A/N—In which someone makes a poor decision and pays for it

Thanks to Melancholy's Child, MomoxDerpy, BadassSyd, emeraldphan, Glacifly4POTO, Mominator124, Stemwinder, and Kitkat for their kind reviews! You all are awesome and I appreciate you so much.

The Usual Disclaimer—these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, to Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and to Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, Paris, music, religion, military history, and the French and Farsi languages are unfortunately mine, and for that, I do apologize.

Please read and review.

A Second Chance

Chapter 23

Copyright 2016 by Riene

She walked up softly behind him one evening, deliberately enough that he knew of her approach but not enough to disturb. Erik sensed the heat of her body and the faint tea rose scent of her bath soap before he felt the flutter-light sensation of her small, square hands gently resting on his shoulders. His angel stood there, letting her hands move with him as he continued to play the etude, a new piece he was composing. He could feel through the thin shirt the soft press of her breasts against his back, and the gossamer tickle of her hair.

Christine leaned down to kiss the top of his head and her fingers gently stroked his neck. His eyes shut in pleasure, relaxing into her caress. Her husband was in one of his softer moods tonight, his angular body moving with the music as he played, allowing the embrace. She slid her palms downward, over his shoulders, along his collarbones, across the planes of his chest, and he quivered under her touch. She leaned down, breath tickling his ear, and nibbled on his earlobe. Erik shuddered again, hands stilling on the keys.

"Vixen," he murmured, catching her hands. "You are distracting me."

Christine chuckled softly in his ear, her breath sending shivers down his spine. "That was rather the point, Erik." She slid her hands down his chest, unbuttoning as she went, stroking his bare flesh, hands skimming lightly over the scars, caressing, teasing.

Erik shifted uncomfortably on the bench and she smiled, pleased to have aroused this stern, controlled man. "Shall I keep distracting you, or…?" she murmured against his throat.

In answer, he pulled her down into his lap, his thin scarred lips claiming hers, one hand directing hers downward until she could feel his heated desire. She slid her hands under the open shirt against his chest, pulling it looser as she went, nibbling on his neck. One hand rose to caress his disfigured face while her lips trailed over his good cheek and then tugged lightly on his ear with her teeth. Erik wrapped his long arms around her, pulling her close, leaning his cheek against her hair.

"How can you do this," he murmured, "how can you touch me and not be repelled?"

She opened eyes hazy with passion. "Because I love you," she murmured against his throat. "Now stop talking."


Erik stood before the washstand half-dressed; his shirtsleeves rolled up, revealing scarred forearms as he stirred the shaving soap into foamy lather. A gleaming straight razor lay beside the sink on a towel. Christine met his eyes in the mirror, surprised somehow at seeing her elegant husband involved in such a mundane activity, though he was always smoothly shaven. She rarely ventured into the bathroom in the mornings, granting him some measure of privacy. Erik was meticulous, almost fastidious in his appearance and habits, she'd noted. The thin leather gloves were always spotless, his collars and ties snowy white, his suits brushed and pressed. She would never know that he had learned to loathe uncleanliness from the years with the gypsies, where the occasional bucket of cold water thrown over him was as close to bathing as he would get.

Erik met her eyes in the mirror, quirked one eyebrow upward at her expression, and resumed brushing the sandalwood-scented lather on his face and neck before lifting the deadly-looking razor. She drew near, watching with fascination the shaving process, and he reached out with the brush and solemnly dabbed it on her nose, causing Christine to giggle like the child she'd once been. His dark eyes were amused as he resumed the careful, methodical flick of the blade. Christine seized the towel and blotted her face, then his as he laid the razor aside.

She stroked his smooth cheek and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. Erik caught her playfully around the waist, spinning her back, his arms tightening around her, the kiss threatening to turn into a blaze. Laughing, she pushed against his arms.

"Erik! Not now! I'll be late for rehearsal!" He let her go with a mock growl of frustration and she blew him a kiss as she scooted out the door.

