A/N: Thank you so much for your continued interest and reviews! :) (to the guest reviewer - I will fix that error about the grandmother soon! You are 100% correct (I am so not good with family trees) - Thanks for your keen eye! :) And now...

IX

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Christine sat rigid on the narrow bench seat, clutching the ivory hilt of the familiar dagger. She inhaled sharply at the fearful vision outside the small window, of eyes that gleamed as red as rubies, then exhaled a tremulous breath when seconds later they were gone.

Had it been a trick of her imagination? A product of emotional exhaustion? Too much ale?

There was no light cast in that direction to reflect such an eerie glow, as a cat's eyes shone when lamplight was directed a feline's way - but what beast had eyes of blood?

From outside the thin walls came a vicious, feral growl, followed by a weak cry for help.

She tried to breathe, tried to think. She did not believe it to be Raoul – the voice was too gruff – and Christine desperately wondered what to do. Raoul told her to stay put, but it felt cowardly to remain shut away inside when she might offer aid to a wounded soul in distress, and she did have a weapon that she had learned to wield in defense. Swallowing over a dry throat, she put her hand to the latch, though she quaked in her laced boots with what she would find beyond the fragile safety of the carriage.

When all became eerily silent, she opened the door a tentative crack.

"Raoul," she whispered. "Are you there…?"

Not a sound, save for the wind stirring the branches and the nervous snuffles and whinnies of the horses.

Fighting down every instinct that bade her shut the door and remain within, Christine opened the door wide enough to carefully climb down. With the dagger gripped in one hand, she stood fixed in place, uncertain of what to do next.

"Raoul?" she half-whispered, glancing toward the driver's seat where a lantern hung suspended. Her heart froze to a lump of ice in her breast to see the bulky shape of the driver slumped across the seat.

Wounded.

Or dead…?

Perhaps they'd become victims of lawless highwaymen - thieves that preyed on the wealthy who traveled on secluded stretches of lonely roads.

"I am armed," she called into the darkness then wondered at the intelligence of attracting attention her way. Apprehensively she stepped closer to the lantern and poor Mr. Findley, though to illuminate herself to unseen villains surely was also a step in the wrong direction.

On the heels of that thought, a growl rumbled nearby, low and deep, seeming to vibrate maliciously all around her. Terrified, she glanced in every direction, unable to discern where the beastly noise was coming from.

That was certainly no highwayman!

A vicious hiss came from another direction, and what sounded like a blade clanked against another. Twice. Three times. Another wounded cry, this one more distant…

Unable to see anything beyond the thick, swirling mist and invasive darkness, Christine backed toward the door. From where had such a dense fog come? Its presence hardly seemed natural, but that was the least of her concerns.

A horrendous shriek split the air, followed by the heavy thuds of footfalls that grew in volume, coming directly toward her…

"Raoul?!" she screamed then turned – to see a pair of glowing red eyes advance swiftly through the cloud of mist.

In terror, she whirled about and jumped inside the carriage. The dagger clattered to the boards as she slammed the door shut and held it closed tightly with both hands. Whatever fiend tried to attack from the other side vigorously struggled to wrench the handle from her frantic grasp, and Christine held fast with a strength she never knew she possessed. Her eyes fell shut as silently she begged for help from above, struggling to form the whispered petition dear Mama Valerius had taught her as a child.

"Our Father who art in heaven, who a-art in heaven…" She took in shuddering breaths, forcing her mind to connect with her voice and form the proper words. "Hallowed be thy name, th-thy kingdom c-come, thy will be d-done…"

Suddenly all resistance stopped, the handle gone still. Christine tearfully stared at the door, not trusting the abrupt stillness.

In the next instant she was thrown back as the carriage violently rocked to one side, then to the other – as if the attackers intended to shake her loose from the closed conveyance.

She crouched on the floor, clinging to the seat for balance, her protective hold on the latch gone. Her terrified gaze lifted to the window, and she gasped in horror again to see the gleaming red eyes, directly outside the carriage.

A ferocious snarl rent the air, freezing her already chilled blood. More than one growl answered – when suddenly the carriage ceased with its violent rocking. The unmistakable sounds of hostile combat immediately commenced – clashing, ripping, snarling – seeming to come from both sides of the carriage.

"Dear God, what is happening?! Help us - please help us!"

Christine squeezed her eyes shut, her hold again tight on the hilt of the dagger, as prayers for safety poured from her lips and chaos reigned heavily all around.

The sudden stillness that came with her next trembling breath was just as frightening…

Twice the silence had proved a deceptive foe.

She stared hard at the door, waiting, watching, ready to grab the handle again if need be.

It began slowly to turn and she lunged for it, dropping the dagger to clutch the metal lever with both hands.

"Christine?" The latch jiggled beneath her hold. "It's me, Christine. It's safe. They're gone."

At the sound of Raoul's weary voice, she released the handle with a sob and, as the door swung open, burst out of the carriage into his calming embrace. She could not stem the tears from her ordeal, nor did she bother in the attempt. They rained down her cheeks, dripping over her jaw and against his neck.

