A/N - Well, you guessed right during the previous chapter about where Christine would end up - at Sister Catherine's. But I'm afraid the guesses were wrong for this chapter regarding Count Moreau. Pull out the kleenex box, you might need it. I wrote some of this chapter after watching Queen of the Damned and Dracula 2000, so you'll know what I mean later on. Yes, it was a fang fest on TV that I couldn't resist. One of my favorite books, Jane Erye, has given me a little inspiration for this story too. I wanted Christine to embark on her own for a little while and gain a little independence. Sometimes I wonder if I need to pull out a huge cartoonish hammer to convey this change in character. Anyways, I hope you enjoy - thanks for the reviews, especially by the new names that have surfaced!

Chapter 18

"Yes, you will do," a masculine voice said.

Christine stood in the large hall of the Moreau Manor. The kindly old shopkeeper who had brought her there had quietly left after having been dismissed. The British housekeeper, Madame Elliott, stood warily by as Count Moreau carefully interviewed the newest employee. Christine's gaze fell upon the floor and strangely did not leave it. The older man circled her as though examining a horse for his stables, leaving her with an uneasy feeling.

"Have you been employed before?" he asked, his stern gaze raking across her face.

"No, Monsieur, I have not," she responded obediently, meeting his unwavering gaze with hers.

The Count was an older man, probably around the same age that her father would be if he were still alive. His hair was dark, but graying along the sides. Eyes of black stung her features like hot coals. He paused before her, frowning deeply before casting a dark glance at his housekeeper.

"She will do. I leave her to your training," Count Moreau commanded.

"Come now, mademoiselle," the ragged housekeeper said, her voice thick with the accent of her homeland.

The woman was equally as stern. Her auburn hair was pulled back severely from her face into a tight bun and her gown was dark, fitting almost a little too tightly on her thick frame. She walked ahead of the uncertain girl with a confident stride and led her through the halls to the servants' wing. After showing her briefly the tiny room that would be hers, and explaining the small, modest salary that she would accrue, Madame Elliott quickly sought out the tools of the job and put Christine to work.

The days were long and hard. The work was never easy, especially under the rough supervision of the housekeeper. Christine could see the resignation and haggardness in the other servants' faces and it provided a worrisome testament as to the working conditions. But she could not complain. She had no other way to make money. This was the only job available, and Christine would work hard.

It was a late afternoon in May and Christine was dusting the mantle in the drawing room. The door creaked softly behind her and she whirled around to find Count Moreau standing there. He looked at her with a strange gleam in his eyes.

"Christine, is it?" he asked, advancing from his position near the door to stand beside her as she resumed her dusting.

"Yes, Monsieur," she replied, keeping her attention on the work.

But he snatched the duster from her hands and she turned to face him. A scowl twisted his features and Christine fought the urge to step back from him and further provoke his anger.

"Look at me when I am speaking to you, is that clear?" the man hissed.

She nodded fearfully and stood before him trembling, her eyes falling upon the floor.

"You may be an employee, but you are residing under my roof, and I make the rules. You will heed my instructions implicitly. Now. . .I understand that some of the silver has gone missing, as Madame Elliott informed me. Did you take it?"

Christine's gaze drifted up to his face. She looked at him with anger in her eyes. "No, Monsieur, I did not."

She felt the sting of his hand as it collided with her cheek. Christine stood there, fighting back bitter tears, and brushed a hand against the reddened flesh upon her face. His eyes burned with anger, but now there was also a look of triumph in them.

"Don't lie to me, Mademoiselle," he seethed. "I will not have it!"

"Sir, I'm telling you the truth, I did not take it," she replied calmly, not allowing him the pleasure of seeing the distress that was filling her mind.

His hand was at her neck, forcing her to her knees. She struggled in his grasp, trying to cry out, but his hand only clenched her throat tighter. "I know what you penniless servants are like. It is only natural for your kind to steal."

Moreau did not move. He gazed down at the trembling young girl with disgust in his eyes. Finally, he released his grip on her throat. Christine knelt on the floor, her chest heaving as her lungs desperately sought for air. Suddenly, she felt his hand brush alongside her face and she looked up in surprise. The disgust that was there before was gone. Now, someone much worse shone in the Count's dark eyes. She tried to move away from him, but he only latched onto her arm and prevented her from escaping. A smirk was on his thin lips. He grasped a stray lock of her hair and toyed with it.

