A/N: Thank you so much for the many wonderful reviews – so happy my humble attempt at a paranormal PotO has generated such interest! :) You guys are the best… and now, what you came here for…

XVIII

The experiences between the small boutique in Berwickshire and the luxurious salon in Paris were as comparable as night and day, in that they could not begin to compare.

From the moment Christine stepped through the elegant, carved white door into the posh rose and gold chamber, with standing mirrors festooned near one velvet-draped corner she was treated like a queen, along with Meg. Both were escorted to plush chairs and given tea along with pastries while two young women modeled gowns for them. Any in which Christine expressed an interest, those preferences were jotted down by a clerk. Unaccustomed to such opulence and a need to decide – (when fitted for costumes at the opera, she had always been assigned what to wear, the choice never hers to make) – she was more than a little grateful for Meg's ready advice and tasteful suggestions. Christine could sing and she could dance, though not as well as some, including Meg. But a fashion hound, she was most assuredly not.

At last she decided on a lovely day dress in a soft butter yellow and moss-green muted plaid with thin, dark lines of deep sienna that would pick out the highlights in her dark brown hair, and thought that was to be the end of it. But the clerk told her she must pick a minimum of at least twelve dresses, including one ball gown, one evening gown, a variety of cloaks, shawls, and all new unmentionables.

Christine blinked. "Oh, but I really don't need that much. One spare dress is all I require, at the most, two."

"My dear," the clerk said, not unkindly, "You simply cannot be seen in Paris society in the same gown more than once, not for a woman of your standing. It could be regarded as a slight against your husband and his ability to provide for a new bride's needs; you would not want the Count to be thought of as a pauper. The gossip would not be favorable."

A pauper? Oh, really!

Christine wondered if any gossip could be considered favorable but felt the boutique owner was taking things to the extreme to think that Erik would be mocked or ridiculed because she chose to wear a dress more than one time.

"I don't think he would mind," she replied. "He doesn't favor societal functions."

"Be that as it may, the Count instructed you were to have a full wardrobe befitting of a Countess, with whatever choices you decide upon."

"He did?" Christine tried to cover her shock, not too successfully. "My husband was here?"

"Of course. He arranged that all your needs should be met and put me in charge of the task, to ensure all was accomplished to the letter. Would you like to view more day gowns, or would you prefer to choose from those already shown before we move on to the evening wear?"

They had spent at least an hour at the boutique already, and Christine hastily agreed to the latter, the prospect nearly too much to bear. She should have known when they provided luncheon that this would be quite the process! Once more, Meg gave helpful pointers, and Christine agreed to each one, the dresses selected as the young women of the salon modeled each. The evening gowns were so luxurious, Christine could barely draw breath at their intricacies of glamour. Hesitantly she chose one that appealed, a lush velvet the shade of dark crimson with a graceful gathering at the front that led to an elegant bustle at the back. With tiny, unseen buttons along the spine, it bore flounced sleeves that left the arms bare for the gloves that would be worn past the elbows, and Christine was encouraged when Meg heartily agreed how well it would complement her dark hair and fair skin. The clerk jotted her preference, the head clerk whispering something to her, and the one taking notes nodded and made another notation.

Twelve gowns of satin, velvet, brocaded silk, muslin, wool, and one heavily adorned with Brussels lace later, three cloaks were then selected: one ermine evening cloak to go with the crimson gown, one everyday cloak, and a fur-trimmed cloak of heavy material for the coldest of winters, along with two lighter shawls. Underthings of silk and lace were hurriedly added:, corsets, chemises, petticoats, stockings, drawers, bustles –as well as all the necessary accessories – a muff, gloves, handkerchiefs, and more.

Once the viewing and selection was complete Christine felt mentally exhausted by the time they took her measurements as she stood beyond a velvet drape in her underthings.