"There, there, Lotte. You're alright now."

She would argue with that assessment if she had the presence of mind to do so.

"Was it…" She worked to gulp down a shaky breath and speak over her tears. "Was it thieves?" A vision of red eyes came to mind. "Wolves…?"

"I think you know."

His quiet response made her shut her eyes against such a horrific notion. She could not, would not believe his mad insinuation.

It suddenly came to her knowledge that his cloak was wet in an area not drenched with her tears. Pulling back, she stared at him in concern. A gash had sliced through one side of his cloak, blood seeping from his coat sleeve.

"You're hurt?"

"It's only a graze."

She nodded in faint relief then remembered the driver.

"Findley – I think it must have been him that I heard cry out."

Raoul released her and drew close to inspect the driver.

"Dead, I'm afraid, poor sod. Neck's torn wide open."

Dear God...

Christine gripped the open carriage door, certain her knees might soon give way.

"They came out of nowhere," Raoul said from above, "Sometimes they band together, especially the newly turned, and travel in small groups. I staked one. Come and see…" He jumped down from the driver's seat and walked a short distance. "What the hell…he was right there! They must have taken his corpse with them."

Christine's horrified mind couldn't take it all in; she had no idea what to believe. She had seen no one, no shapes of animals or men – nothing but those terrible red eyes in the mist, eyes that surely belonged to some wild, feral beast of the forest. She had heard the growls, heard the fighting…

"What happened to stop it?" she asked, her voice a slim thread.

"It's the oddest thing. Never seen it happen before. One of their kind turned on them. It must have been a beast of supreme power. They fled at his approach. It was too dark to see well, but I'm certain it was a man, if you can call such vile creatures men…"

Christine exhaled a weary sigh. "I think we should not delay to return to Montmarte and tell the earl about Findley. The poor man. Did he have a family?"

"If he did, I don't know about it."

The horses were naturally jittery, and Raoul moved toward the pair, speaking softly while trying to quiet them. Christine was amazed they had not taken off at a mad run, spooked as Mist had been and with far better reason.

With no manner in which to prevent the body from falling onto the road, Raoul wrapped Findley's head with his cloak, Christine assumed as a consideration to her shattered emotions, and placed the deceased inside the carriage. Raoul then climbed up and untied the reins the driver had had the foresight to secure and drove with Christine sitting tensely beside him on the narrow seat.

"They won't be back," Raoul assured grimly. "They never strike twice in the same night."

Christine had heard and endured enough. She could no longer bear to listen to any more of his dark tales. Nor did she release her tight hold on the dagger.

Thankfully her cousin must have realized her frenzied state of mind, for he said nothing more. The misty glow of moonlight washed the road ahead in a silver stream, but Christine found her attention nervously diverted to the dark trees, seeking any hint of what she had no wish to see again.

All remained calm, no more devilish eyes of ghastly red glowing in the night, no more unseen beasts growling beneath a cover of grey cloud and darkness. The fog had mostly dissipated the further the carriage took them, leaving only wispy tendrils to trace the night.

In the distance, above the trees, loomed what appeared to be two square towers, and with shock she realized whose home they passed.

Christine stared until what she could see of the castle slipped from view, once more setting her sights on the road before them.

Never had she wished so badly to see the glow of golden candlelight in the windows that told her they were nearing Montmarte.

xXx

The Count cel Tradat stormed into the foyer of his chill domicile that centuries ago he had ordered built. Swirling his heavy cloak from around his body he flung it to a high-backed chair of carved black oak. Blood spattered his clothing and in careless disgust, he quickly loosened the cravat from around his neck and tossed it as well as his frock coat to join the cloak.

"Gregor!"

His stride swift and true Erik took the stairs two at a time to his bedchamber. His manservant of forty some odd years hurried down the corridor to greet him as fast as his aging bones would allow.

"Bring me a brandy – then draw me a bath."

"Very good, sir." His servant did not so much as flinch at the grisly sight that Erik made, long accustomed to coming upon such a scene. Gregor hurried off, while Erik stripped himself of the remainder of his clothing, letting it land where it may.

Standing naked in his bedchamber, he took account of his condition. A deep gash along his left upper arm to his elbow would soon heal as if it never existed. Four slashes ran a few inches beneath his collarbone, nowhere near his heart, the fools too new to fight with any true skill.

Normally, having come upon the assault of an unfortunate villager, he would have walked on and left the motley band to their sick amusements, the Count once having sought the same in his age-old abhorrence for mankind. But when he heard her voice cry out in the night and saw her alight from the carriage, trembling as she held a dagger ready in defense, the shine of her frightened tears and pallid face caused a white-hot fury to surge within his veins such as he'd never before known. Many times through the centuries he had executed terrible rage and been violent in his wrath – but never on account of the fate of a mortal.

