Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them, except for that bad-boy gatekeeper!
Side Notes:
Now that Frat is at transitional point in the plot (either halfway through or two-thirds, not quite sure yet – but nowhere close to being finished, I promise!) I want to say some thank yous. First of all, I can't possibly tell all of you Frat readers how much your squeeing, reviewing, and overall feedback has motivated me to keep writing. A lot of work goes into creating each chapter – each installment averages a 6,000 word-count, and a good deal of time is spent in research before I even sit down to type. There have been several different occasions when I was just about ready to bang my head against the keyboard, when I received an encouraging review that renewed my motivation.
Frat is my baby (as many of you have heard me refer to it), and I feel so blessed to have such an intelligent, mature audience who appreciates the work put into it. I have had little to no problems with flaming, and even when a reader disagrees with a certain aspect of the story, they have done so respectfully and privately.
Y'all truly are the best readers a lil' ol' phic author could ask for:)
Several individual thank yous –Kudos to the several daring souls that have braved my penchant for over-using commas…the betas. Barefoot Advocat, Le Chat Noir, and Juni. I would never post a word without one of them looking it over first.
Thanks to the people I have asked for help with research – Chat, Juni, Kyrie74, and Musique et Amour. Your assistance and suggestions have been truly valuable.
Muchos Gracias to several readers who have reviewed almost every single chapter since I began the story – Sue Raven, monroe-mary, Mithril, phantomy-cookies, Padme, Random Battlecry, Mini Nicka, NorthAngel, Mireiyu. There may be more, forgive me if I did not list you!
And then there are the detailed, extremely helpful reviews that I wish I could review in return! – Senna Wales, Phantomy, and Scarlett O'Hara – y'all blow me away.
I only named a few people, but really, I appreciate each and every encouragement, even if it's as simple as "Smile!" ( I did, when someone wrote that), or "Please don't let her die!" (hehe, I didn't, did I?).
And finally, a big thanks to the wonderful Frat!Pack-ers at PFN and PPN.
You all keep me grounded in semi-reality.
I get these questions pretty often, so I thought I'd put the answers out there for everybody. A quick Q and A –Q: Will you abandon Frat and leave us with the dreaded infinite cliff-hanger?
A: Hell's bells, no! I have put waaay too much time into this story not to finish it. I love writing. I would not abandon my child, so I won't abandon my story. Ask anyone who knows me – I'm a determined little minx!
Q: What the heck is going on in Fraternité?
A: All will unfold with time. Would I leave loose ends? (quickly checks for loose ends)
Q: (wary look) Are you Susan Kay?
A: Ha! I wish! Her book is going for $80 on e-bay. Frat is free.
Q: When will there be some creaking?
A: Gratuitous lovin' would detract from the story, because that's not what Frat is about. Yes, it is a love story, but not a steamy romance novel. It will only happen if the plot calls for it, folks.
Q: When you wrote such-and-such phrase, were you alluding to something?
A: More than likely – each chapter has quite a bit of foreshadowing and symbolism in it. I explain some of it on my web site
Q: What does Erik look like?
A: With Frat!Erik, I've tried to create a sort of "hybrid" character by borrowing physical and emotional attributes from each of the versions. Leroux's yellow eyes, ALW's half-mask and voice, Kay's wit, a touch of Gerik's the movie physique (because I am a girl that has to muse over her character a lot when she writes), though Frat!Erik is older and a bit thinner. All of them have a sense of style—so does Frat!Erik. Anything else, I leave up to your imagination—including the garish face behind the mask :) But let me assure you, its no small birthmark!
Q: Which POTO version is Frat based on?
A: As with Erik, I have created a mix from several of the versions. This goes for the other characters, as well as the background story. Frat is not strictly a continuation of one particular version, such as Leroux or ALW. I have taken bits and pieces from each to create a new version. I can say that Erik's background is based on Leroux and Kay. The events at the Opéra Populaire, as well Erik and Christine's relationship, are mainly ALW with some Leroux (Philippe's involvement, César, certain dialogue). Christine and Raoul's childhoods are based on Leroux. Sorry, no "Erik Destler" in this one!