"I know what else you poor girls are good for," he said darkly.

Christine shook with fear and the Count smiled maliciously at the movement. "Tell me, Christine," he said, his words dripping with lust, "have you been with a man before?"

She struggled from his grasp and managed to break free, scuttling to the far side of the room. Her eyes were wide with fear.

"You haven't, have you?" he taunted her. That sickly smile spread across his face again.

With that, he turned abruptly and left the room, shutting the door loudly behind him. Christine quaked for a moment, still paralyzed with the fear of what had happened, what could have happened. Her legs gave out beneath her and she dropped to the floor. A scream of fury threatened to burst past her lips, but she clenched her teeth and thrust her fist upon the floor in anger.

Weeks passed under the roof of the Moreau manor. Christine, ever the diligent worker, continued to work for a measly salary. But as her arms and hands were busy with their tasks, her mind was far from the confines of the grand house. She thought of Sister Catherine and the brief respite she had found in the small chapel that lay just beside the forest. But most often, she thought of Erik, her tutor, her maestro, and the man whom she loved. She knew that now. The belief was burned in her mind like a brand and nothing could remove it now that it had planted itself upon her.

She was only a child mere months ago. Ignorant of the world. Ignorant of men. Ignorant of her own heart. But now, given time and great thought, she knew in her heart that she loved him. Still so ignorant of many things, this was the only saving grace. Hers was a love that had quietly grown over time. She had not seen it there when it first took root. But as it began to grow, with each gentle caress and tender word, she could no longer deny that it existed. Her love for him had flowered into something so great, it pained her greatly that she was now alone and unable to tell him.

Christine remembered the day when she had lain upon his doorstep, the small manor empty of anyone, of him, and despair had filled her heart. That was still there too. But it had been tempered with time, formed into a hopelessness that remained in her soft brown eyes. She honestly did not know how he regarded her. There were so many times when she saw an act of tenderness, or had watched him in his silence as he regarded her, and wondered if there was love in his eyes as well. He had sought her out from a young age, claimed to be a kindred spirit in her pain, and had eventually succeeded in pulling her from a sheltered life into his own. But was it love that she wanted to see? Did he truly love her or was it lust in his eyes? Did he merely covet her flesh after years in exile?

She would never know. Christine felt the bitter sting of tears in her eyes and fought them back. She knelt on the floor and continued to scrub away the scuffs that had marred the marble.

Oh, his face! That tormented face which still haunts my dreams! Can I ever forget it? She remembered when he had ripped the mask from his face and forced her to look upon it. Never had she been so terrified before. A part of her had wanted to know what lay behind the shield of white porcelain. A mask that had hidden half his face, but exposed the other half, dark and handsome as it was, and seemed to tempt her. She saw the curve of his lips, the glittering green eyes that almost appeared inhuman in the dark, and the masculine jaw. But they were only memories now. It was a face that she would never see again.

Annette, another servant in the house, had entered the room. She noticed the pretty young woman busy with the same spot that she had been working on nearly half and hour ago.

"Christine?" she asked, kneeling down beside her. She noticed the tears that barely contained themselves in her eyes.

Christine looked up from her work, falling back upon the floor so she now was seated in a somewhat more comfortable position. She ran her arm along her brow, wiping away the moisture that had gathered there.

"Yes?"

"You've been cleaning the same spot for nearly half an hour," the older girl said.

Christine sighed lightly and looked up at the servant, noticing the fatigue that always seemed to permeate her features.

"I was lost in thought," she admitted.

"Well, you know how insistent Madame Elliott is on our efficiency. I just don't want to see her catch you daydreaming again. The others have noticed."

Christine nodded wearily, and sat for a moment in silence with the older girl. Annette appeared to be in her mid-twenties, but the work must have taken their toll on her spirits, for she acted like one much older and moved with the slowness of an age beyond her years.

"Annette, forgive me such an odd question, but do you know of a. . .Count Bellamont?"

Annette looked at her strangely for a moment before realizing that Christine wanted an answer. "I have heard of him. He lives on an estate only an hour or so away. A recluse, from what I've heard. Why do you ask?"