He was so different, she thought, from the haunted man of a year ago. Though she rarely saw this playful side of him, it sometimes slipped out, causing breathless laughter for her and only the slightest smile from him. Christine raised the hairbrush and began the battle to tame her unruly curls into a suitable coiffure. A moment later he entered the bedchamber and long arms wrapped around her waist. Christine leaned back into his chest, his hands interlacing with hers as he bent to kiss her neck. Love had changed him so much.


Christine had returned to the Opera ready to resume performing in the next musical concert night and had been pleasantly surprised at the congratulations on her marriage—word had somehow spread. Leon Melchissédec had grabbed her arms and effusively kissed both cheeks, Gabrielle Krauss had kissed her also and murmured wishes for a long and happy life in one ear. Charles Dumont had heartily pumped her hand and dropped a swift kiss on her rosy cheek as well, delighted with Christine's apparent happiness. Even M Reyer had raised mournful eyes and wished her well. There was of course a great deal of curiosity as to her sudden wedding, and not a little malicious gossip, but Meg and Adele Giry both made an effort to refute any rumors. As for her part, Christine merely said her husband was an old friend and composer, and eventually the most salacious of the stories died down.

Only one thing had marred her return to the Opera. Luigi had caught her backstage and leaned in mockingly to kiss her as well, but Christine averted her face and pulled away. "I wonder if your new husband knows of your…interesting…past," he hissed. She had pushed him away, but the triumphant glitter in Luigi's eyes was unnerving.


He'd not been prepared for the man that was Erik Rouillard. Some weeks had passed since his impromptu note and Joseph Allard had all but given up, assuming he had made a faux pas with his abrupt and forward note. Then one afternoon a letter had arrived, written in a firm, graceful woman's hand. Erik Rouillard was indeed the composer and her husband, and they would be glad to meet with him, but only in their home and at night. Intrigued, Joseph had written back, accepting the proposed time and date.

Tall and imposing, the man had stood with his back to the window, hands clasped behind him. His voice, when he spoke, was low and cultured, with the oddly unaccented flawless French of an educated man who had traveled extensively. M Rouillard's wife had been the opposite of her grim husband. Soft-spoken and charming, she'd offered him tea or coffee and settled on the divan, not retiring when the men prepared to talk business.

Erik had stepped forward, out of the shadows, watching his guest's startled reaction to the mask with grim amusement. "M Allard, welcome to our home. My wife, Christine Daae Rouillard…perhaps you have heard her sing." He offered his left hand.

Joseph took a deep breath and extended his own hand. "Most certainly I have had the pleasure of hearing Mlle Daae….Madame Rouillard…on the stage of the Garnier." He bowed low over Christine's hand and turned to the composer. "And I am pleased to make your acquaintance as well, sir."

The masked man had indicated they sit and gratefully, Joseph did so. The handshake had told him a great deal—those long spatulate fingers with their hard calluses could only belong to a musician. There had been strength in that hand, enough to break bones, he'd trust. He glanced around the warm room. Classical in styling, it was dominated by an Imperial Bösendorfer piano. Lying atop the piano was a violin, and something in the warm amber finish and antique carving proclaimed it a cherished, valuable instrument.

Erik sat, his fingers steepled, black eyes glittering and utterly still, watching him as a snake might watch a particularly foolish mouse. Joseph had been a military officer; his instinct said this man in whose elegant apartment he now visited was dangerous. But he'd also had the pleasure of attending the music nights and knew the soaring heights and depths of music of which this man was capable. He took the risk and leaned forward.


The morning passed quickly and Christine sought her husband out in the study before leaving for rehearsal. She placed a cup of hot coffee on the corner of his desk and dropped a quick kiss on his head. As usual, he pulled her into a silent embrace, unwilling to part with his young bride, always feeling the trickle of fear she would somehow come to her senses and flee screaming. That she never did was proof that Christine was every bit the angel he thought her, but Erik couldn't help the pervasive stab of paranoia each time she left.

"On your way?" he asked gruffly.

"Yes, rehearsal today. Charles wants me to consider doing Violetta. Will you help me with it?"