Q: Who are Frat!Baby and Badass!Erik?
A: Pet names for Jean-Paul and Frat!Erik used at PPN
Q: What does "Pants that Baby" mean?
A: Beta Chat began a "Pants that Baby" campaign in response to Frat!Baby's lack of pants under his tunic (he wears bloomers)
If you'd like to ask me about anything, feel free to e-mail or look me up at PFN or PPN. I am more than happy to answer any questions you have!
Now, on to our feature presentation.
The Lion of Jerusalem
Jerusalem, 1885
The cold gravel crunched under his leather-clad feet as he drifted along the base of Suleiman's wall. All about him, the land lay veiled in the blackness of the cloud-covered night; not even a sliver of moon was permitted to steal through the dense cover. The man reached out as he pressed forward, letting his fingers brush along the rough, sandy stone of the old city's imposing fortress.
There she is, just at the base of the hill…His heart pounded from the thrill of the chase.
Rounding the corner, he ducked back again and pulled his hood down to shield the white of his face, which glowed around the edges of the black mask he wore. The small party of travelers had halted their progress and stared up at one of the wall's battlements. Erik watched from a distance as the Persian pointed to the merlons and embrasures and gestured with his hands, mimicking the firing of an arrow. While he spoke, the others nodded along with his story, engrossed in his words.
More than likely one of his old yarns about the Safavid Empire, Erik mulled wordlessly, impatient to finish the journey. If that long-winded fool keeps her outside in this cool air any longer, she will be ill again…
As if the cold wind had heard his thoughts, a gust spun up the side of the hill and swept around the foreigner, causing the edge of his cape and thob to snap and billow about his dusty, bare ankles. The masked man gathered the dark material closer to him and peered down the hill to the people on the Ofel Road. Like him, they also were shrouded in black cloaks to make their entry into Jerusalem as inconspicuous as possible.
He had followed the Chagny household at a safe distance since their arrival in Palestine. Having departed from the H.M.S. Inflexible earlier that day, the man then waited for them in Jaffa, invisibly pursuing their carriage all the way to the outskirts of Jerusalem. The hill leading up to the city, however, was too steep for the horses to navigate, so the passengers had gathered their few possessions to climb on foot. Quietly slipping from his own carriage, he expertly maneuvered up the rocky slope with practiced grace and receded into the shadows of the medieval wall, before anyone caught sight of his lithe frame.
The man looked on as Christine took a few cautious steps up the hill, struggling to find her footing on the smooth cobblestones. Clutching her small son in her arms, the Comtesse peered out from behind her dark hood, her soft skin illuminated by the dim light spilling from old Norry's lantern. She studied the task before her with trepidation. Shifting Jean-Paul to her hip, she gathered up the length of impractical skirting and began the long climb to the Lion's Gate. The worn soles of her shoes slipped time after time over the round rocks, forcing her to put a hand on the path directly in front of her.
Merde, daroga, Erik thought hotly, can you not see she is about to tumble down that road? He started from the gloom, involuntarily stepping forward to assist his protégé. The slight movement was enough to warn the Persian, however, who glanced up to the wall towards the masked man. His eyes immediately fell upon the shady figure. Remembering himself, Erik ducked into the corner again and watched as his friend nodded and tossed his satchel to Henri David. The avocat, already struggling under the strain of the "entirely vexing" trip, was unprepared for the added weight and collapsed to the ground, unceremoniously landing on his aristocratic derriere.
Ignoring the lawyer, Nadir gently scooped Jean-Paul from his mother's arms and helped her regain her footing. Murmuring a word of thanks, Christine untangled her feet from her petticoats and lifted them up, putting an arm out to steady herself. Breathing a sigh of relief, the woman pressed forward with greater ease.
The shadowed ghost simpered at the caricature lawyer, downtrodden and pathetic in his hardship. Erik felt an overwhelming sense of triumph at the boy's expense—and not an ounce of pity.
He deserves to be humiliated, degraded, and laughed at for loving her, for daring to claim her as his wife. My angel, my—
Christine paused in her upward trek to fleetingly look down at the lamenting M. David. Her eyes filled with sympathy, she extended a pale, fragile hand to the man. Gratitude suffused his browbeaten features and he grasped her fingers, pulling himself to his feet once more.
