Lamar's eyes squinted as he eyed the hooded figure a6tthe face of the stairs. He was of average height, taller then Lamar by an inch or so and was slightly bulkier than himself, the light cloak hanging tightly about the body. Charlotte padded silently behind him, her hand gripping the back of his shirt a few steps from the man.

"Good evening, Sir," he greeted formally, catching Charlotte's hand in his own, her grip nearly causing him to teeter backwards. "To what do I owe the honor of your unannounced visit?" His tone was polite, but coolly warning; an unannounced guest was an unwelcome one so far as his years as Sergeant had taught him.

"Let us talk in private, Monsieur," the voice answered from beneath the over-hanging hood. That voice was familure. His jaw clenched when he recognized it as Charlotte's hand bore down painfully on his, her breath sharp and shallow at his shoulder.

"Very well, sir," Lamar answered stiffly, "Please." He motioned to the man to walk before him, not trusting his brother at his back. "My office door is just to the right; it has my name upon it. Give me a chance to make myself presentable?" The hooded brother stood for a moment, unseen eyes boring into Lamar, then he stepped forward suddenly, his mouth beside Lamar's ear, Charlotte jumping back.

"You should not bother with such a pleasantry for your brother, Christopher," his voice whispered harshly into his ear. Lamar clenched his fist violently at his side. No one had called him by his first name since childhood…only Andrew would dare do so; even Red, despicable mean as he was, knew the consequences of using his first name. But Andrew… he was sure of himself; he could overcome Lamar and well knew it.

Charlotte watched Lamar's body stiffen at whatever Andrew had whispered in his ear. Andrew… what was he doing here? Why talk to Lamar of all people? Had she not escaped the wrath of these men after all?

The man's formidable form had struck her immediately with a memory of Andrew, the most notorious of the Kingrea Group for his cruelty. He had been the one that broke her wrist once; he had also been the one that had whipped her as similarly as she had Lamar. The hooded man's face raised slightly over Lamar's tense shoulder, cold mud-brown eyes glinting in the lamp-light at her. Her heart skipped a beat painfully, making her clutch at her chest, desperately trying to catch her breath. This was not just a man that resembled Andrew- it was Andrew.

Erik slowed Caesar to a trot as he neared the breaking of the higher and lower point of Paris, glaring out from beneath the hood that his milk-white mask. The building changed abruptly from fine two story homes to shack-like excuses for houses. A few random whores, mainly older ones without business, passed his dejectedly. One stopped to look at him curiously, setting him on edge.

"What makes you stare so, Madame?" he asked gruffly. She shook her head, turning away and shuffling away. Erik's head jerked, following her with his eyes when a sudden thought struck him. "Madame? Madame!" The woman turned and looked at him with unsure eyes. "Please Madame… do you know of the Kingrea Group?" The prostitute's eyes widened with plain fear creeping into them. She shook her head violently and turned sharply on her heel, disappearing into a dark ally. Erik stared after her, not entirely surprised by her reaction; he was miffed slightly, however that she had proved worthless. He slowed the snow-white stallion to a pain-stakingly slow walk, looking about him. This was proving pointless. Wandering about mindlessly in this stinking muck that stung at his nose the farther he rode into it did nothing but waste precious time that Christine could be saved in. A woman's small cry sounded somewhere, but it was so faint, Erik was unsure he had heard it. He listened intently, but heard no sound again. Growling, he jerked Caesar's head sharply, causing the great white stallion to snort in surprise, and kicking him into an agitated canter. Better to go first to the authorities, see if he could perhaps squeeze any information out of their pathetic patrols.

Christine listened to the sound of heavy hoof falls, glancing at the shadows of a horse's thick legs in the gaps of the wood, her tears flooding silently down her cheeks as she held the dead girl in her arms. For once, she was glad that she was alone; normally she found herself longing for the crude company of Marti and Mary, quiet as the later was; but now she found herself grateful for the quiet that allowed her to hear the footfalls of a lone rider.

The pounding of the horse's hooves became an extremely long, slow paced stride, passing the shack that trapped her in this living hell. So Erik had thought he had existed in a living hell? She thought bitterly. He should see me now. He at least had music, the freedom to haunt the opera house, had the freedom to create the angelic music with his rapturous voice… his beautiful, catching voice…

"Madame? Madame!" Christine's head snapped up painfully. Was that… that voice… it couldn't be… and yet… "Please Madame, do you know of the Kingrea Group?" ye! Yes it was! None but Erik could carry a melody in his voice without consciousness of it... not so smoothly... Erik… Erik…

"Erik..." her voice was weak now from singing with more effort hen she had ever given on stage…it was barley a whisper. No... No she could not let him pass… this was her chance to be saved! "Erik!" She managed to force her voice to a fairly audible volume, but when she tried again to call for Erik, it cracked. She fought again and again to scream for him, her heart beating furiously, desperately pumping adrenaline through her veins. "Erik!" but her voice was dead. No! She begged. Erik please hear me!

But the horse's snort sounded outside the shack and his hooves bounded away…away…away...

NO!