A/N: Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews! :) ... And now…
II
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Christine relied on her sense of hearing to track the rebellious pup, its occasional yips directing her in which way to go. Her mind wandered, as did her feet, taking her further into the gathering darkness. She considered going back for a lantern but might lose the pup, so trudged onward.
If not for Lucy's hysterics and tears when she did not have her pet near to sleep on her bed every night, Christine would surrender the chase. At least the moon would make an appearance tonight, having partially risen to light the way. What was that silly dog's name again? Oh yes…
"Topsy," she called out. "Come here this minute! Lucy will be missing you."
She had never owned a pet and had no idea how to manage one. Several more shouts for the stubborn mutt yielded nothing. She walked on, only just able to see. Much further in the distance than she'd last heard it, Christine made out faint yipping.
A light mist wet her face and she grimaced, pulling the hood of her cape over her head, her mind playing back her atrocious arrival to the estate a fortnight ago.
The carriage, when it finally rattled near to collect her at the station, came late. Upon her arrival, in the pouring rain, no less, she had entered Montmarte's wide doors with all the finesse of a drowned rat. Her uncle had not been present to greet her, and Raoul had been absent on an urgent matter. Through the manservant's haughty airs, Christine was made to feel every inch the poor relation seeking dubious shelter in one of the countryside's most notable manors, or so the driver told her, surpassed by no other except Castle Dragan situated deep in the forest.
This distant uncle who so unexpectedly materialized in her life had never even known her sainted parents. Christine never knew of his existence until the eve of Mama Valerius's funeral, when the invitation came from Montmarte. Shocked to learn she wasn't alone in the world, that she had a family, however removed and distantly related, Christine spent her last francs on a proper outfit and answered the missive, but now wished she had torn it to smithereens and remained in training at the Opera House.
How dare Raoul inform their uncle of the bizarre incident at the festival, which Christine had repeatedly tried to push from her mind. Three nights had passed since the enigmatic stranger first haunted her thoughts. Most of the time, she could divert her attention to other things, but when she lay still and quiet in bed, eyes of seductive flame in a masked face filled the black scope of vision beneath her closed lids.
"Stop it," she ordered aloud, more to hear her voice in the deepening gloom and dispel the fear of the present unknown than for any true chastisement. "You are a reasonably intelligent female and not some besotted simpleton, so stop acting like one."
It unnerved her that in those scant minutes of their acquaintance, he had affected her more strongly than any man she'd known, though she had little on which to compare. Potential suitors, none of interest, had made their desires apparent once she'd gained a womanly figure, but under the vigilant eyes of both Mama Valerius and Madame Giry, few dared get too close. Those who managed to slip past her guardians and weren't dissuaded by Christine's sharp tongue, she ignored, hoping her indifference would deflate their egos enough to leave her alone to dance and sing as she wished. Her entire experience in such ventures amounted to an awkward peck on the lips from an undeterred boy, whom she'd grown bored to tears with after one chaperoned outing. And Raoul, who she'd given a kiss on the cheek for saving her scarf from the sea, but they'd been children then. Yet her cousin certainly had no romantic interest in her, not that she would encourage it if he did. He was a friend and nothing more, one with whom she was seriously peeved at the moment.
The damp air chilled her to the bone, and Christine pulled the edges of her cloak more tightly around her shoulders, deciding the pup was on its own. She hoped the little beast would return before Lucy readied for bed.
Eager for her own warm bed, Christine took first true notice of the area in the faint glow of the moon. So engrossed in recounting the past, she had failed to realize that nothing looked familiar.
Oh, bother! On top of everything else, she was now lost? She blew out an aggrieved breath, never having intended to wander so far.
Beyond the hills to her right, she spotted a grey shimmer, what must be the North Sea. A mist unfurled in the distance, closing in fast. The shadows of tall trees seemed more elongated, sentinel-like, surrounding her.
She realized she must be within a fringe of dark forest that rimmed Montmarte and acted as a border. Dangers, he had said, and she had no wish to encounter anything even remotely intimidating, shuddering at the thought of bodies her uncle said had been drained of blood and of fearsome wild beasts that prowled the night. Monsters, he called them, once mortal, though she scorned such incredible tales. He sought to intimidate her at every turn, and she felt certain that's all tonight's little tale of horror had been. Another attempt to put her under his thumb and keep her meek and subservient to his wishes. She did not disbelieve that people had been killed in the forest, Raoul told her that, the tally five in three months. However, ferocious animals did exist and she cursed her vexation that had led her on this fool's chase.