Erik's cruel thoughts were at once rebuffed. His heart twisted in his chest as he observed his angel grace the fallen man with her kindness. His head fell back against the cold stone, and he gazed on in mute admiration. He should have known that Christine would not overlook another's suffering. As much as he hated Henri David and everything he pretended to be, he could not help but feel relief that his angel had not begrudged the man her compassion…that she still clung to her beautiful ways. After the commanding and breathtaking manner she had handled the lawyer in the London cellar, her teacher had been afraid he had instructed her too well—that bitterness would consume her gentle spirit. Yet she was still able to forgive…
He loved her for her compassion.
Once, she had bestowed her mercy upon him, that fateful night below the opera house. He had done all he could to make her hate him, to make her suffer for her betrayal. In the end, however, she had not deserted him…not until he sent her away.
My angel of mercy…does she now believe I have deserted her?
As he watched the Comtesse and the avocat fight their way up the slope, an odd notion suddenly struck him. Was this how Raoul de Chagny had felt, a lasso tight about his throat, forced to watch his beloved lift an undeserving monster up from the darkness? The corners of his mouth quirked in amusement; funny, how he should sympathize with Christine's boy-husband.
And then another thought came to him, causing all humor to flood from his body as rapidly as it had arisen. The Comte de Chagny had loved his wife—more than his heritage, his duty, even his life—above all else. The boy had been willing to die for her that night in the cellars.
According to the rules of Fraternité, however, was not such devotion forbidden, if it came between a man and the brotherhood? Erik knew that if he had been in the Comte's place, he would rather die than put his wife and child in harm's way…
If Christine had been my wife…
He shook the blissful thought away, once again receding into the shadows. There were reasons, after all, why it must never happen. So many reasons…
And one such reason was becoming more and more prominent with every stride that led him closer to the holy city.
oooo
The pilgrims vanished through the weathered gate after a series of missteps upon loose cobblestones, hushed gasps of panic, and squeals of delight from Jean-Paul as he was bounced upon the daroga's back, clutching the César horse to his small body. Creeping closer to the entrance, Erik barely heard Nadir's whispered Arabic to the gatekeeper and the quiet clink of several coins. He waited for a good two minutes until he was sure the party had passed into the old city, then made his way up to the mouth of the beast.
The massive five-story wall towered above him, ominous and powerful in the dark night. Four lion's figures flanked the gate, serving as guardians of Suleiman the Magnificent's ancient prize. Long ago, Erik had been told, the mighty Sultan dreamed that such creatures would devour his beloved Jerusalem, unless he built a wall around the holy city. Now the guardians were smooth and worn with age. Yet they ruled with foreboding, their tails seeming to lash about in the flickering torchlight, their teeth gnashing in outrage at his intrusion.
Perhaps they also guard against creatures such as me, Erik grimly mused, transfixed by the illusion of movement. Slinging his satchel off of his shoulder, the masked man dug into the bag and retrieved three gold lira. He pulled his hood down to shadow his face and with a deep breath, advanced through the lion's jaws towards the gatekeeper.
The squat Arab smirked at the shrouded man, choosing to forgo the traditional greeting and cut to the chase. He pushed away the hood of his abaya to reveal a Turkish cap, hoping to establish his authority over the mysterious traveler.
"Matha tureed?"
Erik sneered at the man's impertinence. "I should think it rather obvious, sidi—I wish to enter the city."
Without ceremony, the gatekeeper held out his palm. "Only men that wish to hide pass through the holy walls on a night when the moon sleeps. And wear a mask…tsk. Do you wish to hide, Sadik? There is a price for my silence."
Making a show of irritation, the masked man pressed a coin into the guard's greedy fingers and stepped aside, allowing for the gate to swing open. The gatekeeper did not move, however; he folded his arms across his chest, eyes slitting in thought.
"A small party from the north traveled through this very gate but moments ago. A man, his son and two daughters, with their Persian guide; one has lost a husband, and they make the pilgrimage of the cross to grieve. I suppose they are of no relation to you?" The man again held out his hand. "Again, there is a price."