"No reason," Christine said, glancing away uncomfortably. "Do you know if he is living there now?"

Annette's brow furrowed for a moment. "I did hear the Count mentioning him just the other day."

Christine's expression softened momentarily.

"I believe he has not been at his estate for quite some time. The Count was saying how odd it was for a noble to have such a splendid house and never be there to live in it. Perhaps he is in Paris. . .many of the nobles take leave there during the winter, though it is late spring already, and he appears to still be gone."

Christine's gaze had lowered during the conversation. She had continued her work, this time with a greater determination.

"Christine, are you alright?"

"Yes," she lied, "I'm fine. Just a little tired."

"What are you thinking of, my love?" a low, lyrical voice asked.

She felt arms wind around her waist and draw her back into the warm embrace of the man who stood behind her.

"I did not know where you went," she replied softly.

"Fear not, my love," he replied, turning her around to face him, both immersed in the dark, "I will never leave you."

She felt his hand upon her face, felt his fingers moving over her flesh and caressing her trembling lips. A tear had slipped from her eyes and he was quick to brush it away. She saw his face in the darkness, though he had moved closer so that a peculiar moonlight fell upon the unconcealed side and illuminated it with an unearthly glow. Her breath caught in her throat.

"Why do you cry?" he asked softly.

Christine fell against his chest, resting her head against his heart as she calmed herself with the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

"You left me. I thought you did not love me anymore. I thought I was alone again, just like when my father had died. I did not want to live anymore."

She felt his hand beneath her chin as his fingers urged her head up, forcing her to look directly into his hypnotic eyes. Christine had always been afraid of those eyes. Seduced and frightened at the same time. Now, she felt the tug of his gaze, felt her body growing weak, and felt her soul advancing slowly toward the ocean of his eyes.

"How could you think that? I have always loved you. I will love you until my dying breath, and beyond," he said.

"But you are just a mere figment of my imagination. You aren't real," she wept.

She watched as he pulled a dagger from beneath his cloak and ran the sharp edge along the flesh of his arm. It drew a line of blood across the pale skin and he watched it well upon the surface with a strange fascination.

"See," he said softly, "I bleed just as you do. I am as real as you."

She gasped when he clutched at her arm and pulled her tightly against him.

"But you still see me as a monster, don't you?" he asked, his eyes becoming bitter.

She shook her head vehemently, but he continued. "I know you do. The stories you once heard of the phantom that lingered in the forest. . .may be true. He killed trespassers. He feasted upon their flesh and blood. A true monster!"

Christine shook her head again. "No!"

"You do!" he growled, pulling her close again. "Perhaps I am a monster. Whatever your mind conceives me to be, I am!"

She suddenly felt his mouth upon the tender flesh of her neck. Christine struggled to break free of his grasp, but he was too strong. His arms were corded about her in a powerful embrace. She felt his lips move upon her flesh, just as they once did, but this time, there was anger and urgency in his kiss. Nonetheless, her eyes fluttered shut at his ministrations. A gentle sigh fell from her parted lips. Her body longer for more, but her mind screamed for him to stop. She felt his teeth nip at her flesh. They suddenly felt so sharp upon her skin, like that of a wolf's. A scream began to form in her throat as his teeth sunk into her flesh, but was suddenly stilled as a strange calmness flooded her limbs. She felt intoxicated by his attack upon her.

"Stop," she cried out hoarsely.

But he continued to ravage her neck, lapping up the blood that had pooled upon the surface.

"Please," she cried out softly, feeling her legs give out beneath her. His embrace tightened and she found herself propped up against his strong body. She was becoming too weak. She could feel herself dying. . .is this what it feels like?

"Erik, stop," she cried out, gasping again as his bite deepened and her body thrust outwards in pain. "Erik, please," she whispered, her cries for mercy becoming a mantra.

But he did not stop. He preyed upon her like the monster of a thousand nightmares, wanting her to hate him. Wanting her to cast off the fragile love that was most likely a sham. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, turning the knuckles bone white.

She could not deny her feelings. Even now when he hurt her so badly, she could not help but shudder in pleasure at the briefest of touches, a slip of a finger across her tender flesh. "I love you," she suddenly uttered.

Her hands that had clenched at his shoulders suddenly loosened and fell away. Erik pulled back abruptly, her blood still staining his lips. Christine's head fell back and her eyes fluttered from fatigue. Erik had bent over as she fell back limply, holding her up.

He gently rested her upon the floor, regarding her with his brilliant eyes. "What did you say?"

"I love you," she whispered, looking up at him with naked vulnerability.

"You love this monster?" he asked again, as though not believing the words that had left her parted lips.

"With all of my being," she cried out, feeling a fresh wash of tears fall from her face.

He suddenly pulled away, wiping away the stain of her blood from his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. Green eyes were filled with some unnamed emotion as he retreated back into the darkness.

"Do you love me?" she cried out, still lying upon the cold floor.

But he did not answer. There was no sound, only the beating of her heart.

Christine awoke with a start, calling out his name in the haze of the dream. Her body was soaked with sweat and the sheets were twisted about her legs. Drawing a hand up to her neck, she clutched at the skin that only moments before had been pierced. But nothing remained of his painful kiss. It was only a dream. A horrible dream. Yet she cried uncontrollably at the loss of his embrace, pressing her face into the pillows to muffle the sorrow from the other female servants who lay sleeping nearby.

"The Count is to host a party in two days. Therefore I am instructing you all to work diligently in the remaining time. I want this household bright and shining. There will be many guests arriving and I don't need an incompetent servant creating a disaster of the event," Madame Elliott instructed carefully.

She walked along the line of servants that had assembled in the main hall for her instructions. The older woman frowned deeply as she passed Christine, whose head was lowered and eyes fixed upon the floor. She raised the girl's head with an insistent finger and the frown deepened.

"You! Christine," she began sternly, "you are too easily distracted in your work. If I see any negligence you will be turned out of this house and out of work, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Madame," Christine answered.

The woman, still keeping the same solemn look upon her severe features, nodded and continued on.

The work had been completed by the evening of the Count's grand party. The servants had toiled without much rest under the strict supervision of Madame Elliott. Christine had succumbed to sleep easily during those nights, her hands blistered and her back sore. When the much talked about ball finally arrived, the servants were tucked away in their own wing of the house, so as to not intrude upon the festivities and bother the guests. Many of the women gathered together and talked quietly about the Count and Countess of such a house, or of the unfortunate circumstances surrounding the widow of some unnamed estate.

Christine grew tired of the gossip. She had never had any need for it. So she retreated to her own cot, much to her relief, in the room that had been abandoned by the servants in favor of a small common room further down the hall. She could hear their laughter as she lay upon her bed, her knees drawn up to her chest. The moonlight shone through the window and fell upon her bed like a comforting blanket. Only a faint smile crossed her features.

In the opposite direction from the noisy chatter of the servants, she could hear the party in all of its glory. The rich strains of a small orchestra resonated through the halls. A waltz. She could just imagine the rich parade of ladies decked out in all their finery. There were probably an equal number of handsome, distinguished noblemen, wearing the finest suits and waistcoats, their hands covered with expensive white gloves. If she imagined hard enough, she could see the waltz in all of its glory. The gentle sway of the ladies, as their dresses swept the floor, and the elegant steps of the men, leading their escorts in dance. She had never had the opportunity to dance with such a noble crowd. As a girl, traveling with her father and playing for so many people, she had seen the odd ball or two. But she had always been kept back from the party to watch in the recesses of the great halls. Her imaginings now were fueled by the briefest of glimpses of such waltzes. How she longed to dance as they did. To wear a beautiful gown like the other ladies and be swept across the floor by a handsome man.

Christine suddenly saw him in her daydreams. Only for a brief moment. But she saw herself, wearing a splendid pink gown that cascaded in a beautiful train of soft fabric, sweeping the floor as she was led in the arms of a man. Not any man. She saw him. Wearing the finest of clothes, dark and alluring as usual, with his dark hair slicked back and the white mask fitted over half of his face as though it belonged there, his eyes piercing into hers. She could almost feel his gloved hands tighten over her own. But the daydream quickly ended, and she remained coiled tightly into a fetal position as she lay on her small bed, gazing out at a sky that no longer lent its light to her.