"Of course. It is an unimaginative suggestion, but you will shine in it, my Christine."

She laughed. "Don't blame Charles, I'm sure that came from M Firmin. What about you? What are your plans today?"

He released her reluctantly and leaned back in the chair. "The Daroga is coming over later. He is acting as an intermediary on a consulting project."

Christine nodded. "I'll pick up something for dinner on the way home."

"Do not trouble yourself, Christine."

She leaned down and kissed him. "Nonsense. I must take care of you."

Black eyes gleamed. "I can think of other ways." His velvet voice was suggestive, and she laughed.

"Maybe later. À bientôt, dearest."

Hours later, she looked up as the dressing room door opened and gasped in outrage as Luigi entered, locking the door behind him. Christine opened her mouth to protest when he pulled his right arm up, revealing a small pistol. She whirled off the seat as he grabbed at her arm.

"What do you want?" she cried as he caught her wrist, twisting her arm painfully.

"The entrance to the underground," he hissed, bringing the pistol up to her side. "Where the spectre lived. I know you know where it is…you were his lover."

"I was never his lover!" she cried, her voice breaking off in a gasp of pain as he tightened his grip on her wrist and jammed the pistol against her ribs.

"I don't believe you," he said flatly. "Now, the entrance, s'il vous plait."

Erik was not in the underground house. There would be no help below, if they entered the tunnels. Her mind racing, Christine stalled for time.

"It can't be opened from this side," she said.

"You lie. You were his lover, Carlotta told me. She said that sailor who died and came back was your lover too, that he left you because you were whoring with that madman."

Stunned, Christine could only stare at him in shock at the vicious words. She'd known Carlotta hated her, but to spread such outrageous untruths…

"Carlotta is a bitter, jealous, vindictive woman," Christine spat, "She lied to you, Luigi, and you were a fool to listen to her stories."

"Maybe," he said, his face ugly, "but you were the one who disappeared below the Opera with that deformed freak. And it is time I move on." He grasped a handful of her curls and propelled her toward the mirrored wall. "Open it!" She met his rage-filled eyes in the mirror.

They had said the Opera Ghost was insane, but Luigi was truly insane, she realized. His eyes were flat, his expression lighting with sadistic pleasure at her fear and terror. His huge hand wrapped around the back of her skull, tangled in her hair, forcing her to her knees, barely able to breathe as he fumbled around the edges of the heavy frame.

"Open it, or I will leave you unconscious and then go back for your little friend, that dancer," he sneered. "I need only tell her you're injured and she'll come willingly enough. I can pleasure myself with you both tonight."

Not Meg…Christine tried to push herself up from the floor and he jerked her violently to her feet.

"Open it!"

A draft of cold dank air poured through the opening as she tripped the mechanism and the mirror dropped slightly down. Luigi grasped the heavy frame and slid it sideways, grinning. "After you."

Christine's mind raced as she stumbled forward. Erik had laid numerous traps along the way, she knew, but she had no idea how to find and activate them. He had always been there to carefully guide her along the path, safely away from oubliettes and snares. The brick passageway was dimly lit, and deliberately she chose the longer route where the corridor became stone, past the heavy arches and columns that supported the Opera House. A recessed flight of spiral stairs waited at the end of the corridor. Luigi tightened his grip on her arm and forced her downwards. Surely someone could follow their trail through the dust and cobwebs.

Keep him talking…"Why are you doing this?" she cried out and felt this fingers dig into her flesh.

"You will show me where that madman hid his fortune, and then we will see," he hissed.

"There is nothing down here, nothing!" she cried. "The mob destroyed everything last winter, they found nothing!"

Luigi's face twisted. "Then you will pay for his crimes." He stopped abruptly, raising the lantern, the hatred in his face palpable. "Piangi was my father! He killed him, strangled him on stage! And now you will die in his place!"

Oh dear god, the man was truly far-gone. She searched his face, trying to make some connection. "Your father?"

