A/N: Thank you so much for your wonderful reviews! :) – they really encouraged me. Just a reminder – I have borrowed a bit from all vampire tales ever watched to form the 'have and have nots' for my story, (including Vampire Diaries; The Originals; Kindred: The Embraced; all Dracula movies & TV show; Port Charles; Buffy, the Vampire Slayer; Dark Shadows; Blood Ties; True Blood; Moonlight; Being Human; Forever Knight – and the list goes on) – though I'm doing my own thing too… Also, though in my research I found that the term "vampyre" nowadays means the mortal vampire wannabes - not the supernatural vampire - I really prefer the Old English archaic spelling, and since this is a historical, am going back to that (I will change all previous chapters to that spelling soon). :) For those who know the difference in the spellings of the word, just note that Erik is the supernatural real deal and not a "mortal" vampyre (though I guess with his age of 400+ years, that might be pretty obvious, huh? lol). ;-)

And now…

Part II – Bond

XXIV

.

The soft particles of snow turned to icy drizzle by the time the Count forced himself to leave the comfort of his wife's arms, dress, and silently make his way into the dark underbelly of Paris. The warmth she instilled to his body had faded, as he presumed it must, the cold no stranger to him, but still he did not relish walking within its damp curtain.

Here, within a maze of narrow alleys and close buildings, the scourge of the city lived and worked and breathed. Here, members of the echelon of upper society would visit in the dead of night, secretly to indulge in their perverse appetites. And here, he had learned through his covert investigation, was where he would find Nicolae.

Nicolae…the first of three elaborate mistakes made in a rare attempt to extend the hand of mercy, though the compassion of mercy rarely had been Erik's to receive.

And never would he make the mistake of being merciful toward that despicable fiend again...

He had been new to his role as a prince of the darkness, not yet knowledgeable with regard to the extent of power that was his to wield, having no one to teach him. At dusk, he had come upon a man, not much younger than he, leg broken and lying at the bottom of a ravine. A stranger to Erik, one of many who littered the field after battle, only later would he learn his name…which would become to him a blight in his existence.

Absent of the necessity to feed, having glutted his veins on the blood of the wounded for whom all hope was lost, Erik approached without evil intent and with rare empathy. But when he knelt to give into the hoarse plea for water from the canteen of leather lying near, the man had seized his arm and plunged his dagger to the hilt, just missing Erik's cold, dead heart... A dagger with a blade not crafted of silver.

Pain had lanced through his chest like the brand of fire, but to his surprise as well as his attacker's, Erik had not fallen. Nor had he even staggered, instead taking the hilt and slowly pulling the bloodied blade from its intended mortal wound. With a wide, horrified stare, his attacker had watched as the crimson slit of skin immediately began to close, and he looked up into Erik's eyes of flame that burned down at him through the mask.

"You are one of them," the fiend had uttered in shock. "Like my father!"

The fool then brought his hand wet with Erik's blood to his mouth and desperately sucked at the dark crimson matter as if he, himself, had been plagued with the curse of the vampyre, rapidly cleaning his hand of the stain. Certain the fool must be mad and disgusted to have wasted his time with him, Erik promptly brought his gloved hands to the idiot's skull and with a swift snap of the neck, put an end to his wretched life.

Had he only known then that life anew originated from the blood, an irony to one dead –

Had he only known then the vile identity of the fiend to whom he had foolishly tried to lend aid –

He would have left him to die an eventual death, as all mortals must one day face.

Now he chased him through the darkness of the city to protect the life of the only mortal who mattered to him. The only mortal for whom he would put his own life at risk, no matter that her kind's solitary goal was to destroy him….

No matter that she, herself, might one day wield the blade of silver against him that she carried, if she was to learn the truth of what he was.

His Mortal Angel… For her, he would bend or break the ancient rules of the secret order if he must, to keep Christine safe...