Four hundred years of wisdom taught him to master skills both humankind and those of his species only dreamed to have. As a royal and one of the eldest, he had greater power than most and certainly over those pathetic new foundlings. He had soon cleared the area of the creatures that sought her death – had counted six – none of them his creation. Gypsies by the look of them. Indeed, he had turned few mortals in his unnatural life, and all three were mistakes. One of them now dead, by his own hand.

Of those foundling creatures that attacked her tonight, none had escaped his harsh judgment of eternal death. The idiot boy had slaughtered one of them, but the Count had absconded with the body when the fool's back was turned. He needed no slayer to obtain the proof of what must remain secret, and thereby stir the entire village to arms.

The wounds incurred to his flesh had been products of his negligence – distracted when he saw one of the fiends draw near the carriage door. She had withstood its strength, preventing the fool's entrance, which was no surprise, given her own aberrant powers.

"Master…" Gregor came into the room. "You are wounded." He set down the tray with the bottle of brandy and a snifter. "I will fetch sustenance."

"Yes, Gregor, do that. But draw water for the bath first. Hot – very hot…"

Even without the necessary evil of ingesting blood, Erik would heal. Better to dispose of the injuries rapidly, the cut to his arm sliced near the bone and making the appendage difficult to move. No stranger to pain, he mechanically wrapped the offended arm with a gold damask cloth that covered a small table, to prevent more blood from dripping onto his Persian carpet, which to his disgust was likely ruined. He then donned his robe while he waited for Gregor's announcement that his bath was prepared, and poured himself a brandy.

As Erik drank, his thoughts went to the recent slayings over the past months, and he scowled.

He had hoped to dwell in this remote region, in this castle he had deserted over a hundred years ago, for at least another two decades, before necessity forced him to move. But the interloper was making his plans difficult, with such slipshod methods, forcing the need to venture into the night with extreme caution. By the ancient laws made to protect their kind from extinction, they were to kill only if necessary and feed in secret, using the power of compulsion for their victims to forget. Some mortals were made into pets by those who formed attachments, keeping them near to dwell in their homes and in their beds. Those who entertained more than a fondness for their pets often turned them at some point, to share a life together in union...

Before his discovery of her true nature, Erik had hoped for such a destiny with the fiery young singer, since he could never live life as a normal man. Yet the very idea of Christine Daaé as his pet, meek and obedient, made him dryly laugh.

She was flame and warmth and spirit, and he still remembered her eyes spitting fire at him as she softly and viciously scolded him at their last meeting – her winsome vibrancy leading him to kiss her as if to possess her. He did not want her cold as death and corpse-like such as he – no, he wanted a living wife, to desire him of her own freewill, and breathe warmth into his dark frozen soul, if it were indeed possible…

Such were his ruminations as he later bathed in water hot enough to scald mortal flesh, and though for scant moments he felt its warmth, his ice cold body would never retain it.

His mind lingered pensively over their conversation and her accusation concerning Lucy as his lover. He snorted in derision at such an appalling thought.

While it was true that upon his return to the castle two years ago he secretly made Lucy's acquaintance inside the maze, singing to her and telling her stories, he'd kept himself well hidden. Just as once, over a decade ago, he had done the same for another small lonely girl in another part of the world. That small, quiet girl in the chapel had called herself Lotte. After several months, upon near discovery, he had ceased with the tri-weekly ritual of song that gave mutual comfort – his need to leave the city he'd made into his home vital.

Lucy had been older, but still little more than a youth when he first approached, a simpleton who thought him one of the dark Fae. Despite growing into a lovely young woman, she yet possessed the mind of a child, and he did not once consider her more than that. Lucy was a gullible innocent he never made into his victim, perhaps because of her naive vulnerability, perhaps because he himself had once been a child preyed upon by those stronger who sought his destruction...

With any child, he drew the line, and that led him to think of the mistake made centuries ago, with the one small girl he turned in an act of pity.

The Count sighed, taking note of the clear water that had altered to a murky red. How fitting for the monster to bathe in both his blood and the spilled blood of his enemies. He lifted the goblet rimmed in gold to his lips, containing sustenance of the same dark red liquid, and drank deeply. Not once did he glance at his deep wounds, but he felt the curative effects immediately.

Once he emptied his glass, Erik stood to his feet in the tub of black marble, upending a basin of clear hot water over his head to wash all traces of the crimson matter from his now unmarked skin. Unmarked, save for the lashes from a whip he'd taken on his back as a boy. Those scars received before he had been plagued with the preternatural curse never left his flesh; nor did the wretchedness of his twisted face disappear, his punishment since birth.

Christine he could not have, Lucy he did not want, and he must forever keep his distance from Montmarte. After tonight, it was clear that Christine was in peril from his kind. If they discovered her to be a slayer, that danger was amplified. Recalling her accusatory words to him, perhaps little Lucy was in danger as well. To protect all of them, himself included, he must locate the rogue vampyre who of late had created a wretched army of newly turned villagers – and put an end to the rebellion.

xXx

A/N: A little more of the mystery of Erik is cleared up…with a lot more to go. ;-) Hope you enjoyed this chapter!