With contempt, Erik tossed another lira at the guard. "This should be sufficient to buy your silence, sidi," he breathed dangerously. "You suppose correctly. I am simply an architect, here to study the great Roman cardo; I know nothing about the family of which you speak. Nothing at all." Derisively rapping upon the inside bars of the gate, he once more demanded entrance.
The gatekeeper slid the latch away and allowed the bars to swing open, the creaking hinges disturbing the quiet of the night. Erik strode past the man and into the holy city, his cloak whipping about in the tunnel draft.
Pausing to absorb his surroundings, he gazed upon the mighty stones of Jerusalem with the bearing of a king returning to his prized stronghold. His eyes skimmed over the roofs: domes rose above the flat edges, creating a geometric panorama that was beautifully stark against the black sky. Crosses and crescents mingled amongst one another, reminding him of the power this old city held over so many. Just beyond the buildings to his left towered the immense gold dome of Haram Ash-Sharif. Mere feet from that holy site stood another sacred place—the remaining wall of the Jewish temple. To the right of the road stretched chapels, convents and friaries, mixed among Muslim homes. And directly in front of him, somewhere at the end of the Via Dolorosa, was the Holy Sepulchre—the great Crusader church, blanketed in darkness. Three holy sites, all within a half-mile radius of each other. Buildings that men had shed blood for, had given their lives to.
Erik had never put much stock in the religious relics that concerned the rest of the human race. Twenty years ago, he had arrogantly strode down the very road he now stood upon, openly mocking the poor fools fighting to save their souls from damnation.
He shook his head. I was resentful and angry even then, though not much older than that Chagny boy is.
Was, he winced.
How he had sneered at their prayers and tears of repentance. He had rejoiced in the fact that he was already well acquainted with hell, and found no need for anything above it.
But that was before I was granted a glimpse of her, he mused bitterly, and tasted heaven.
And now, the burning pyres of hell no longer satisfy me…
Twenty years had passed since a heated young man had stalked the streets of Jerusalem, in service to the shah of Persia. Time had since aged him, made him wiser and less impulsive. Though perhaps just as dangerous, he reflected.
The city, however, had not aged one mite. Behind Suleiman's fortress, all was the same as it had been for hundreds of years.
Erik slipped away from the Via Dolorosa and into a narrow side street, little more than four feet in width. Leaning against the wall, he breathed deeply of the night air, struggling to regain his composure. He cautiously peered about, then slipped a hand under his black mask and pulled it away, allowing the soft breeze to cool his mutilated flesh.
Feel the cold against your bare skin…think on how it would be to walk maskless about the streets, freed from the barriers of this abhorrent face…
Anything to cowardly retreat from thoughts of the past. After all, did I not swear long ago never to think of Persia?
The lover of trapdoors peered through the holy buildings again, searching for a particular twelfth century chapel amongst the stone walls. It was not hard to find: the filthy, unadorned building was a disparity to the clean white arches of the Franciscan monastery that surrounded it.
This was where it had happened, without a doubt—his first assassination on behalf of the shah.
Jerusalem was ancient and timeless, and she had a long memory. Would there still be those that remembered the odd strangulation of a holy man, and the ensuing hunt for an egotistical Frenchman with a magical lasso and a masked face? Though the murdered had been disliked among his peers at the Sepulchre, the Christian Quarter nevertheless cried "foul!" at the death of the priest. It was swiftly concluded that the suspicious pilgrim who had haunted the chapels for the past week committed the travesty—he had, in fact—they were not mistaken in their assumptions. Hastily going underground, however, he eluded them before the crime was even discovered. And he remained there for another two weeks, merely out of a morbid desire to see the whole dastardly thing play out, though the shah had requested he immediately travel back to Persia.
Only when he returned to Tehran did he find out why the man had been condemned to die at his hand.
"Because you have served me exceedingly well, you will not be punished for your delinquency these past days," the shah proclaimed as Erik rigidly stood before him in the great throne room. "But know this, Magician—no man dares to ignore the commands of the Glory of Allah. If you choose to do so again, I shall have you design your own painful castigation."