A soft swear sounded in the hallway. Christine awoke suddenly, finding that her room was still unoccupied by the other female servants. They had undoubtedly passed out in the small servant common room after a night of indulgences. She slipped out of bed, feeling her bare feet touch the cold floor, and shivered as she scampered to the door in a thin, cotton nightgown. She inched it open and peered out into the darkness. Though it was not a complete darkness that greeted her. The party was nearing its end. The volume of voices was no longer as loud as it had been. Undoubtedly, only a few guest remained to occupy the great hall. A silhouette staggered down the hall, wearing a gentleman's hat - a drunken guest who lost his way.

She suddenly had the curiosity to make her way down the hall, after having pulled on a robe to conceal her modest apparel. In the shadows she crept, until she reached the corridor just beyond the great hall. The lights of shone brightly, and few guests did occupy the room. Several were sprawled comfortably upon the sofas lining the walls. The orchestra had long since disbanded, leaving a silence that could only be filled by conversation. Count Moreau was reclined with a few ladies, talking with a devilish expression upon his features.

Christine paused for nearly ten minutes, watching the remainder of the party with mild interest. It was not until a noise sounded nearby in the darkened corridor, that she was pulled from her observations. She spun around, pulling herself further back into the darkness, searching for the source of the noise. A figure emerged from another room and walked across the hall, pausing briefly in the shadows as though hearing something. It seemed to linger there for a while, and Christine suddenly found herself drawing back against a wall, pressing her small frame against it in fear, as she steadied her breathing.

The figure seemed to turn in the shadows. Was I seen? She clutched at the folds of her nightgown and trembled in the darkness. Count Moreau will be furious if he finds me out here at this time. Please God, let him pass by without seeing me. After several moments, she thought she heard an exhale of breath, perhaps a sigh, and a rustle of fabric, and then the figure left, drawing back towards the hall. After she knew the man was gone, Christine rushed forward and hid behind one of the many pillars that lined the corridor and looked out onto the hall. She could not find the man that had just occupied the corridor. There were several gentlemen that still stood about the hall. Some were talking closely with one another. One in particular seemed to be glancing towards the doors at the opposite end of the hall, pointing with his gloved hand, and speaking as the others looked on as well. A lady or two had also turned to catch a glimpse of something beyond the closing doors. Someone had just left. Someone who had garnered the attention of a few of the guests.

Unsatisfied by the outcome of the incident, Christine was about to go back to bed, when she saw something lying on the floor in the dark. She drew closer to it, finding that it lay near where the figure had been standing. It was a cloak, she surmised, grasping at it with her fingers. She lifted it up quietly and carried it back to her room so she could better examine it. As she lit a small candle beside her bed, and lifted the fabric with her slender hands, she gasped.

It was a gentleman's cloak. Dark and lined with a cream silk. But it was not the tailoring that surprised her. Only when she bent her head and noticed a scent did she find her hands trembling. That fragrance! It was rich, musky, exotic, and very masculine. At once intoxicating and terrifyingly seductive. Christine drew back from it, nearly dropping it on the floor. But she could not be mistaken. It was his scent upon the richly tailored cloak. As she sniffed the cloak, she suddenly remembered him playing at the piano for her as she would sing. She could remember every detail – the way his elegant hands moved across the keys, the tensing of the powerful muscles in his shoulders and back, the peace that fled across his brow and nearly tugged at his mouth to will a smile. No, now she felt him carrying her when she had fallen asleep after his playing. She felt his arms about her, cradling her to him like a delicate china doll. His warmth radiated through her.

A tear suddenly fled her eye as she knelt on her bed, holding the cloak in her hands like there was nothing else more valuable in the world. He was here. He was here the whole time, and I did not know! I have not seen him for months. I had my chance and lost it. I wanted to see him. . .so bad! I would have died happy tonight if he had just touched my face with his hand. But everything is so cold now. Oh God, I had my chance and unknowingly let it slip from my hands.

She drew the cloak about her shivering frame as she lay upon her modest cot. The cloak lent a strange warmth to her thin limbs. As she drifted off to sleep, tears still staining her delicate face, only his scent upon the rich fabric brought her any measure of peace.