch.

He pulled Christine back up to him and pressed her to his chest, clutching her firmly in his dominating embrace and grasping both her thin, fragile wrists in his hands. With one smooth, sinuous movement, Erik brought one of her arms around her body, over her head, until she stood with her back pressed solidly against his broad chest. His cheek rested gently against her brunette locks, and he took a deep, shuddering breath, reveling in the subtle aroma of her hair as she leaned on him. He rocked rhythmically with her to the throbbing cadence, pushing his body into the curve of her back, his eyes drawing shut.

Christine's mind had grown hazy, incoherent, and as she gazed beneath half-closed eyelids out onto the other guests, she believed them to be an audience watching the first performance of Don Juan Triumphant. Vaguely she realized that Erik's mouth rested against the curve of her shoulder, and she licked her dry lips as he trailed his fingers across the bare upper half of her chest. He ran his lips up the side of her neck until they reached her ear.

"So tell me, Madame Vicomtess…" he hissed darkly, accenting each syllable of the last word by pushing his lips harder against her skin. She tensed beneath his touch, her eyes flying open. "What did your husband do to land you here, a place that God has so conveniently forgotten?" Christine writhed against him, turning herself so that she looked him in the face. The more she struggled, the firmer his grasp on her became. "Perhaps he is facing economic difficulties… He has surely spent every last franc on his attempts to make his precious wife as happy as humanly possible." He smirked against her ear, eyes glittering brightly in the shadows. "Ironic, isn't it? In trying to build you Heaven on earth, he has condemned you to the depths of Hell." Erik paused, listening to the frantic bursts of air that escaped her mouth. "Or was this your decision? Did he not satis-"

Erik was interrupted by Christine's open palm as it collided with his uncovered cheek. The resounding smack was met with unmoving and utter silence. His face was whipped to the side, and for a moment, he was motionless, deep red marks rising on his skin. When he turned back to face her, he saw that her eyes had lost their glassy quality. She looked as if she could not believe what she had done and was still trying to figure out the reason why. She met his demanding stare, and slowly her gaze hardened and grew dark. After a single moment's hesitation, Christine broke the heated connection of their glances and pushed her way into the on-looking crowd, hugging herself tightly as she hurried away.

Erik watched her retreating back, his face expressionless. A streaking bolt of lightning illuminated the scene through the long glass window, and once more it began to rain.

Christine flung herself onto her bed, covering her face with her thin, trembling hands. Even through the darkness of her eyelids, she could see his glowing yellow eyes staring down at her through the shadows. She wrenched off Fantine's little black and crimson dress, and with a groan of effort, she threw it into the corner of the room with all the force she could muster.

Shivering, she retrieved a pink velvet robe from her wardrobe…a present from Raoul. Raoul.

Raoul…

She murmured the name over and over again to herself in her head, but all that remained in her mind was the burning sensation of Erik's long, beautiful hands at her waist and cheek and breasts, the tender warmth of his lips as he pressed them to her knuckles…

"Damn him!" she swore, her voice thick and hoarse. "Damn him to Hell!"

A resounding creak echoed from the doorway behind her, and Christine whirled around.

The music started up again after a few moments, a different song than before. The bouncing brunette curls had disappeared into the swarm of dancing guests, and Erik stood, still as a statue, in the center of the crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small head of mousy brown hair streaked with gray, and in a flash he took off towards her.

"Madame!"

Turning sharply, Madame stood on the tips of her toes in order to see over the many heads of her company. She glimpsed the familiar shape of Erik as he hurried towards her, his cape twirling madly behind him. A quick-witted greeting was readily prepared on the tip of her tongue, but she faltered when he caught her roughly by the arm. Madame glared up at him only to find his eyes quite preoccupied, scanning the room in a hurried frenzy.

His gaze landed on Madame, his grasp on her arm loosening. His heavy breaths were fleeting and irregular, and when he finally spoke, his voice was nothing more than an impatient, hurried whisper. "Madame…there was a girl here…someone new…her name is Christine…"

Madame opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with the wave of his hand.

"How long has she been here?"

She bit her lower lip, brow furrowed. "Only about a day and a half, monsieur, but…"

Erik sighed heavily, running his fingers through his hair. "I will pay you to never have her…provide services for another man…again." Chest heaving, he stared at her pleadingly.

Madame blinked, eyebrows cocked questioningly as she watched him. "Monsieur, I…"

"I have one hundred thousand francs, Madame." Reaching inside his ebony cloak, he withdrew a small crimson coin purse from his belt. "Please." She stopped arguing instantly, eyes fixated greedily on the handbag. "If you want more, you can have it."

She hesitated for only a moment. "Done." She snatched the money from him eagerly, spilling a few coins out into her quivering palm. A small smirk made its way onto her thin mouth, the gold shimmering in the glassiness of her narrowed eyes. Madame glanced up at him furtively, lips pursed, as he watched her impassively through a dark, calculating gaze. "Of course, monsieur, you'll need to tell her all this yourself." They stared at each other wordlessly, an unspoken knowledge passing instantly between them: If Erik did not do it himself; Madame would not do it for him. Christine would not find out.

Erik's lips twitched dangerously, but he gave an abrupt nod and turned away from her. "Where is she?" he asked over his shoulder, the loathing evident in his strained voice.

Madame gave a short jerk of her head, silently indicating the stairs to his left. "Last room on the right, monsieur." Without another word, he took off through the crowd. Her eyes followed his figure for a moment as he made his way to the stone stairwell of the higher-class apartments. Smiling darkly to herself, she turned back to her guests.