The Count had exchanged his white mask for the black, better to blend into the night. Becoming as a shadow among the shadows he ruled, he darted through narrow alleys, paying no heed to the strumpet who called out to him as he passed by her open window, nor to those who coaxed potential customers through lamp-lit doorways, away from the drizzle that fell.

He ignored the raucous noise that tried to pass itself off as music from some of the more sordid establishments he strode past - and from beneath the wide brim of his fedora, eyed those seedy men who approached with nefarious intent, silently daring them to try and rob him. At last he arrived at the haunt the bar maid told him that Nicolae frequented late at night.

The Count slipped inside the door, immediately scanning the dimly lit premises. Men sat at tables, many of them deep into their cups, a few with ladies of the establishment on their laps or hovering near. Smoke from fine cigars and tobacco pipes clouded the area but did not hinder his sharp vision. Along one wall, a bartender stood busy, filling a row of glasses with wine. And on a small center stage, a bevy of young women clad in heavy face paint and sparse costume danced a burlesque to the questionable talents of the pianist who accompanied them, spurring the cheers and hoots of the crowd who watched.

Before anyone could break from their riveted attention to catch sight of him, Erik swiftly made his way to the back of the building, beyond the stage, having not sighted his prey among the clientele. A dimly lit corridor took him past an open door and a few dancers who were in various stages of undress, but he saw no sign of Nicolae. He almost made it to the end of the passage and a door there, when he heard his name –

"Count cel Tradat."

He turned to see one of the dancers approach. Taking a look into her glassy eyes, their pupils dilated, along with her lack of expression, he could see that she had been compelled. Warily he waited for what she would say.

"Nicolae wants you to meet him at the café-chantant on the Champs-Élysées. He is waiting for you…"

Vexed that Nicolae knew Erik was hunting him and had expected him all along – perhaps the bar maid a cohort to the fiend – he snapped, "Is that all the message you have for me?"

"He said you best come quickly if you don't want to lose all you think you have gained." She blinked suddenly, coming out from under the compulsion now that the message was delivered, and eyed him, clearly at a loss.

"Oh, hello love…" She smiled in invitation. "Did you come t' see me?"

Erik turned swiftly on his heel and exited the establishment through the back door, again covering the dark streets on foot, again arriving to a cabaret to find a woman compelled with yet another cryptic message that Nicolae could not wait, chiding Erik that he was taking too long, and to meet him at yet another cabaret, Mouton Blanc, in another part of the city.

Incensed with the detestable cat and mouse game and on his guard that his adversary was aware of the chase Erik now wished only to end, he decided as he arrived to the next musical establishment that this would be the last. He had neither the time nor the patience to endure a carousel of futile hunts through a labyrinth of cabarets in the entire damned city! Grimly, he scanned the area of merrymakers for Nicolae's face, doubting he would find his snide grin among them.

A third time he was approached backstage by yet another young costumed dancer asking if he was the Count cel Tradat, her eyes also glassy and dilated. Ready to surrender his fruitless search and return to the hotel, later to devise a new plan to find the rogue vampyre, Erik turned away without answering.

Her hand to his sleeve stopped him.

"I know you are the Count," she said in a dead monotone. "You wear a mask."

Steadily she lifted her arm from her side and cut her wrist with a knife she had concealed, which then clattered to the floor. The blood streamed fast from the severed vein with each pump of her heart and ran in rivulets to her elbow as she lifted her hand up to him.

"You must be thirsty."

Erik's fangs snapped down from his gums the moment the blade sliced through skin, his eyes clouding into a haze of red, the vile disposition to feed strong after he had so nearly given into the beast's thirst for Christine. He had not fed in days, a mistake. One he would never make again… But in this woman's blood he picked up the faint scent of Verbena Officinalis, the herb of the cross that was purported to cleanse Christ's wounds…the same herb that if ingested made a vampyre intensely weak, even violently ill…

Damn Nicolae to the furthest reaches of hell!

Resisting the powerful impulse to drink, he tore off his glove and grabbed Nicolae's victim by the hand. Tearing into the flesh of his own hand with his fangs, Erik then squeezed his fingers in a tight fist, dripping his blood over her torn wrist, the edges of skin instantly closing together.

"Where is Nicolae?" he demanded, grabbing and giving her shoulders a harsh shake. "Tell me, damn you!"

Still under the dark power of the compulsion, she stared through him, unseeing. "You are to go to The Grand Hotel. Suite 502. He said to tell you that Christine would soon be his pet to control."

A violent wind blew through the corridor as the dancer suddenly came to and blinked in confusion to find herself alone, her arm liberally stained with wet blood that came from no source and with no memory of how it had gotten there.

xXx

Christine roused from a deep sleep into gradual layers of awareness that coaxed her into embracing the new dawn. As her mind stirred to memory, she smiled to realize it was exactly that. A new dawn. They had reached a turning point at long last…

She stretched within the cool sheets before opening her eyes to darkness. A darkness that was no longer absolute, dim yellow light streaming onto the bedding from behind, and she turned over to see that the chamber door had been left wide open, a lamp lit in the distance there to provide a reassuring glow.

She lay au naturel and pleasantly drowsy, a dull ache never before felt in the place that made her a woman, and she blushed profusely to recall the darkest hours of the evening, a shy and satisfied smile coming to her lips. It faded to realize her bridegroom was nowhere in sight.

Her bridegroom…

At last it felt real to think those words, to acknowledge him as 'husband', and her heart gave an eager beat in her desire to see him, wondering where he could have gone. There was no music to greet her and she didn't think he would have left the comforts of this bed to visit the next room and sit alone.

Or would he…

She recalled his keen amazement to experience physical warmth and doubted he would so readily exchange such bliss for a cold and empty shell of a room. And yet, there was still so much about her Count that she didn't know.

It astonished her that less than a fortnight ago, she had planned her escape from Berwickshire, resigned never to see his masked face again. Now the shire was her home as well, or any place that he wished to lay down roots, and the days and nights hers to learn all about Erik she wished to know. All that he would allow, and she hoped as time went on and they learned more about each other, he would extend those boundaries…

She frowned slightly to recall his disheartening words that he would not hold her to their vow at year's end, but concern had led to relief when he then promised never again to leave her…She had guessed correctly; last night has proven it: his oath stemmed from a desire to please, not from a preference to let her go.

He could be dogged in his views and demands, often distant and cloaked in his mystique, even at times unpleasant in his mood, which could swing rapidly from genial to forbidding – but each day there were hidden depths she glimpsed that intrigued her…his voice so rich, his song so glorious…his chill touch that made her forget the darkness and all else existed in her desperate need to be his…

How could she not want to be with him?! No, she could not conceive a time would ever arise when she would choose to walk away from the Count and all he had become to her. Such a time simply did not exist.

Christine shifted so that she reclined on her back, propped up by pillows, and glanced toward the draped window swathed in thick folds of black velvet with not one chink of outside light showing; whether it be the moon or the sun barricaded without, she couldn't tell. Perhaps if it was still night, he would soon return to bed and join her…

Her attention traveled the room, landing at the foot of the bed and the heavy armoire against the wall, near which hung a family crest she was startled to recognize.

These were his rooms – not rented for their stay but owned by the Count.

She failed to understand why that should even surprise her. The grand piano certainly pointed toward that fact – she doubted many, if any of the guest chambers contained musical instruments – and he owned his own rail car for heaven's sake. But more than that, her unasked question of the Angel of Music appeared now to be answered.

This must have been where he once lived when he adopted the role and visited the forgotten corridor to teach her…

Hearing the outside door open and just as swiftly close, Christine clutched the coverlet to her breasts and sat up from the pillows with nervous expectation.

The shadow of a cloaked man suddenly loomed in the doorway, the light behind making it impossible to see his face. He exhaled a long, heavy breath….

"Erik?" she asked, barely more than a whisper.

"Get dressed. We must leave Paris at once. Leave everything behind. Take only what you can carry. There is no time to pack."

She forgot to be embarrassed about her nakedness at the hint of repressed alarm in his voice, though she heard relief there as well.

"But my wardrobe hasn't yet arrived." Flustered in the face of his alarming words spoken with such calm, she spoke the first thing that came to mind, the reason for them coming to Paris in the first place.

"I will arrange for the remainder of your clothing to be sent to Berwickshire."

"Erik, what's wrong? Why must we go?"

"We haven't time to speak of this now. Hurry, Christine!"

At a loss, but resigned that any questions would have to wait – more than that, grateful to note whatever conflict had arisen he did not appear harmed – she held the coverlet to herself, struggling as she awkwardly scooted to the edge of the bed. He disappeared, soon reappearing with her wrapper, which he tossed to her lap.

"Take time to do no more than dress," he softly ordered. "Should a knock come to the door, do not answer. Understand, Christine – do not answer. Remain in these rooms. I will return for you shortly."

With that, the Count was gone, and she hurried to dress for their departure, slipping the wrapper around herself as she hastened to her bedchamber. The panic he had tried in vain not to express spurred her every movement, and she forced her mind to think on the preliminaries of what must be done – retrieve fresh undergarments, petticoats, wool stockings, locate new day dress, boots and buttonhook - and she pushed away the nameless dread of what might occur. Yet the question of why was ever prevalent in her thoughts.

Once dressed, she grabbed the jeweled necklace Erik had given her and slipped it into her beaded reticule she used the evening before. The dagger, she hilted and strapped to her stocking-thigh beneath her skirts with a wide length of sturdy velvet ribbon. As she finished tying the knot, the door to their suite opened, and startled, she turned her head to look.

Erik hurriedly strode inside and shut the door behind him. His focus immediately settled on the length of her exposed leg, her booted foot propped against the edge of the piano bench. Tension sizzled between them, an awareness newly discovered rebellious to the unknown danger, before he tore his attention away and moved to collect his violin and bow, setting both inside their wooden case.

Christine dropped her skirts, where they again fell to her ankles, and hurried to slip on her cloak and fasten it. She sensed him come up behind, surprised to feel the ermine cape intended for formal evening wear slip around her shoulders, above the cloak she had just donned, and turned to him in question as he fastened its clasp.

"The cloak you wore to travel here is insufficient to protect you from the inclement weather soon to come. I have sent a messenger to Madame Giry with instructions. She will see to it that the rest of our belongings are packed in trunks and sent to Berwickshire." He brought the woolen hood of her regular cloak up over her head of messy curls and gathered its edges beneath her chin. "Now come, my dear. The train will be leaving soon."

Erik picked up his violin case from the wall table where he'd set it and grasped her by the arm above her elbow, his fingers firm but not bruising. He guided her from the hotel into an icy drizzle and the subtle grey light that came before dawn. They went directly to a carriage that waited at the bottom of the stairs.

Once en route to the train depot, Christine on the seat opposite him, she studied his face, dissatisfied that the black mask he again chose to wear shielded most of his expression. Questions collided against one another in their need to be aired.

"Erik, what –"

She got no further.

"I have many enemies, Christine, and one fool in particular has vowed to take from me all that I possess."

She tightened her gloved hands in her skirts. "You received word that the castle is in danger then?"

"The castle," he repeated softly, staring at her in disbelief. "A pile of mortar and stones can be replaced. It is not the castle for which I am concerned."

"Are you in danger?"

The Count struggled with how much to tell her, noting her dark eyes wide and fixed, and the manner in which she worried the thumbs of her clasped hands.

They should never have remained in Paris once Nicolae emerged from whatever foul domicile he'd kept himself hidden within this past decade. For himself, Erik did not fear. The fiend knew that to terminate his unnatural existence would be to finish his own pathetic life; his desire was to destroy Erik, as he lived, not put an end to his immortality. But if Nicolae should learn that Christine was a slayer, there would be no hope for her. His kind would flock in droves for the first taste of her blood. For her, there could be only death…

And he could not bear the thought of a world without Christine in it.

As it stood, Nicolae thought only that Christine was Erik's pet human, a dangerous misassumption but not one that could lead to her demise; and the fiend had investigated to learn her name which was just as unnerving.

The instant Erik heard the dancer's words that seared fear into his dark soul, he had employed the unnatural speed of the vampyre and raced from the opposite end of Paris to the hotel, a shadowed blur in the dark night, no more than a brisk gust of wind all that could be observed by anyone in the vicinity. It had drained him of necessary energy he would need to feed to replenish, but he did not stop until the lights of the hotel could be seen. Only then did he slow to a mortal run, faster than that of most men but garnering reactions of shock from those in the lobby who turned to watch him lope up the winding stairs –

Yet unwanted attention had been the least of his concerns.

The hotel was a public building, one of his kind needed no invitation to enter, and he feared what he would find on the top floor. Bypassing suite 502, he raced for his own rooms, his relief palpable to find a drowsy Christine newly awakened in his bed and not having been tricked into the outside corridor.

Once he gave the order for her to dress and remain in the suite of rooms owned by him, a border of possession no lesser vampyre could breach, he wasted no time in silently entering the locked room next door, ready to rip out Nicolae's vile throat ... only to find the chamber gallingly empty. Nicolae either having already left or never having been there, the location yet another dead end in his damnable game.

As the closed carriage rolled down the street, Erik barely suppressed a growl, his irritation directed to the unending hours of frustration and panic and not toward his silent wife, who watched him with clear concern. He needed to feed, to replenish what was lost, the weakness beginning to make his hands tremble, but he did not dare leave her side to locate what was required. An entire fortnight he could go without fresh blood before his body began to wither into a corpse-like state, and this was the third day. Yet without the supernatural energy on which he relied, much of it expended in his mad dash across the city, that time was shortened by half.

"Christine, you have nothing to fear," he said grimly. "I will do whatever I must to keep you safe. Always."

She nodded and turned to look out the dust-flecked window. Not a direct answer to the question she had posed but in keeping with his nature, and by the hard set to his jaw, all the answer Christine would receive.

Once they arrived at the station, Erik took her by the hand and hurried with her to his private car. She found it quite fortunate that it lay in wait for him, to her knowledge he hadn't had time to make preparations, but kept such thoughts to herself.

He kept his head down, his wide-brimmed fedora shielding his face as they hurried past other passengers, with his cloak whipping about his legs as he strode the length of the train, pulling Christine along behind him. The dawn had come shortly after their swift exodus from the hotel, the drizzle dissipated and the morning sun now beating down upon their heads and into their eyes, any traces of snow from the previous evening puddles beneath their feet.

Erik released her hand to take the few steps up to his car and push open the door then turned to give her assistance. He swayed on his feet suddenly, the gloved hand that had moved to reach for her sweeping back to grab the edge of the car.

"Erik!"

"I …need to…"

He did not finish the sentence but ducked inside. Terribly worried, Christine lifted her skirts and grabbed the handrail, hurrying in after him. He had sunk to his chair, his long legs splayed out before him, his fingers gripping the armrests. Before she could speak, he lifted a hand to stop her.

"I am merely winded," he forestalled her question. "It was a long night."

Not sure that she believed him, she went to kneel beside his chair and laid her hand over his glove, dismayed to note the chill had returned. With their frenzied departure from the hotel, she had not realized it until now.

"Are you certain you're alright?"

The lines at the corners of his mouth attested to his weariness though his golden eyes still glowed with power, the look in them gentle as they studied her face.

"It seems, perhaps, after the evening we shared I should inquire the same of you."

She felt the bloom of warmth color her face. He had been quite fervent in his passion, she still felt the trace of an ache within, but he had made the evening into all she could have desired.

"I have no regrets."

At the familiar words, his lips turned up in a twist, almost a smile. "Let us hope that does not change…"

At a sudden loud thump from behind the carved set of mahogany doors at the other end of the car, Erik stood so fast Christine was knocked slightly off balance. She blinked to see him rush in that direction, swifter than she'd ever seen him move. To her shock, her own hand had flicked back her skirts and grabbed the dagger without her being aware, until suddenly she felt the smooth ivory of its hilt in her hand.

Her pulse raced and their eyes met before he swung open both doors.

A bundle of arms and legs tumbled out and hit the cabin floor in the form of a scrawny boy. The intruder awkwardly scrambled to his feet and faced Erik. Her husband marginally relaxed his menacing stance, though he did not look at all pleased to see the lad, his mouth beneath the mask pulled down into a frown. At a glance, Christine noticed the area from which the boy had fallen contained no more than a long bed on a thick shelf, no more than a mattress really, closed up in a hutch.

"Archer, what the devil…"

"Sire! I didn't know you was here…"

As if suddenly aware of her presence, both man and boy turned their heads to look at Christine, where she had just risen to stand to her feet. Erik's lingering scowl seemed wary, the boy's expression curious. She sensed her husband had much more he intended to say to the lad but forced awkward silence because he had no wish for her to overhear, not that she had anywhere to go to give them privacy. Was this, then, one of his secrets? The boy certainly didn't look dangerous enough to be the unknown nemesis…

Recognition taunted the fringes of Christine's mind, and she suddenly realized where she'd last seen him.

"You are the boy who was in the alley!"

Gone were the scruffy clothes and dirty face, and in their place he looked almost clean, with new trousers and shirt, but his widespread ears and gamin grin gave his identity away.

"G'day, mistress. You sure gave Nicolae what for –"

"Archer is coming to work at the castle," Erik swiftly and smoothly put in. "He will be traveling with us." His tone made clear his irritation. "You must be weary," he told the boy, an edge to his voice, "Do not let us disrupt your slumber."

"Oh…er, aye. Thank you, sire."

Sire? It was the second time the boy addressed Erik as such, and he glanced Christine's way as if catching onto her wide-eyed curiosity.

"The boy is not knowledgeable on the matter of proper titles." He cast his scowl upon Archer a second time. "Well? Go on then."

The boy hastened to obey and climbed back inside the small, dark space. Erik hurriedly closed the doors after him. He hesitated momentarily before turning to look at Christine. She only stood and stared, uncertain what to begin to say into the resulting silence.

"I suggest you take a seat and settle in, my dear," he said at last. "The train will soon depart."

He took his own advice, grabbing a book that sat on a nearby table on his way to his chair. He took a seat, seeming almost himself again. Christine stared, watching as he thumbed through a few pages with gloved fingers and settled back for a long read, as if this day thus far experienced was quite normal and not utterly bizarre.

She sensed his sudden interest in the written word a ploy to prevent the dozen or so questions that burned on her lips. Yet he need not have worried. With no more than a thin door to shield private discussion from unexpected company, she felt she had no choice but to keep her curiosity simmering inside.

How well she knew that a closed door did nothing to keep exclusive conversations from being overheard! Though she could never regret her own experience, as difficult as it had been at first, not with the eventual results it awarded her. She had found her lost Angel, and in so doing, had bonded more closely with her elusive husband. She could never regret that…

And at some point, she would learn the unexplained details of this day.

xXx

A/N: Eager to know what you thought of the small dip into Erik's past and his chase through the night, leading to their escape…a wee bit of the mystery has been cleared up with a lot more to go…Not sure I'll be able to get the next chapter up as fast as this one and the ones before it, (though I'm writing it now) so I left the chapter end with a bit of humor and not a real cliffie, to make the wait easier. :)