"Your figure is so slender! mes cieux! Such a long waist and lovely bosom," the head seamstress praised her attributes. "Well-proportioned to your form, but round and high enough to fill out the bodice. You will need no extra padding, save for the pillow for the bustle, of course, No one has a derriere so large. N'est-ce pas?" and she chuckled, causing Christine and Meg to share a grin in the looking glass. Her mischievous friend mouthed the words "La Carlotta", which caused Christine to shake with a few barely contained giggles, whereupon she was firmly chastised to stand still so as to be properly fitted. She closed her eyes to Meg's antics. She shouldn't laugh and be unkind, she really shouldn't…

Perhaps, if she had been unaccustomed to fittings and seamstresses ogling her features to ascertain what was needed for various costumes, Christine would be embarrassed pink by such frank talk and the poking and prodding going on beneath her neck; but such detailed interest was commonplace in her former line of work. As was the tale-bearing and the backbiting – and she really had no wish to harbor cruel thoughts toward anyone – even the pompous diva, who often called Christine a "trivial leettle ballet rat."

"Of course you must have hats to match, and shoes."

"Thank you, but my shoes are still quite serviceable."

The boutique owner raised a doubtful brow as she looked down at the simple, black button boots Christine had discarded in the corner for her fitting.

"You cannot possibly wear shoes of that sort with an evening gown, my lady," the woman said patiently. "You will need slippers to match. Or perhaps velvet boots. Monsieur Redmond and Madame Carpentier have come from their adjoining shoppes to serve you."

Christine stifled a groan, having grown weary with all that a selection for a wardrobe entailed and wondered if this was the usual manner of how these things were accomplished or if she received preferential treatment, due to the Count's orders. She glanced at Meg, who was at the height of enjoyment as she rested head and shoulders back against the padded chair and popped one of the tiny sandwiches into her mouth. She beamed at Christine.

"Yes, Christine, I quite agree. You must complete your wardrobe down to the last button and buckle and bit of lace to be worthy of a countess."

"Don't you need to return to the Opera House soon?" Christine hinted with a false smile and heavy suggestive tone.

"Oh, we still have time," Meg said with a cat-who-ate-the-canary grin, before popping another morsel into her mouth. "Maman doesn't expect me back until late this afternoon."

Traitor.

Christine narrowed her eyes Meg's way yet couldn't help but quietly chuckle. Despite the tiresome repetition of view and select, she was having a good time, feeling something like the princess of a fairytale who'd had a magic wand waved over her, to receive all that she desired. Meg rarely was the recipient of such a well-deserved rest, which she was taking delighted advantage of, and Christine could not begrudge her that.

Once she again donned her dress and took a seat beside her friend, a tall middle-aged woman and short, bespectacled gentleman were escorted inside. The elderly man, albeit politely, almost apologetically, took measurements of her stocking foot and hurried out the door, soon returning with his lackey who bore boxes of ready-made boots and slippers for her perusal. The woman showed her hat after festooned, be-ribboned hat, some of them gargantuan, others short and squat from the round boxes her assistants had carried and stacked nearby.

It was all so much, too much, but at last she and Meg returned to the carriage, utterly weary but satisfied. The driver carried several tied parcels of items to see Christine through the week, items the boutique owner had on hand and a day gown the needlewomen in a back room hastened to make fit while Christine had endeavored with her long list of selections. She let out a relieved breath as she gracelessly flopped onto the seat beside Meg.

"Oh, Meg – just think," she groaned. "That was only a winter wardrobe – what on earth will I do once spring arrives?"

Meg shook her head in disbelief and laughed. "It is so hard to feel even an ounce of sympathy, when any woman in Paris would gladly trade places with you! Strike that – there are many, like Cecile, who would push you down and jump right into your place. Mon Dieu, Christine, you have procured an entire costume room of clothing!"

Meg highly exaggerated, of course, but Christine wondered what the cost must have tallied – the striking evening gown alone was surely worth thousands upon thousands of francs! At first she grew somewhat apprehensive of the Count's displeasure at what he might and she certainly did consider excessive spending. Yet he had ordered this, actually had visited the clerk with his instructions.

Why then, if he did not wish to avoid the boutique as she'd first thought, had he chosen not to accompany her?