The trapdoor lover bowed low, a smirk playing at his lips. "As the Great One commands me," he declared, his hint of sarcasm completely lost on the obtuse ruler. Clearing his throat, he took advantage of the shah's nonchalant mood.
"May I inquire, your majesty, why you desired the priest to be…out of the way?"
The ruler grunted in displeasure at the thought of the holy man. "The dorogh gu served at the missions for years within our borders, and I tolerated his presence. It was when he left for the holy city and told our secrets to the Sultan's lap dogs that he became a threat." The shah waved his hand in dismissal and reached for his gold chalice. "The khanum is anxious for your return, Erik. Her boredom has seen many days, and she wishes for her death artist. Go now..."
The khanum. Erik scowled in disgust at the remembrance of the shah's evil mother. The woman had possessed a twisted addiction to ghastly, perverted deaths that only the most creative of minds could sate. And the magician with the gruesome face had been just the person to author such horrible details as would satisfy her wicked soul. He shook his head, fighting to permanently clear away memories of the devil-woman and Persia.
Such closeness to his old, wretched existence, however, only breathed life into the deadly trapdoor lover. He felt as if twenty years had not flown by at all, and he was still that youth prowling the churches, hunting for a disloyal priest.
Conceited, acidic, filled to the brim with hatred... He could feel it crawling through his veins …the insatiable desire to kill all that dared to glance with curiosity at his masked face—
"The city is truly the jewel of men's hearts, is it not?"
The voice broke through his rumination, and Erik whipped the mask over his grisly visage once more. Whirling around, he came face to face with the Lion's Gate guardian. The man leisurely shook the two gold coins in his fist, jingling them about as if he played a small riqq.
"Or perhaps," he continued secretively, "the jewel of your heart is up the road at this very moment, walking into the French convent." He roguishly nudged the masked man's shoulder. "It would be a pity if she were to discover you followed her here in the dead of night. Or could it be that she awaits her lover? Either way, silence does have a price…"
The harassed man angrily gritted his teeth and strode down the street without a sound. The gatekeeper matched his pace, chortling at the foreigner's avoidance.
"I wonder, Sadik, which of the pretty things you burn for—the golden one with red lips, or that tempting brown-haired gahba who grasped her brother's hand—"
With a cry of rage, Erik seized the man's abaya and dragged him all the way back to the dark city gate. He deftly swung his heel under the guard's legs and sent him flying to the floor, then dove on top of his stunned prey, pinning him to the ground before he could react. Flinging back his cloak, the lover of trapdoors drew a gilded Persian dagger from the hilt at his side and brandished it just above the trembling gatekeeper's face, allowing it to glint in the torchlight.
"Do you see this blade, you stinking camel khara? If you even dare to glance at either of those women, I shall not flinch when I slice a neat line across your flabby throat." He barred his teeth menacingly, a wild beast ready to strike. "Though I daresay the gory mess would be disagreeable."
The guard struggled wildly under Erik's strong limbs but he held firm, the man's attempts at escape only heightening his rage. The desire for the kill infused every cell of his body…red madness coated his mind, clouded his vision. He had captured his prey. Now all that was required was a flick of his knife, and he could feed on his prize—the heady drug of power. Control over death. It was his to claim, wasn't it? Did not this man deserve to die, this worthless soul that threatened the woman he loved?
The woman I love…
Somewhere, buried in the recesses of his mind, her words called to him. "When shall you let go of your bitterness and hatred, Erik?"
The words stung, quickly pulling him back to consciousness. He growled in bewilderment, for suddenly he did not know what to do with the man he had captured. Conflict raced through his mind as he saw his angel's tears, the overwhelming sadness she had suffered after the Kensington murder. He heard her gentle request that he come with her to Jerusalem…the black bruises upon her neck, still fresh and raw…
The trapdoor lover hit the ground next to the gatekeeper's head, causing the trounced man to flinch. Pressing the knife against the man's flesh, he nicked his cheek to add some sort of credence to his deadly threat.
"Damn you! She is a good woman, and a good mother. Leave her be."
Taking a deep breath, he swung away from the guard and sheathed his dagger once more.
The freed man nodded vigorously, struggling to sit up. "O Sadik, I swear that not a word shall be uttered, insha'allah." He wiped the trickle of blood from his face, then raised his hands to show he was unarmed.
Erik picked up his dusty satchel and brushed off the dirt, then reached into it to retrieve a coin purse. Tossing the small bag to the greedy guard, he snarled and turned away, his voice low and viperous.
"For your silence. I will only warn you once, however. If there is a next time, I shall cut out your tongue."
The defiant gatekeeper snorted. "Allah curse you, if you do."
The shah's favored one halted in mid-stride, his back going rigid. Then his shoulders relaxed and he slowly turned around, fixing the man with an icy glare of irony.
"I am already cursed, Sadik."
As he uttered the words, however—words he had proclaimed on many occasions—some unidentifiable emotion grasped hold of him. For the first time, the words had sounded hollow as they tripped from his tongue.
The voice again rang in his mind, tormenting him with its glorious sincerity.
"All you have desired is within reach…"
He had to get away, somehow…escape from the angel's voice that afflicted his mind and destroyed all he had ever relied upon. Swiftly kicking the gatekeeper in the groin, he muttered some incoherent words about payment for the trouble he had stirred. With a final warning and a deaf ear to the man's groan of pain, he fled up the Via Dolorosa, towards the French convent.
Nadir quietly sat on the third-story roof of the Notre Dame de Sion, puffing his tumbeki pipe and relaxing after the long, arduous journey. The rest of the household had immediately retired to their respective rooms the minute they arrived at the convent, too exhausted to do anything but sleep. The Persian, however, was not tired. It was magnificent to once more feel the dry wind of the Middle East upon his face after so many years of exile in Paris. The minarets of mosques rose up against the sky all around him, and he sighed in anticipation of the call to prayer at dawn. For so long, he had heard the adhan only in his mind, morning after morning, the muezzin's voice rising and falling:
Allah u Akbar…Ash-hadu al-la Ilaha ill Allah…
Tomorrow, however, when the sun rose and the holy city came to life…
The Persian took up his waterpipe and inhaled deeply, letting the rich tobacco filter through him. Chuckling lightly, he imagined the amusing spectacle that would ensue when the Europeans stumbled from their beds at the break of dawn in shock, wildly looking about as muezzin after muezzin began the echoing Subh prayer. Oh yes, he impatiently awaited it.
"That poison will kill you, daroga."
Nadir leapt from his wooden chair and spun around, sending it clattering loudly across the veranda. "Erik, must you always manifest from thin air like that? For once, you could be considerate by stomping upon the stairs or clearing your throat to give some advanced warning."
The other man smirked. "On edge tonight, my friend? You needn't wake the entire convent—the holy sisters will already have more than enough reason to throw you off of their property, once they find that malodorous pipe of yours." The masked man swept onto the roof and grabbed the chair's spindles, setting it on all four legs again. "In any case, I didn't use the stairs—the doors were locked." He swung his cape over his arm and pulled himself onto the rooftop ledge, gesturing for the Persian to sit in the chair.
Nadir shook his head, preferring to stand at eye level with the man. "If you are worried about waking Madame de Chagny, you need not be. She already knows that you are not in Paris." It was Erik's turn to start. The daroga watched with satisfaction as a dark scowl formed on the man's face. "The clever girl figured it out the first time you were unable to control that reckless impulse of yours to torment Henri David. Therefore, you have no need to hide any longer. Take a room here at the Pilgrim's house, and be done with this nonsense."
His words did not have their desired effect, however. Erik's frown deepened to a grave expression, and the Persian observed that his friend was entrenched in one of his black moods.