Hurriedly she turned to retrace her steps and came to a sudden halt. Confused, she stared.
A blanket of dull white fog had materialized out of nowhere and crept toward her, as far as the eye could see, blocking any view she might have of the manor.
She had never witnessed such dramatic changes in climate occur so rapidly, as she had in these lowlands of Berwickshire. A dark unease, a foreboding of something sinister heightened her senses, but she pushed those fears away. Like as not her mind wrapped around fanciful imaginings provoked by these gloomy environs and the dreadful dinner topic.
Indecisive between remaining trapped at the edge of the forest or groping blindly through unfamiliar terrain, Christine anxiously considered her options. She dared not enter the dark forest with its many hidden dangers. Nor did she fancy the idea of waiting for the fog to disperse. The choice was seized from her as the chill cloud drifted close, tendrils of cold mist wrapping around her, until she could see nothing but white.
A distant howl that definitely did not sound as if it came from a puppy caused her heart to flutter a frantic beat. She shivered as she slowly pushed through the dense curtain, hardly aware of where she was going, into the sea for all she knew. To remain immobile jarred her nerves far worse, and she walked with caution as the unrelenting fog swirled around her, enveloped her, closing her off to the world in a shroud of thick mist.
She drifted forward with hands outstretched, unable to see more than an arm's length before her, fingers reaching to fumble for any point of contact. Her hands collided with the trunk of a tree and she realized she was going in the wrong direction. She altered course behind to what surely must lead to the manor. After some time elapsed, the nuisance of being lost dissolved in the pit of her stomach and branched into cold, stark fear. She should have reached the manor by now, if she were going in the right direction. One misstep, and she could fall and become injured. Helpless. No one would know, having thought she'd retired to her room.
Blindly she pursued her indistinct course, the cold, cloying fog unlike any she'd known in Paris, a living, breathing thing, coiling around her. The hushed eeriness of her surroundings made her skin crawl, and she began softly to sing, a comfort since childhood for when she felt frightened. She nervously formed the words of an aria from the last opera while striking out blindly, her arms sweeping in front and to the sides of her, over and over, until the rough bark of a tree abraded her fingers.
No! Not the forest again!
Suddenly she felt her wrist harshly grabbed, and her wavering song ended on a shocked little cry.
A dark, cloaked figure walked from behind, emerging from the mist that swirled away to let him pass. He turned to stand before her, the cloud of fog again closing behind him.
Christine looked up with fearful amazement to see the masked stranger from the festival.
"You," she whispered.
As they had done before, his mysterious eyes pulled her in, as if lights glowed inside the golden orbs, though this time there was no bonfire as a reflection, only the mist. His riveting gaze captured her in his hold, as effective as the grip he had on her arm trapped between them.
She stood motionless, spellbound. Scant inches separated them, the chill radiating from his body impossibly warming to her flesh.
How could that even be?
Shaken by the compulsive desire to draw closer, as though she had no freewill left, Christine blinked and retreated a step, all the distance allowed, his grip on her forearm secure. Though he again wore black leather gloves, the feel of his fingers through her sleeve was icy, and she released a little gasp. He continued to stare intensely into her eyes, his striking presence devoid of expression. She inhaled deeply, hoping to achieve some semblance of control.
"Monsieur, if you please…" She tried to pull her wrist free, but he held fast. She looked at him with a mix of confusion and uncertainty.
At her soft command, his eyes narrowed behind the mask he wore, as if perplexed. He had looked at her in such a manner that night too. It was another moment before he spoke.
"Did I not warn you to be careful?" he echoed his initial greeting from the festival. The timbre of his voice came as rich and deep as she remembered. "It is not safe for a woman to wander alone in darkness. The night is laden with dangers."
"Does your warning stem from caution or threat?" she challenged, struggling not to let him see her fear, though her heart pounded as if it might burst through her chest.
"Perhaps both."
His direct words stunned her, but rather than attempt to break away a second time, Christine stood utterly still. Despite his alarming answer, the oddest awareness swept through her that he would not harm her.
She had no basis for such a belief, it made no sense, especially after the manner in which he lured her to walk with him, away from the festival. Yet despite sound logic, (and she wondered how intact hers must be to think it), she knew it was so.
Quietly she gave voice to her thoughts.
"You won't harm me."
He tilted his head back, his scornful gaze sweeping her in a glance.
"Can you be so sure?"
She shook her head a little, dazed with a certainty she couldn't explain.
"Yes."