Recalling his frequent bouts of impatience and mercurial mood swings, Christine reasoned that it was probably for the best. She doubted the Count cel Tradat would have been able to bear even five minutes of a session that had stretched over five hours, and certainly could not picture such a scenario in her mind.

On the ride to the hotel, Meg took possession of Christine's hand, rhapsodizing poetic over the dual joined rings. Not bulky or ostentatious they were elaborate in an elegant and dignified sort of way. The token wasn't simply composed of gold and gemstones but personal, as if wearing a piece of the Count, himself. And though she once shared everything with Meg – even the secret of an Angel – Christine found herself withholding information of the hidden memento mori nestled between and beneath the top gemstones. A skeleton and a baby…how strangely macabre and yet, somehow, quite touching in a now-unto-eternity sort of way, and she shivered in remembered pleasure at the chill brush of his long, slender hand as he slipped the band onto her finger …

x

The ball of an orange sun made its descent over a bustling city when the driver let Christine off at the front of the Grand Hotel, Meg wishing to stay but groaning that she should return before her mother had a conniption over her tardiness – but not before she secured a promise from Christine to visit the Opera House before leaving Paris. Christine readily agreed, having every intention to meet with her dearest friend once more.

Feeling too weary to climb five flights of steps, she took the hydraulic passenger lift, what she'd heard one of the bellboys call 'the ascending chamber.' She felt a bit nervous as the uniformed lad stationed inside its compact walls closed the grilled gate with a greeting nod and bashful smile directed her way. She told him what floor she required, and the iron box began its upward battle of a climb, the walls shaking slightly and making a raucous noise like large, thin sheets of metal being shaken, as had been the case with Erik the previous evening. Her husband's reassurance, that it was little different than the pulleys and ropes used at the theatre for hoisting, had not truly registered with her exhausted state of mind - but now she wondered how the Count would even know of such things. How would he know what went on backstage at the opera?

With her feet once more safely secure on the carpeted corridor of the topmost floor, she opened the door to their suite, eager to speak with the Count and tell him of her day. She hoped he would be amenable to all the details.

The sitting room was as dark as she left it, and Christine hurriedly lit the gas lamps in their wall holders then hesitantly approached his door and knocked.

"My lord?...Erik?" she corrected, recalling his sharp directive to address him with familiarity, not that she minded though, even after more than a week of wedded union, it still came difficult to believe her changed set of circumstances.

Silence met her query.

In resigned disappointment she took a seat on the sofa and pondered her next course of action. Deciding to read until his return, she collected the odd journal and settled down to another macabre and fanciful visit into the mind of her deranged ancestor.

… Eyes of blood red glowing like a demon's scourge could be seen through the invasive mist that came from nowhere and settled like a shroud over the land…

A strong prickle of unease brought her eyes up from the faded text. She could almost feel as if she were again cowering, terrified, in the carriage, sitting alone and vulnerable, while wild beasts prowled without in the midst of a dark forest...

A knock rapped against the door, breaking the silence and causing her to give a little yelp as the journal tumbled from her hands. Her heart gave a painful thud against her ribcage as she nervously collected the book and moved to the door, twisting the handle – to admit the chambermaid, there to light the fire in the hearth for the evening.

Sometime later, seated before a low, crackling blaze, another knock came once she read two more pages into the journal. This time she looked on with curious puzzlement as a bellhop wheeled in a small covered cart upon which sat a silver dome over a platter.

"I think there must be some mistake," Christine said doubtfully. "I didn't order this."

"No, my lady. I was told to deliver it."

"By whom?"

"My manager."

"Oh. I see." Erik must have made the arrangements. She may not know anything about the role of a countess, but she had some idea of what was expected, having observed gentlemen tip messengers at the opera house. "I'm sorry. I have nothing to give you." She spread her empty hands wide in apology.

"That's quite alright, my lady. If there is nothing else you desire?"

"Thank you, no."

