Oh ho, intrigue, eh? I love it. Well, what are you waiting for? Read Chapter Eighteen! After this, two more! Almost... there... So, I own only Serenity, Jaques, Luke, Angelique, David, and Megan. Don't sue me or nothin', okay? I thought so.

Retribution

Luke walked with Erik to his lair, where both men claimed a few items. Luke left with a pistol in his hand, a dagger stuck into his boot, and several other weapons lay concealed on his body. Erik, however, took only a lantern of his own, the small, tightly coiled Punjab lasso, and his sword.

"Wait here," he told Luke. "I'll return within the hour." The fire of anger and the ice of passionate loathing merged in his voice and eyes, and the boy knew better than to argue. Father, lover, composer or not, this man was still the unpredictable, murderous Phantom of the Opera. At this moment, both men were glad of Erik's past.

Within moments, his furious pace carried him through the empty halls; it was too late, too dark, too eerie for anyone else to be out. He silently picked the locks to a large, double-door entryway, slid into the ornate room, and closed the door behind him. He heard a rustle of bedcovers, and a familiar voice spoke in the blackness.

"Who's there?" Raoul demanded, only a hint of fear lacing his voice. Erik lit a match, and watched it burn steadily for a few seconds before lighting the lamp. When his face showed in the dancing light, he heard Raoul's breath become more ragged, almost imperceptibly faster.

"Get up," Erik growled, voice low, quiet, and dripping menace. "Get dressed, and grab your sword, if you wish the opportunity to die as a man."

"What is this? You cannot kill me! You would be caught, arrested! Get out of here!"

"Get up, or I will kill you now, as a man slaughters a beast. This is your last chance, Vicomte," he spat.

Raoul glanced at him, eyes dark, as he fumbled in the half-light for his clothing. In a few moments he was dressed, a decorative blade flashing in his right hand.

"Now," Erik said, voice drenched in hatred, "do we take this outside or fight here, in your very bedroom? Tell me, Vicomte, is this where you committed such atrocity against my lover, or did you simply take her where she stood, like a rutting pig?"

"What are you talking about, monster?" Raoul's eyes danced in fear and loathing. He broke into a fine sheen of sweat, looking at the man who meant to take his life.

"Christine, you bastard!" Erik raged. "God, you don't even recall, do you? You took her life away, and so ruined mine; you tore us apart, and you don't even remember!"

"Christine? I haven't dealt with the whore in years!"

Erik, eyes blazing, the promise of death hovering around his imposing form, lunged forward and grabbed the shorter man by the throat with one hand. Not displaying the slightest strain, he lifted Raoul's feet clear of the ground, pulling him up to eye level. Raoul struggled, eyes wide, clawing at Erik's arm, choking.

"You raped her," Erik stated with unfathomable calm. "She may learn to forgive you, but I cannot. Now your son has taken my daughter. I also cannot forgive that. I should have killed you long ago. None of this ever would have happened." He threw Raoul down on the floor, where the Vicomte lay gasping for air, color slowly returning to his pallid features.

"Get your sword," Erik said, and turned his back on the panting figure. Raoul raised himself up and grabbed his weapon. Without hesitation, he leapt up and lunged forward, blade pointed between Erik's shoulders. Erik heard the sword sing as its blade parted air, and turned to avoid the treacherous blow. The killing stroke missed, glancing off his left arm, cutting smoothly through cloth and flesh. Erik hissed as cold air hit the wound. It bled freely, staining his white sleeve crimson.

"Traitor!" he bellowed, spinning to face the ragged man. Erik clutched his lasso and uncoiled it, glaring fiercely at Raoul.

"I gave you one last chance," he said softly, with ineffable calm, "and you could not even find the integrity to fight to the death with honor. I cannot convince myself to spare you any longer."

Raoul looked around in the sudden darkness wildly. The flame had blown out, leaving the room almost completely black. With a soft whistling noise, the thin rope settled perfectly around his neck. He clutched at it, but it was tightening quickly, the line drawing taut, until he could not breathe, could not think, could not see, or feel, or hear. His feet railed uselessly a few inches above the floor.

Erik tied the rope securely as his lifelong enemy ceased to struggle, hanging from the exposed rafters. He glanced at the man once, a flicker of something akin to sadness flashing in his eyes, and somberly made the sign of the cross in the air in front of him. Then he left the room quickly, locking the door behind him.

Within moments, Raoul was dead and Erik stalked the echoing corridors with Luke, sword still in hand, with a pistol hanging at his side. It was four o'clock in the morning, and though the skies remained dark and infinite, a whisper of dawn rode the soft winds.

Neither man knew where to find Serenity. Within two hours, the entire opera house would be animated, bustling with life. And potential witnesses. The two spoke little, and headed deeper into the recesses of the massive grounds, looking for a woman whom both men had grown to love.