"Nonsense?" the man cried heatedly. "For the love of God, Nadir, I should not have even returned to Jerusalem! Or have you forgotten that the shah's favorite has blood on his hands? And Christine—what would happen to her if I was discovered here? You know as well as I do that this Fraternité would be preferable any day to the vengeance of the shah—"
"The shah of which you speak has been dead a good many years, du stæm. And Jerusalem is as excellent a place as any for the Chagny household—"
"Moreover," the masked man continued, ignoring his friend's interjection, "it is better for me to remain hidden, murdered priest or not. Someone must track down Sergei Dagaev; since you shall have your hands full with that self-righteous lackey who believes himself to be Christine's lover, the task falls to me. The Russian is here somewhere, hidden in the city. And he more than likely has answers to our questions."
The Persian silently studied the man before him, his jade eyes slit in concentration. He returned his pipe to his mouth and drew it several times, then slowly exhaled a cloud of smoke. At last he spoke, his words low and steady.
"Finding Dagaev is not what troubles you—you are in a black mood tonight, my friend. What has happened?"
Erik shook his head in denial, the gold of his eyes snapping in irritation. "Why would you assume that something has happened, daroga? Are you concerned that I may have murdered again?"
"Yes."
"Your powers of observation never cease to amaze," the man sneered coldly. "You need not be concerned. The man nearly drove me to it, but I was able to stop myself."
Nadir's eyebrows flicked up in surprise. He curiously pressed on, his friend's words refreshingly uncharacteristic. "Who was he?"
"The gatekeeper—presumptuous, insolent man! Nadir, he was there, under my hands. Every instinct in me cried for blood, desired to end his miserable life, then and there."
"But you did not kill him?" the Persian again questioned, searching for reassurance.
"No."
He exhaled in relief. "What stayed your hand, du stæm?"
Erik's eyes filled with confusion. Holding his hand in front of him, he gazed down upon his fingers as if he half-expected to see blood or scratches, or other evidence of murder. For once, his hands were clean.
Nadir watched as the man swallowed hard at some remembered occurrence, his features softening.
"She did. She stayed my hand." Erik leapt down from the ledge and began to pace about the room like a caged lion. "Damn it, Nadir, I hear those low, raspy words of hers in my head over and over. Every time I close my eyes, she's there—standing at the top of those cellar steps, beautiful, and dark, and…"
"Strong…like death."
"Yes! There have been very few times in my life, daroga, when I have felt so completely and utterly powerless. And almost all of those instances have involved her." He ran a hand over his tense face. "These circumstances—a man cannot live like this, not without wanting more. No matter where I go—Paris, London, even back to Tehran—I'll never be able to leave her behind. She has somehow taken complete control of me, nearly brought me to my knees…and I'll be damned if anyone brings me to my knees!"
"The whisper of a pretty girl can be heard further than the roar of a lion." Nadir Khan chuckled at the masked man, whose normally cool, detached manner had been replaced by arcane agitation. "There really is only one solution to this dilemma of yours, my friend."
"Enlighten me, daroga," the man snapped.
"Marry her."
Erik whirled around to face the man, open-mouthed. Seeing that the daroga was wholly serious, he set about to promptly squelch the idea. "That has been attempted before, Nadir. The results were less than satisfactory, if you remember correctly."
"Perhaps you should try it again, with a bit more tact," the daroga shrugged.
"I am afraid I am not the marrying type, my friend." Shaking his head defiantly, he let his cape once more fall around his person and turned to go. "Anyway, I need not remind you that my purpose here isn't to find my way into the Comtesse's bed."
The Persian's hands flew up in exasperation, no longer amused by Erik's bull-headedness. "Very well then. Play your cat-and-mouse game until the day you die. That is all it is, really—another diversion you have invented to avoid the face in the mirror…a way to reject the person you should be. But remember this, Trapdoor Lover—your games will destroy you in the end…"
"Another proverb, daroga? Christine is hardly a mouse." Erik leapt onto the roof ledge.
Nadir Khan winced as the masked man swung himself over the outcrop and onto the ornate corner of the convent. Leaning over the stone edge, he watched as Erik skillfully maneuvered his way down the entire three stories of the convent wall and jumped to the ground.
"And she shall be destroyed when you fall," he called after the man.
His cry faded into the night, however. If he had been heard, the trapdoor lover gave no sign of heeding him. Picking up his pace, Erik once again escaped up the Via Dolorosa and into the shadows of the night.
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