Once he left with a polite bow, she curiously lifted the silver dome, gasping with delight to see the meal that steamed beneath. The aroma of braised beef in red wine, with a side of steamed vegetables and what looked like potatoes au grautin made her taste buds come alive, but she noticed with a small twinge of disappointment that only one plate had been provided.

So, again the Count elected not to dine with her. Throughout their journey, he provided meals but never shared her company at one, with the excuse that he wasn't hungry or had eaten while she slept, or some other such claim that bore little credence. Certainly, he must eat; surely he could have waited. So she could only surmise that for whatever reason, he didn't wish to sit with her over a meal.

She chose not to allow the twinge of wounded dejection that accompanied his absence deter her from indulging in the feast before her. The hotel was luxurious, their chef could have cooked for kings – and she savored each bite, chewing slowly and hoping at some point the Count would make an appearance and take a seat across the table from her.

When there was still no sign of him more than an hour later, long after she finished her supper, she rang for a maid to bring water for the bath, stunned to learn the water came piped and rushing out into the wide claw-footed basin with the turn of a porcelain handle, the water heated in tanks upon the roof. She took careful note of the maid's short list of instructions, the bath designed so that servants need never tend it and the experience could be enjoyed in utter solitude – wonder of wonders...most decidedly a marked improvement over the wooden washtub at the opera house or the sheet-covered steel basin at Montmarte.

The maid provided additional towels and left with a polite nod. Christine found that one of the crystal-cut bottles contained a delightfully scented oil, a small amount of which she poured into the heated water.

She cast an anxious, curious glance toward the closed door, though no noise had heralded the Count's return, and hurriedly stripped down to nothing.

The water was heaven, and she closed her eyes, resting her head of pinned up curls against a rolled towel along the rim. Soaking up the scented steam, every taut and aching muscle of her body uncoiled and fully relaxed for the first time in days, in weeks, the memory of all trials she'd endured forgotten…

She felt immersed in a thick haze of drenched luxury… barely cognizant and part of this realm of existence …the music sweetly floating to her from the distance…

Her eyes flew open. The music! And at once, she recognized the skill of a master.

At the knowledge that her husband had at last returned, the film of languid ease dissipated like a gust of air to an evanescent bubble. Hurriedly she exited the tub, pulled the chain of the stopper that drained the water, and toweled dry, afterward unpinning her curls and pulling over her head the fresh bed gown that rippled in a brush of silk to her ankles. Hurriedly she slipped on the matching wrapper. With nary a thought of restraint to waylay her, Christine opened the door into the sitting room.

x

The moon-drenched sky provided a contrasting backdrop and dimly outlined in electric blue, as with the glimmer of lightning, the man who stood tall and faced the bay window, with its drapery hanging flush to each side. Shadows, deep and veiled, acted as his raiment; with fluid ease and natural grace he swept the bow against the strings of his violin, the evocative music streaming from his expert fingertips.

Christine stood immobile and breathless, having barely taken a step inside the room. She was reminded of the composer Tartini, who claimed to have been visited by the devil in a dream. The devil offered his tutelage and to be a servant for the price of his soul. Tartini then challenged him to play, whereby the devil commenced to exhibit his skill on the violin with a sonata of such brilliance to capture the musician's awe.

As she watched this mysterious man of shadows, who had likewise made a significant pact to become her instructor, his dark mastery and hidden depths she had yet to comprehend or explore, she could almost believe the dream to be real… moreso when from his hands Il trillo del diavolo, the Devil's Trill Sonata, came pouring into the room in melodious rapture that surely Tartini would proclaim as mesmerizing as his dream.

Christine gasped to so suddenly hear the sonata inspired by the vision and could almost believe some mystical connection existed between them that the Count could discern her unexpressed thought…though he had yet to acknowledge her presence in the room and perhaps did not even know she was there.

He continued to play as she clutched the door's lintel, unable to rely on her legs to support her. Minutes elapsed into escalating chords of dark splendor that brought her deep into their travels, when after a series of double stop trills, the music ceased. He brought his arms down to his sides, violin in one hand, bow clasped in the other.

"Do you intend to stand there all night?" he asked without turning.