"My mother tol' me before she die, she was a chorus girl, he seduced her, I come here to claim my inheritance and find he is dead!" Spittle flew from his lips as he raved. "So I will take the money and you and have my honor!"

He shoved her forward again, and she stumbled, scraping her hands painfully on the exposed rock. Ahead there was a place where the path briefly widened and made a turn. One way led back upwards and the other to the lake below. She broke away from him, counting on knowing the tunnels better than he, but the heavy skirts were a hopeless encumbrance; she stumbled and blindly threw her hands out for balance, striking the stone wall. He was on her in a moment, slamming her body against the tunnel with his own, her head striking the wall with a resounding crack. In a blur of pain and shooting lights she felt his hot breath in her face, his heavy form pressed against hers.

"You little bitch," Luigi snarled, "you'll regret that." He jammed the gun into her side and brought his mouth down on her own, his thick tongue invading her lips, saliva dripping on her face. Christine bit down as hard as she could, tasting blood, and he reared back and brutally slapped her, knocking her to the floor. She cried out as Luigi seized her, jerking her to her feet and twisting her arm up behind her so viciously she felt bones in her wrist snap. She screamed from the pain and heard his coarse laughter.

"Worse is waiting for you, bitch," he snarled, ripping the bodice of her dress open and pawing her breasts through the thin chemise. His arousal dug into her thigh, his hand cruelly pinched her breast. "I'll teach you to defy me. No one will ever find you down here."

"There you would be wrong." Erik's voice was eerily flat, but Christine heard the undercurrent of rage in that icy calm.

Luigi spun, waving the gun threateningly. For a split second the lantern caught a face of out of a black looming nightmare, a demon with glowing red-gold eyes, before it fell from Luigi's shaking hand, plunging the path into darkness.

"What the hell are you?"

Mocking laughter swirled around them. "I am Death."

Christine wrenched herself from his grasp and cowered against the far wall, desperate to give her avenging angel a clear field. The two men circled about each other.

"What do you care about her?" Luigi snarled, enraged.

"She is my wife." Christine heard the singing of the Punjab lasso as it hissed through the air and the sudden, deafening roar as the pistol discharged twice, the shots echoing around the stone walls. There was a horrible crack and scream, then a splash.

Christine sank to her knees, cradling her arm and sobbing. "Erik! Oh god, Erik, where are you?"

"Here," he said raggedly, and reaching blindly, she fell into his embrace. Faint with pain and shock, she collapsed against his hard chest, sobbing.

His long arms closed around her, shaking. "My god, Christine….are you alright? Did he harm you in any way?" he gasped, clasping her arms.

She pulled the torn pieces of her dress together and shook her head.

"Erik, I was so afraid, he was so strong, he was out of his mind, raving, he wanted to find the underground house, he seemed to think there was money, he wanted revenge…" She was babbling and trying not to succumb to hysterics.

He stumbled and she pulled back, hearing his laboring breathing. "Erik?" Her hands reached upwards, stroked his clammy, unmasked face, ran through his hair and down his body, feeling the sticky warm wetness seeping through his waistcoat.

"Oh my god, you're injured," she moaned, feeling him shuddering beneath her hands.

"The bastard shot me," Erik gritted, dizzy, bracing himself against the wall and slowly sliding down. The pain bloomed, spread, and it became harder to breathe.

Heedless of the agony of her broken wrist, she knelt beside him, sobbing. What to do? Standing, Christine ripped her petticoat off, tearing it into strips to make a large pad and pressed it against his chest, hearing his stifled cry of pain. "Erik, you have to hold on. Where can I…?"

"Nadir," he gasped. "Behind me. Call him. Sr Bartoldi…"

She had forgotten Luigi. "Where is he," she said wildly, frantically searching the darkness.

"In the lake…you're safe…the lasso…off-balance…hit his head….fell…I couldn't…"

"No, of course you couldn't, you're hurt," she babbled.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, "Christine…my love…"

"No!" she shrieked, anguished, kissing his face frantically. "Don't leave me! Erik! