Author's Notes: Moving kind of quickly because I can't CAN'T write or stand filler fluff. Seriously, on a paper, I think of I wrote fluff my body would just involuntarily chop off my hand. shrugs Maybe I'm allergic or something. But this chapter is kind of an afterthough which I'm really digging. Tell me what you think of Mariana. READ AND REVIEW, PLEASE!

Chapter 11 – The Hounds Behind

Erik pushed back the fabric of his tent and unbuttoned his heavy red jacket. No matter how much he disliked thinking of the end of that masquerade twenty years ago, his Red Death costume was quite spectacular. The skull mask, if he bothered to paint his eyes, was so captivating that people often forgot to ask about his real death's head.

He dropped the coat on top of the saddlebag still holding the long, folded up train. Just as he was about to remove the mask, the wind passed through the tent, stirred his hair and carried the shaky breath of the intruder to his ears.

Erik turned, a growl curling his lips, and stopped when he saw Claude and Therese's son Matthieu standing frozen with his hand outstretched. "What do you think you're doing in here?" he asked coolly. The boy blushed fiercely and snatched his hand back to run it through his hair. Matthieu couldn't be much older than thirteen, but he already had the shadow of his father's muscular build. His eyes darted around the small tent for an excuse as he stammered.

"Nothing, Don Juan," he said. Something in the way he averted his eyes suddenly set Erik's nerves on edge. He stepped dangerously close to the boy, looming over him.

"What were you planning to do, boy?" he growled. Too many times there had been a hand reaching through the dark to snatch at his mask. Matthieu's eyes went wide, and he swallowed loudly, but he stood unexpectedly straight as he stared at him.

"I was going to prove them wrong." He still stammered in spite of his powerful stance. "Everyone thinks that no one can touch Red Death and live to tell about it."

Erik started and suddenly barked a laugh. He turned away and moved to pick up his bow and rosin. "Is that all? Well let them believe that. Good thing you didn't touch me after all. Who was the genius to figure this out?"

"Well, ever since Sheba died, people have been wondering—" Matthieu's words faltered as he realized the violin bow had stopped on the amber square of rosin, the horsehairs gleaming faintly. Erik's knuckles turned white as his fingers fell from the proper position to grip the wood hard.

"What?" He could hear Matthieu swallow.

"The tiger, monsieur. She died while you were away. Papa said that she just missed her homeland too much, and after you showed her that bit of kindness she saw fit to…let go. Paoli's more upset than any of us thought. He lets the lions out every night now." The boy paused. "Don Juan?"

"You should go, Matthieu," he said softly without turning around. The tent flap swung quietly, and somewhere off an owl hooted before Erik unlocked his hand from the bow. It fell onto the sheets with a muffled thud that he barely heard as he flexed his fingers unconsciously.

Why again? Why? Was he allowed to have nothing?

It was too much, everything was catching up with him. Danielle was just a few miles behind him. He had seen her again, all the way here in Germany. What if the gendarme was still following her? And what if the people in the fair really thought he was some kind of danger? He felt the steel door of a cage slowly swinging shut before him.

He dropped the amber rosin and put his hands to his head, gritting his teeth. He needed a minute. Just a minute. A pause to breathe. Anything. He felt like he hadn't been able to breathe since he had left Paris, as if he were still trying to catch it from his flight. He was afraid to sleep, if more nightmares would come to hound him. He hadn't felt this anxious since he had fretted over Christine, over how to keep her when he knew de Chagny had already won.

The game's over, he growled to himself, shaking his head. You don't have to fight anymore. It's not a game.

Erik, very slowly, unclenched his hands from his skull and bent one knee. He knelt down as he picked up the bow from where it had fallen, concentrating on breathing. It felt so hard, so…unnatural.

The first mournful notes of Sheba's requiem rose softly from the strings. People outside, sitting happily around their fires or in each other's arms, paused as it went on, raising their heads to the sound. The volume never varied, never grew or faded, but yet they could hear, hear it become more heartfelt and laden with emotion. They were trapped in a trance, swept up in the power of that sorrowful song, until it oh so subtly shifted. They blinked and looked around, the music fading from their ears, before falling back to their lives, pretending nothing had happened. The sound of the violin disappeared as if a shroud had been pulled over the strings.

She looked tired, he thought to himself. He was still gasping for air, and she was still exhausted. The music beneath his bow became a soft lullaby that he did not control. Those outside couldn't hear it because they weren't meant to. Where it came from was a mystery to him; he couldn't remember ever having one sung to him in his childhood. But what came from the violin could be called nothing else.