Stunned that he had evidently known she was there, Christine only watched as he turned slowly to face her. The light of the moon glanced off his black mask for an instant before his face became shadow, and in its darkness golden eyes glowed.

"Please, take a seat if you so wish." He pointed with his bow toward the short sofa. She noticed then that red embers were all that remained of the hearth's fire. Other than the moonlight streaming in from the window, the room lay in darkness.

She did as suggested, grateful for the cushions that supported weary limbs, and tucking bare feet beneath her gown, turned her body to sit so that she could look at him over the back of the sofa.

"You play so beautifully," she said little above a whisper, as if the atmosphere had become hallowed. When he didn't reply, she tried again to engage him in conversation. "I missed you at supper."

"I trust that you did not wait for me?"

"I did. But I soon realized you weren't going to join me."

He offered neither apology nor reason for his absence.

"Perhaps tomorrow we might have supper together?" she softly broached the invitation.

He considered her a moment. "Tomorrow, we shall resume with your lessons."

Not a commitment to dine in her company, but at least it was a claim on her time. She had been surprised by just how much she had missed him, for having known the Count such a short few weeks and barely sharing more than a kiss…

At the memory of that day by the forest edge, her eyes lowered to the suggestion of the curve of his lower lip beneath the mask, and her lips tingled with the passionate memory. The recollection of his hands holding and touching her body, stroking her sensitive skin with their chill, brought a flush of warmth to flesh that was bare beneath the voluminous bed gown.

"How do you know Madame Giry?" she exhaled in a rush of words, to divert her mind from that day. "Meg told me you were there," she explained, when the resulting silence grew intolerable.

One slow nod of acknowledgement was all he offered. "I trust that your shopping excursion met with success..."

Christine let out a soft, exasperated breath. So, he had no intention of satisfying her curiosity, but at least he had not shelved all communication and sent her to her room as was customary when he had no desire to talk. She supposed she should be grateful for that small blessing.

"The experience was tiring but pleasant, as was the opportunity I had to visit with Meg. Thank you for making that possible." He inclined his head in another nod, and she went on. "This boutique owner also insisted on more selections than what I felt was necessary. For that, I am sorry."

"Must you always feel the need to apologize!" It was hardly a question, stated with impatience, and turning, he tensely strode to the window. "You require clothing. I am here to grant your need. Accept it." He again looked her way. "You should be outfitted with the best, befitting a countess, and nothing less."

Christine had no idea when and where she would wear the many splendid gowns and said somewhat doubtfully, "Yes, well, I hope you will still approve when you receive the bill."

"Is that an addition to the accouterments of what to expect?"

His tone deepened to rich velvet, warm and totally unexpected, the shock absolute when, save for their short intimacy aboard the ferry, she received only cool, aloof distance from him.

In the shadowed darkness, his golden eyes seemed to melt her in their fire, dropping lower, as if the scrolled backrest that hid most of her from his keen observation did not exist. A silk nightgown of pale ivory with lace-edged neckline and pearl-button cuffs was what he alluded to, what at the time Christine thought an unnecessary extravagance when she could just as easily sleep in her chemise as she'd done all her adult life. With the manner in which his eyes now devoured her, even though his renewed interest did unnerve her, she knew that the purchase had not been a mistake.

"Yes," she responded, a shy waver to her voice. "The boutique owner sent a few things with me. The rest of my wardrobe should arrive in a week."

He nodded, unsurprised. But then, he had been there, ahead of her, and perhaps had already been informed...

"I missed you today," she blurted and wished she could retrieve her words when he abruptly turned aside. She forced down the twinge of hurt this caused. "It is only that – I'm not accustomed to spending more than a few hours of time by myself, and cannot even remember the last time I ate alone, before knowing you. Even at Montmarte, I was expected to join the family for meals."

He took his time carefully setting violin and bow atop the piano then took a seat on its bench, facing her.

"I presume you spent a great deal of time with that boy while you were at Montmarte."

That boy…

"Raoul?"