Slowly, she took in his form. Beneath a black fedora, his raven hair hung in damp lanks just touching the base of his neck. His mode of clothing, from the little she could see of it, befitted a gentleman. Oddly, he again wore a full mask, a different one that also dipped beneath his cheekbones. Of opaque black leather, this mask held no shine or ornamentation to it, as the spangled one from the festival did. His lips beneath were pulled thin, unsmiling, his lean jaw clenched as if displeased with her curious interest.
An elaborate gold and ruby clasp with a coat of arms held his heavy cloak together and hid much of his form, but standing so close she felt his barely leashed strength, certain his body was as commanding as the rest of him. A strange breathlessness came over her at such a wayward thought and mingled with shy apprehension as her gaze took in the wall of his chest before again lifting to his remarkable eyes.
He inhaled a sudden sharp breath, his eyes flaring then narrowing again.
"Why are you here?" he demanded.
Affronted by his imposing tone, she lifted her chin. "It is I, monsieur, who should ask why you trespass? I am a visitor to Montmarte, and am entitled to be on these grounds."
"You are no longer at Montmarte."
She blinked. "No longer at Montmarte?" she echoed faintly. Had she truly walked that great a distance?
He stared as if struggling with indecision, then moved his large hand to encircle her upper arm.
"Come!"
Turning with her in a different direction, he strode through the fog, forcing her obedience.
"Monsieur - wait!"
The suddenness of his act made her heart pound with uncertainty. His stride was graceful, long and sure, as if no mist impeded his vision, and she quickened her pace so as not to stumble, trying to shrug free of his fierce grasp.
"Wh-where are you taking me? Who are you?" When he gave no response, she insisted, "Will you not answer –?"
He whirled to face her with a swiftness that trapped the breath in her throat. "Are you now frightened?" he asked, his whisper soft and silken, sounding almost pleased with the prospect.
Christine's lips parted, but she felt bereft of speech. Good sense demanded that she be more frightened than she was. Yet sense did not belong to this world of glowing mist, from which this darkly glorious stranger emerged, nor had logic ordered her steps at the festival when she disappeared into the shadows with him. The emotions that rendered her mute had little to do with terror but were just as troubling. She continued to look into his bottomless eyes that again drew her in …
As though he fought the impulse, his hand slowly, so slowly, lifted and his knuckles made featherlight contact beneath her ear. She inhaled a shaky breath as he traced a path of flame to her chin. The chill of his touch on her flesh magnified as his fingertips burned a path down to her throat resting in the hollow and against the pulse that beat wildly at its base above the ruffle of her neckline.
"You are wise to fear," he said softly, as if in endearment. "You have good reason. I am not what you think."
Her eyes fell shut, dazed by her body's strong reaction to this man, at the same time infuriated by his cat and mouse ploy. "You wish to intimidate? Is that your game, monsieur? To speak in threats and riddles? And is it also your intent to seduce me into submission?" She looked at him without flinching, forcing herself not to take a step back. "I am not afraid of you; you will not find me a docile lamb biddable to your will."
He shortly laughed at that, the tone of his amusement rich but with a dark, disturbing quality to it, as if at a private joke. She stood as tall and forbidding as her height allowed, diminutive when compared with his towering frame.
His lips lifted at the corners in a faint, bemused smile. "In time, perhaps, I shall satisfy you with what answers you seek.…" His gaze lowered to the front of her dress then flicked up to her eyes. "And more…"
His hypnotic eyes conveyed the bold promise of his words, and she swayed slightly toward him, her knees weak.
"You think too highly of yourself, monsieur."
Her words came husky, belying her response to his touch.
His smile was cynical as his hand spread over her throat. His fingertips brushed fire up her neck while his thumb did the same to the side opposite. His palm pressed in, searing her in a light, firm clasp, his thumb and forefinger resting at her jaw. "I assure you, my dear," he leaned in close to whisper, his breath fanning her ear, the only thing warm about him and sending shivers down her spine, "the time is nigh, when it will be you who seeks me out."
It wasn't arrogance that laced his tone, but a strange sense of unassuming certainty, as though he spoke of what they both knew to be true. She struggled against the tide of rich feeling his words and touch aroused.
"Your judgment is as flawed as your conduct. I would never seek out a rogue … what you most certainly are … as your actions clearly indicate."
Her words intended to discourage came as wisps of mere breath, again giving unwelcome credence to his claim. Incensed, she pulled swiftly free from his hand at her neck, but still he did not release her arm.
"We shall see."
His eyes burned into hers as he drew closer, his other arm twining about her waist and drawing her body back to him.
She trembled at the feel of his hard form against her softness, and felt almost grateful for his support. But instead of the kiss he seemed about to bestow, a kiss she turned her face aside to prevent, his head bent to her neck, his lips brushing the tender skin there.
Christine gasped in shock at the bold intimacy, his tongue surprisingly hot as it traced up beneath her ear, his cool lips suckling flesh. She could not prevent a moan and held tightly to his shoulders as unfamiliar heat rushed through her veins and pooled to her center.
Lightly he bit the cord of her neck with his blunt teeth, inciting a strange desperate need within her. She pulled him closer still, moving her head to let him do as he wished. His lips caressed her neck, and what felt like the prick of a needle lightly scraped the surface of her flesh, causing her to stiffen in shock. Instantly, his wet tongue laved away the faint sting, while her fingers dug into his shoulders…
Suddenly, violently, he put both hands to her arms pushing her away as he pulled back, upsetting her shaky balance.
Christine clung to his arms so as not to fall. He kept his eyes shut a long moment, his hands holding her from him, his face averted and hidden by his hat, and she studied him in anxious concern.
"Monsieur?" she asked softly.
Her query seemed to snap him out of whatever conflict held him bound. Again, with her one arm tightly grasped, he relentlessly pulled her with him through the mist.
Too shaken that she had encouraged such wicked attentions, too confused that he so rapidly ended them, she said nothing more and succumbed to his swift lead.
A short time later, they stepped out of the mist, and Christine saw the great brown edifice and two turrets of Montmarte a stone's throw away, yellow rectangles of light acting as a beacon. Relief vied for bewilderment in her mind. How had they reached the manor so quickly? Had she been walking in circles?
Her silent escort released his hold on her arm and looked at her. She was stunned by the sadness in his eyes.
"Christine! Are you out here?"
At her cousin's clear panic, she twisted around to call out, "I'm here!" Lowering her tone, she addressed her dark companion. "Would you care to come inside for some tea …?"
She shouldn't invite him in, as much as he made her forget herself in his presence, the things he did to her - but courtesy demanded some token of recompense for rescuing her from an even more dangerous fate than at the festival. And she wanted to know more about him and what had put that sorrow into his eyes.
When he gave no response, she turned to look at him as she spoke. "I should think Raoul would …" Her words trailed off, her eyes widening. "… not mind," she whispered to the emptiness behind her.
Her dark saviour had again vanished, without a sound, without a word.
With her eyes she searched the outskirts of fog but saw no trace of him. How could he have slipped away so quietly? As if the man himself was composed of mist and shadow and had blended back into his habitation.
"Christine!"
She felt hands at her shoulders pull her around and stared up into her cousin's relieved blue eyes.
"Raoul. Did you see …?" She turned to glance back into the fog.
"See what?"
"I … nothing."
To speak of her encounter might earn her another scolding, and oddly she really had no wish to share what happened. Nor did she wish to give more fuel for Raoul to use against her with their uncle.
"Come, you're shaking. A foolish thing it was, Christine, to go out in fog this thick. You could have been lost or hurt."
She refrained from telling him he was correct about one of those two fates.
"When I left there was no fog."
"In this part of the country, the weather can change at a moment's notice." Slipping a reassuring arm around her shoulders, he escorted her up the stairs to the manor. "Why in God's name did you come out here, when I told you never to walk alone at night?"
"Lucy's pup is loose. I was trying to find it."
He shook his head in aggravation. "There's no sense in warning you, is there? You never listen – always were one to do as you damn well pleased and hang the consequences."
They reached the door. He opened it for her then followed her inside.
"And you are still as blunt and bullying as ever. Nor has your language improved."
He chuckled and closed the door. "You'll find I still have that Van Helsing temper Mother passed on to me. So best not test it."
She scoffed. "As if I was ever afraid of you! You're not the only one to inherit the trait, you know."
"Maybe, but you should be more terrified than you are - of all those things that inhabit the night, not me," he added with a wink when she raised an imperious brow at him. "You've always been fearless, which, come to think of it might serve you well." A strange somberness came over him. "I have long wanted to discuss a matter with you, but I'm afraid it must wait. You look exhausted. Get some rest. We'll talk more tomorrow."
"Perhaps we will, perhaps we won't." She scowled at him. "I'm still upset with you."
"I'm sorry, Christine. Really I am. We'll talk tomorrow. I must go."
She watched him depart to the back of the manor where a door led to the stables, curious what business would take him out into the night. She disagreed with his character assessment. Never had she been what she would call fearless, but orphaned at such a young age, she had been forced to face and fight her fears or let them drown her.
Clasping her hand to the side of her neck, she recalled the feel of her dark saviour's mouth there, a wicked encounter on which she should not dwell. Her face grew hot and her pulse raced as she moved into the empty parlor to look out the window...
Nothing but fog.
Moving away from the glass, she dropped her hand from her neck, noting a flash of red as she lowered it.
A small smear of blood stained her fingertip.
xXx
She was not like the others.
He had been stirred by her beauty and drawn to the young woman the moment he beheld her masked face wreathed by long masses of shining dark ringlets, and had followed her, unseen, at the festival of Samhain.
Unmasked, she was even more breathtaking than his mind envisioned.
Erik had come to the startling awareness that she was different from the rest when she bravely confronted him, even quarreled with him. And, most disconcerting, she had been able to withstand his influence and break free of his control over her mind on both occasions he entered her presence.
Never had that happened before, and for that reason alone he had not slaked his wretched thirst, instead becoming her guide.
By the blood of his ancestors - her guide!
What absurd twist of fate had cast him into the role of her protector? If she had known the devil she'd clung to, she would have fled from him in abject terror. But instead, she calmly declared that he would never hurt her. And in speaking those quiet words, he felt as if a spell had been cast over him in that he no longer wanted to. She spoke to him as a man, without being compelled, which intrigued him as much as it mystified.
Why had she come? What purpose did she have for being at Montmarte? And who the devil was she?
He stood invisible within the fringes of thick mist and watched her look back in his direction, searching for him through the window.
Of more importance, what relation was she to them? A guest she had said, but of which member of the household?
The childlike Lucy, with her guileless blue eyes…? The foppish boy, who was proving to be more pest than foe…? Or the avaricious earl, searching for ways to increase his holdings now that he was in debt…?
Erik frowned. The French woman called Christine did not seem to fear him, did not appear frightened of anything or anyone, though he knew that to be untrue. He had seen her fear, but she possessed bravado, walking among drunken revelers, a lone wandering angel at a pagan festival. Walking in the thick forest in the dead of night in an even denser fog.
And that voice…her song had been shaky with trepidation but beautiful. Angelic even.
He dryly laughed – as if a demon would know an angel! However, music had become his refuge and sole companion, and he recognized true talent.
He could not deny nor comprehend the powerful bond he'd felt toward her, as he'd never felt with any woman through the centuries. From the moment he looked into her velvet brown eyes and experienced the spark of her warm touch he had merged with her into some unforeseen existence where they alone dwelt. With her, he felt he possessed a soul. She had actually desired his touch …
And the company of the Vicomte, he recalled, grimly having noted her relief to see the de Chagny boy's approach on both occasions. Was this dark-haired beauty with the flawless skin soon to become that fool's bride?
Rage reared its monstrous head for an instant, bleak confusion following closely on its heels. He chuckled darkly. For what purpose should he care …?
Before he yielded to his pathetic wishes, he blended back into his world of mist.
He could never have what most men attained, a wife, children, a true home. Centuries of the Cel Tradat curse along with a face twisted from birth had stolen any normal existence from him. Erik had long accepted his wretched fate and had no wish to entertain these novel feelings. Feelings that urged his return to accept her invitation to tea and learn all he could about the fiery angel who now inhabited Montmarte.
No, he would not fall prey to the cutting bonds of hope again.
He drew a mantle of stony indifference around his still heart to block out the pain of feeling and stalked away to resume the hunt. His ears and eyes sharply attuned to the darkness as a mournful howl broke the muffled silence. The distant sound of cursing and drunken laughter reached his ears. Fearsome creatures of the night, he remembered the Vicomte telling her. Beware.
His lips twisted in a cynical smile that slowly faded.
He should have taken her.
He could not fight what he was and would never be anything more than a monster.
He would find his way into Christine's presence again, at a time when the Vicomte could not interfere, and would take greater care to weave a spell of dark seduction. He had felt her complete surrender close at hand...
She would not be able to resist a third time.
xXx
A/N: As I wrote this chapter, the song "The Mist" from the musical Dracula (which is part of what I'm doing right now for a Phantom vid) went through my mind, makes sense since I've been hearing it a kajillion times as I edit. ;-) Also, I forgot to say in the other chapter, but my Lucy is somewhat inspired/based on that Lucy, though this isn't a crossover of the Dracula story itself...