In my dark my heart hears music. In her blood there's song. Erik didn't realize as he played, but his breathing settled in time to the music, in time to the woman's pulling a horse out of a stable to ride off into the night. There is something absolute and magic about falling asleep to song. Children insist upon it, refusing to be silent and rest unless lulled into it by a parent's softly sung encouragement. When they grow up they shun it, leave it behind in childhood where they figure it belongs, an immature quirk they must outgrow. But deep inside, we all still long to fall into dreams on the wings of an Angel of Music…

The soft sound of the tent door swinging barely penetrated his song. Erik sighed, letting the notes carry on, until he suddenly heard the quiver of bells and gold jewelry behind him. The music died so abruptly that the air seemed to echo it a moment more, as if it wished that it hadn't ended. Slowly, this time, Erik turned, lowering his violin.

The Gypsy woman was standing there, her arms overflowing with white lilies. She blinked at him sadly, the fierce light in her eyes at unsettling odds with her somber expression. She hoisted the flowers in his direction.

"I'm so sorry to hear of your loss, Don Juan," she consoled. The fragrance of the lilies seeped into the air, and she looked down at them. "I know how close you were to the tiger." Unable to look away from her, Erik could not suppress the terrible sense of foreboding welling up in his chest.

"She was old," he said stiffly. Mariana smiled coyly as she nodded.

"Yes, well…we all must meet our fate." Her eyes were cruelly sweet as she looked up at him, and still, Erik could not get rid of the awful feeling that he had hated those eyes before.

"What do you want, Gypsy?" Mariana took a few steps forward, gliding over his sheets. She stood so close, Erik could smell the herbs and spices on her, the harsh smell of wicked precision. He tensed, gripping the bow like a weapon as she held up the lilies.

"Tell me, Don Juan," she cooed seductively. "Can you make my lilies sing?"

Erik froze, his eyes behind the mask suddenly wide with remembered fear. "No," he gasped, stepping back involuntarily and raising the bow in defense. "You can't be…"

Mariana's smile grew, and for the first time Erik knew what fear his own wicked smile had instilled in so many unfortunate, pathetic souls. The Gypsy slunk forward again, dangerously closing the space between them.

"Well, Devil's child? Can you make them sing?" She pushed the flowers against his chest, her smile finally descending into a cruel sneer.

"How did you...?" Erik stammered, his mind still trying to conceive how this was happening. He remembered, now, remembered where he had first felt that calculating, merciless gaze on him.

He had been in the Gypsy cage, late at night, clutching his stinging side. He barely had a handful of hay to rest his head on, so he leaned against the hard bars, hanging his head behind the burlap mask as he bit his lip.

"Oh, don't pout, little corpse," her voice cooed, a sound he had quickly learned to despise and fear equally. Mariana was leaning against the bars opposite him. On the outside, of course. One olive hand was curled around the metal, the other holding Javert's whip by her side. She was his captor's much younger sister, brought along so that her cold, greedy cunning could profit him best. And she was wickedly fascinated with Erik. Mariana was a child with a glass lens, and he was the unfortunate ant she was oh so slowly enjoying killing.

Erik's eyes snapped open and he glared at her, hoping that the ashamed tears stinging his eyes were hidden by the mask. She struck out her lip in mock commiseration.

"Poor Devil's child, afraid to speak to a girl."

"I am not afraid," he snapped angrily before he could stop himself. Mariana's smile darkened.

"Then speak some more."

Erik fell sullenly silent. He knew that if he spoke at all, she would extract the worst insult from his words and take the leather to his side. She liked to twist his words and fling them back in his face. Of course, if he didn't say anything, she'd probably hit him anyway.

As he remained stubbornly silent, huddle up in the corner of the filthy cage, Mariana scowled. She didn't look pretty when she twisted her face up like that, and she hated not looking pretty, so she schooled her features to cast a cool gaze on the whip. Her hand raised it up and moved back and forth so that the leather strips whispered over the bars. Erik always imagined that the wind in Hell would sound something like that.

Watching her nervously, he finally saw the small white flower tucked into her dark hair. He studied it for a moment, wondering how such a beautiful little thing could stand to be plucked and placed beside such a vile scalp. Perhaps Mariana didn't look horrible, nothing like he did, but so close, even a little flower must feel the wickedness inside her skull.

He pitied the little thing. He shifted against the bars, sullenly scorning the girl for plucking it from its life so it could grace her hair in its dying hours. He licked his lips and pitched his voice to the petals, whispering his voice into her ear.

Cat of Nine Tails shook her head.

Cat of Nine Tails strike you dead.

Raised her head up to the sky,

Watch her fall and then you'll cry.

Erik loved the expression of perplexed wonder that came over her face, reveled in the fact that he still had one thing she could never control. A small, triumphant smile crossed his face behind the mask. But as he watched her, that fierce, horrid light of machinations and calculations coming to the Gypsy's eyes, it vanished from his lips like it never had been. The little voice of reason that he liked less and less was whispering in his mind. Bad idea, that was a bad idea…

That same light hadn't changed in the grown woman. And that same little voice was back. Coming here was a bad idea…

"You think that you are hard to place, Don Juan?" she asked, looking at the mask. "Who else would hide behind a mask for so long? Have you been wearing it all your life, Devil's child?" Her hand reached up to snatch it away, and Erik finally came back to himself. He shoved her away as hard as he could, pushing her to the edge of the tent.

"Get out," he growled. Mariana's smile grew worse. How could he have forgotten that smile? She caught herself against the fabric, leaning back.

"That face is mine, Don Juan. It should have been mine." He frowned at her in confusion, stepping back again. "Javert didn't know how to use you. But I do. I know just how to get you to bare your face, use your voice. They would toss gold at your feet if you really sang, but you degrade yourself and only ply at those awful strings. You belong back in that empty cage." A small, condescending laugh punctuated her words, and Erik went rigid again.

"You…" He shook his head disbelievingly. "You killed Sheba…" Mariana bared her teeth in a rictus. A cobra's fangs couldn't have been more dangerous that that smile.

This woman was more a monster than he was. His foot suddenly backed against a coil of rope that he hadn't used in pitching the tent. "Get out," he growled again, this time a tone of terrible power and anger entering his voice. Mariana blinked a moment. Oh no, she wasn't used to the Devil's child as a grown man. She didn't know what the opera managers had been through. He would give her one more moment…

"You think you frighten me, Devil's child? You belong to me." She started laughing, and Erik finally snapped. As fast as lightning, he had bent down and picked up the rope, thrown it about her before she could blink. The Gypsy woman gasped as he was suddenly beside her, tightening the cord around her middle and lashing her arms behind her back. She stared up at him, finally a hint of paleness coming to her face at his ferocity. Erik bound her with cold precision, watching his hands deftly knot the rope. His face was grimly set as Mariana watched him over her shoulder.

"Don Juan," she said, a faintness softening her voice. She looked up at him as he stepped back, his chest heaving as he panted. He felt like an animal lashing out in self defense. Why were people always climbing out of his past to haunt him now, when he was only trying to escape it? Mariana's voice was soft, but her eyes hadn't changed, and Erik felt a sinking feeling as he panted. "Don Juan, you know that you can do better. That mask is a lie. You've been hiding behind it all your life. This wouldn't be a one sided deal." She stared up at him through hooded lashes, now. "If you give me what I want…" Erik's grip loosened on the rope as he stared at her in numb shock. Mariana turned to him, ignoring her arms now tied securely behind her back.

Erik couldn't move. She came closer, pressing her body against his. "Why deny it?" she asked, her voice soft and seductive. Erik shivered. "No woman has ever wanted you. How long have the pleasures everyone else enjoys eluded you? I could give that to you. I could make you happy."

He shut his eyes and put his hands on her shoulders to shove her away again. For the one moment he was in contact with her skin, it made him wish beyond anything else that it was Danielle. He paused, his gut twisting anxiously, and he felt Mariana lean into him. Then in disgust he pushed her away.

"You know nothing of me," he said. Mariana had dropped the façade and was glaring at him, now, full of vicious anger. Erik walked up to her and gruffly turned her around, grabbing her dress at the small of her back and pushing her outside. No one saw as he took her to the edge of the camp. Sheba's cage still sat in the dark, nearby the lions' cages. He practically ripped the opened lock off.

"How dare you," Mariana growled as he slammed the bars shut on her. Erik glared at her from behind his mask.

"Now," he said coldly, "you can see it from my side of the bars." He could feel the heat of her gaze on his back as he strode away.

---

Mariana glowered in the noonday sun, rubbing her wrists irately. She had been in that cage all night, her arms and shoulders cramping from their unnatural position lashed behind her back. So, Don Juan thought he could outdo her? That man was going to regret ever running away from his cage in the first place.

Alfonse, the oldest and most loyal of her three guards, was walking close to her, almost protectively. He seemed to be ignoring the bruise growing on his cheek from her opened palm. Mariana strode with angry, long strides, briskly and efficiently searching through the camp.

Don Juan's tent was gone. His horse was gone. So Mariana would go to the one person who might know where he was.

The main tent of the carnival loomed up, the inside cool and shady compared to the glaring sunlight. Mariana didn't pause as she skirted the edges, searching for the strongman display. It was near the back, a crowd of people goggling stupidly at the impressive feats of strength. But the Gypsy wasn't interested in their exhibits. Her eyes found the kindly looking wife by the edge of the tent, watching her husband as she stitched a rip in some piece of clothing. A cruel, unadulterated rictus curled her lips back in anticipation.