At his curt nod, she wondered if his sudden clipped tone could be construed as... jealousy? But no, that was absurd, and she mentally chided herself for entertaining the small vanity that he would care in the slightest about whatever beau she formerly entertained. She almost told him she'd never had a beau and certainly could never regard her cousin as one, but she refrained. It was rather nice to have his full and undivided attention, like in the first weeks of their association.

"Living under the same roof, we did speak to one another every day." She lightly shrugged. At his deepening frown, she added, "We've been friends since childhood, though it's been years since I've seen him – and I only just met Lucy this fall." She shifted so that she sat up a little straighter. "May I now ask a question?"

"It seems you have had no end to them since first we met. Why ask permission now?"

The thread of amusement in his voice encouraged her and she smiled.

"Meg mentioned that she thinks the Opera House has gained a new patron. Is that you?"

He hesitated with what to say though thankfully did not change the subject yet again.

"I have long held an interest in the arts, as you have come to know. To give financial aid to the establishment that helped to shape my wife's career in the theatre seems a worthy endeavor. Do you disagree?"

To hear him speak of her as his wife made her blood tingle with warmth. "No. I was only surprised."

"I must confess, I was not overly impressed with the reigning diva," he admitted, "and considered withdrawing my patronage then and there."

Her smile grew. "Few are - in the theatre at any rate; she does appear to draw the public. La Carlotta came to sing at the Opera House when I was twelve and has been with them ever since."

"You spent all your years there?" he asked softly.

"For the most part. Holidays and Sundays I spent with a guardian my parents had arranged for me…should, should anything happen to them. As it did." She blinked away the sudden moisture that welled to her eyes and distorted her vision.

"You never told me how they died..."

His words were low and gentle, a coveted reassurance to confide, and readily she did.

"An accident, I was told. Their carriage went over the side of a cliff. That's all I know."

"You were very young then, when it happened."

"I was six. Old enough to remember them, though the years have muddied what memories I have. They died a few months after I almost drowned at sea." She sighed. "After leaving the cemetery, Madame Giry took me to train as a student, and I lived in the ballet dormitories from that time until I left for Montmarte, also visiting Mama Valerius, until she died this spring…. When I was a child and newly orphaned, I called myself Lotte for a time, because I wanted to be anyone other than who I was – a made-up person, like the characters who lived in fairytales with happily ever after. I wanted to pretend. I wanted to forget…"

She despised the insecurity that crept into her voice, and closed her eyes against it.

"I promise you, Christine, I will never abandon you."

His quiet words held a tremor of emotion she couldn't name but helped to soothe away the unspoken fear that continually haunted – to be left all alone in the world – and she buried deep any lingering apprehension that stemmed from a marriage vow with a termination of one year.

"Will you play for me?"

xXx

Erik never took his eyes from Christine as he granted her soft-spoken request.

She smiled so sweetly, her expression grateful, as she settled down to lay within moonlight's soft blanket. An illuminated angel in repose. The gown's inherent shimmer failed to surpass the lustrous sheen of her face, her throat, the delicate structure of her collarbone...the faint shadow of her cleavage a mere suggestion in the washed-white brilliance of the celestial glow to her skin. As she lay with eyes closed, her dark lashes feathered upon pale cheeks, his eyes feasted upon her beauty, never wishing to stray from the serene picture she made.

He should not allow such scrutiny but could not seem to prevent himself from meeting the need he struggled with daily: to look, to watch, to memorize...if never again to touch…

Upon his return to the suite, before he engaged in the devilish sonata of Tartini, he had spotted her journal on the floor near the sofa. He had suffered no remorse to delve within its yellowed pages, for on the train, she had begun the deception, her eyes twin betrayers to her words. And he had been right to suspect her from concealing the truth. Grimly and with haste he had scanned the spidery script of faded brown ink.

Thanks to a wretched ancestor, she had been apprised of her destiny to hunt out and destroy his kind, now aware that such monsters existed. The journal provided, no doubt, by the irksome boy at Montmarte who disrupted his plans with every breath. The Count's scowl had deepened as he read such pathetic accounts, at its end ready to throw the telltale book into what remained of the fire. With stalwart resolve, he had dropped it back to the floor where she left it, giving no heed to the fragility of such an ancient text - (why had it not disintegrated into crumbling ash decades ago?) - and picked up his violin, pouring out his angry frustration into difficult sonatas with intricate techniques. Though after a hundred years' practice, The Devil's Trill had passed with supreme ease through his fingertips and in guiding the bow.

He had played the sonata for her through the chapel wall, so long ago, when he told her the story of how it evolved. Any other child of such tender years might have been bored or not understood, but Christine, then Lotte, had always shown an intelligence that surpassed her peers. She was exquisite, in mind and form, and deserved so much more than a scarred monster for a husband; she deserved a normal life with a normal man.

But any hope of normality had long been stolen from her before he swept into her path, with the first Van Helsing to challenge the Voivode of Wallachia. Her ancestor's curse had destined her to be eternally different from all other mortals, as he was also different. Each of them from two extremes – she, belonging to the daylight, as the mark of the sun that branded her flesh testified; he, as a prince that ruled the darkness – but neither of them fitting into the simple caste of ordinary mankind, no matter how they would wish it.

And that made her nearly as cursed as he...nearly.

Perhaps it was fortunate that she had come to recognize her destiny. It would put her on her guard against those who might, even now, seek her death... would always seek her death...

Though they would have to come through him to attempt it!

She stirred in her slumber, her actions fretful, her delicate brows pulling together in distress. He glided the bow over the strings into a gentler melody, to ease her journey through dreamscape, but her apprehension did not dissolve.

"Angel!" she cried out as her eyes flew open in terror. She gasped in desperately, gulping for each shattered breath, and shot to sit halfway up, clutching the back of the sofa like a lifeline as if pulling herself out of a bog. Though her breathing settled as she became more aware, he could not refrain from moving around the sofa to crouch down before her. His hand lifted to touch her shoulder.

"Christine…"

She twisted to face him, her small hands grasping his arm and his wrist in desperation. In her eyes he glimpsed the shadow of the child he'd once known, the same fear he then glimpsed now clouding their midnight-dark orbs.

"I was in the chapel," she whimpered, still in the obvious throes of a nightmare. "I heard my angel call out to me, but I couldn't find him. Everywhere I went, I came across the devil, laughing at me and calling me his. I ran into a room filled with water. I fell in and was drowning, and I cried because I knew he was right – he'd caught me, and I was his…"

His hands moved to gently cup her head, his long fingers embedded in her soft messy curls, his thumbs brushing the delicate bones of her cheeks beneath anxious eyes.

"There is nothing to fear, Christine. Listen to me, it was no more than a dream, likely brought on by the sonata I played earlier; I saw the recognition of it in your eyes. And I regret giving you a moment's distress. Do not doubt that I will fight every demon that confronts you, to keep you safe. Do you believe me?"

Her lips trembled as she gave a slight, trusting nod, and he wanted nothing more than to taste of their sweetness, to cover her in a thousand kisses until she forgot every wisp of darkness that ever threatened.

What irony! – when he was the chief reason such darkness existed.

Her breath warmed his flesh, causing him to realize how near to her he'd drawn. Rather than taunt temptation, he swiftly brought his lips to her brow, pressing and holding them against the slight wrinkles of worry still creased there. His skin was perpetually chilled, but hers was much too warm, a singe to his cold, dead lips.

"You are flushed," he said in concern, drawing back. "Do you feel ill?"

"A little woozy. I think, because of the dream."

He frowned. He was impervious to the cold, but she was not, and the clothing she had come to him in was wretchedly deficient against the rain and wind that had preceded them into Paris. "I would not wish you to become ill. You must go to bed and try to rest."

Before he could fully withdraw from her, she grabbed his hand.

"Would you hold me? Please? Only until I feel a bit calmer. I wouldn't ask, only...I don't think I can go into that strange, dark room alone right now."

A far cry from the courageous crusader who braved a dark and dangerous forest to seek out his aid, and he realized just how much the dream must have unsettled her. She had been born a slayer, predestined to kill, but she was also a young, vulnerable woman, at times in need of comfort. His comfort. And as her husband, it was his place to provide all of what she needed, though he should not agree to this...

To accept such an invitation in the intimacy of private quarters under the cover of night was reckless and foolhardy. But whenever she reached out to him, he found he could not deny her... especially not now, when she looked up at him with her dark eyes so anxious and pleading.

Slowly he moved to sit on the cushion where she pulled her legs away to make room for him. Tentatively she shifted to rest against him, as though afraid he might order her away. Just as hesitant, he moved his arm around her, barely allowing sleeve and fingers to submit to touch, all the while trying not to notice how each soft curve pressed against his side with only thin silk to act as a barrier. He inhaled a trembling breath and felt her shiver.

"You're always so cold," she murmured against his lapel.

His muscles stiffened at the reminder of his curse. "Forgive me. I meant to cause no discomfort."

Hurriedly he pulled his arm from her, but before he could make his absence more permanent, she brought her own arm lightly to rest across his middle. "It's no discomfort."

His eyes fell shut at the jolt of bliss that shot through his veins to hear her quiet admission, to have her so willingly press close to him, accepting him as he was, even as the hopelessness of their situation sharpened his rationale.

This was...impossible. To allow such intimacy...inconceivable...

And still, he remained.

In the moon-drenched darkness, Erik hummed to her softly as he had on the ferry, with his cheek against her soft curls. Soon, her breathing grew even and he knew she again slept. With care, he withdrew his light hold from around her slender form, shifting her to lay against the cushions, not daring to trust himself to put his hands on her nearly naked body and carry her off to her bed. Not when the warmth of her was so addicting, so essential. Not when the need to become one with her and exult inside her warmth had never dissipated throughout these long, unendurable days and weeks but only increased with the passage of each new dawn.

And now...now, she was his wife, the devil within taunted, as the desire for her became difficult to surmount. In the eyes of the world and the law by which these mortals lived, she belonged to him alone. He could take her, as was his right. Within the shield of darkness, she need never know of the two most wicked afflictions that plagued him. A week in her constant presence, and she had not once guessed his true nature despite the illumination of the foul journal - her skills still green, perhaps not wholly discovered or pronounced enough to detect the truth of his ruin; while he had undergone centuries of practice to conceal and control...It could work...to make Christine fully his in the flesh, curbing any impulse to sink his fangs into her and keeping them well hidden...

But no! He had made her a promise, his blackened conscience dictated, and by that promise, he must abide.

Retrieving his cloak from a chair, Erik resolutely covered her neck to foot in plum satin and brushed wool, allowing one stroke of an errant curl from her eyes, before straightening to stand.

"My angelic Countess," he whispered, looking down at her, sleeping so sweetly, so trusting. "How can I tell you it is all true? That I am the monster you were warned to hunt out, to kill…That I am the devil you run from in your darkest of dreams, who once masqueraded as an angel to deceive you… I cannot. Forgive me. I am selfish, in that I cannot let you go. And in that knowledge, I damn us both."

One vile secret closely followed the next, like a wicked line of dominoes, each more damning than the last. And when one fell, the rest were sure to topple and corrupt, if not destroy …He was a scarred, disfigured freak; he was a demonic monster who fed on life blood…

And he was her erstwhile Angel of Music whom she had never forgotten.

The Count's eyes fell shut in the wretchedness of his despair. He should never have re-entered her life. Once he recognized that she was both his enemy and his angel, he should have left her alone and watched over her from afar, ensuring that no harm would come to her. He could have manipulated her great uncle into forgetfulness of the marriage pact arranged with the old lecher, had he truly wanted to. But some strain of yearning humanity that still existed within his dark, barren soul wanted a living bride…

Wanted his Christine.

xXx

A/N: Slowly, slowly….it's all coming to a head. With him. With her. And coming up next, one of the many secrets explodes into the light…which one, you ask? You'll have to wait and see to find out... ;-)