"Alfonse," she said over her shoulder, "don't do anything here. If necessary, we'll take Mme Therese back to my tent and see what she's willing to—" The Gypsy stopped short as she caught sight of the hooded figure standing near the woman. She instinctively drew back, pushing Alfonse behind her to hide in the shadow of a stack of crates, filled with assorted costumes and props.

"Lost your way, dearie?" she heard Therese ask the girl as she knotted off the thread. "Or are you looking for something in particular?" Mariana peeked through a gap in the crates. Therese smiled warmly at the woman in the hood, who bowed her head respectfully.

"Pardonnez-moi, madame, but I can't seem to find who I'm looking for. Where is Don Juan?" Mariana caught her breath.

Therese set down her sewing. "I'm sorry, mademoiselle, but he's not here. He left late last night and rode off." She turned away as if expecting that to be enough, but the hooded woman did not leave. With her face hidden, Mariana thought she might be some charlatan, looking for an actual Don Juan. Oh, how the Gypsy would have loved to see the sight when the girl really saw him. But something was off. Mariana frowned as the girl hung her head, strands of sandy hair falling past the line of her jaw. She lifted a slender hand and pushed the hood back.

"How I hear of his music," she murmured, watching Therese's back. "Such music. Songs that haunt you, bring a tear to your eye. Music that stays in your mind, whispering in your ear while you dream so that you wake thinking he's been playing all night. It's so compelling, so mournful, that you have to get out of bed to see if it's still there, only to find him sitting staring into the embers of the fire. Searching for something. Still searching, all the while behind his mask."

The woman's voice had fallen, soft, as if she were really talking to herself. Mariana watched her carefully, a cruel light coming to her dark eyes. Therese turned around. Danielle had lowered her hood and was staring as if searching for something herself. The wife smiled sadly and nodded to her. "So you finally caught up." She recognized her, now, the young woman who had ridden up to the caravan on that crisp January morn, searching for Don Juan. She looked older now in a way Therese couldn't exactly place. But the look in her eyes couldn't be called anything other than love. Danielle blinked, her eyes suddenly glistening, and swallowed.

"Please, madame," she pleaded quietly, "where has he gone?" Therese sighed and shook her head.

"I honestly don't know, dearie. If I did, I would tell you. I only know that he has gone east, very far east, this time."

Mariana smiled, and turned her back to lean against the crates. Alfonse watched as her mind worked, her lips curling back over her teeth like a cobra's grin. She flicked her dark eyes over to him.

"Go and get our things packed," she said carefully. She was staring off at nothing, planning as she heard the girl speaking softly with Therese. Alfonse left.

So, Don Juan wasn't alone after all. Had her Devil's child finally found an Angel to redeem him? The thought made her giddy. What revenge she could take on him! She could break him beyond the point of any recovery, bend him to her will so that he would sing whenever she asked, play at the flick of her wrist. She would swim in all the gold she would earn. And all she had to do was end one pretty little life…

As she stared, her gaze suddenly fixed on the young man standing with his arms crossed, inconspicuously watching the strongmen. But he wasn't focused on them at all. Mariana could practically see him lean towards the two women behind her, his eyes watching the girl carefully. He had a blue coat on, a hat in his hands, police written all over him. The Gypsy smiled again.

Leaning off the crates, Mariana sauntered forward unobtrusively. Her arm slipped in the crook of the police's easily as she passed, and she yanked him around and dragged him off so easily. The boy started and began to hurriedly draw away, but she hugged his arm closer to her side.

"Relax," she cooed, smiling at him. The boy eased a bit, staring down at her in confusion. He was cute, she could give him that, but nowhere near old enough for her. Her hand patted his gently. "What's your name, boy?"

"Francois," he said warily. She tamed her smile enough to make it seem friendly.

"You're a policeman?"

"Gendarme, madame," he corrected politely.

"And you are hunting for this Don Juan?" The boy started and finally succeeded in pulling his arm away. He blinked at her in the dim light.

"How did you…Do you know him?"

"Oh, very well, monsieur," she said silkily, bowing her head deferentially. "I believe I have a business proposal you may find interesting."

---

"You want me to what?"

Mariana sighed. The boy was too good intentioned, just naïve enough for her to use him. She sat down on her stool again and spread her hands innocently. "When you capture this Don Juan, bring him back to me. I will put him to much better use than he would be in any jail cell, but he will pose just as little threat. I know how to deal with him."

"And you will let me take Mlle Danielle home to Paris?"

"Of course," she lied, her words dripping with honey. "If you agree, then I'll tell you where he has gone. You won't be able to find him without me." She waited patiently as the boy thought if over, pacing restlessly around her tent.

Francois finally stopped and looked at her. He put his hand out. "Agreed." Mariana smiled and shook his hand. "Now where has he gone?"

"There is only one place he would farther east from here." He waited anxiously as she smiled and spread her hands. "He's gone to Russia."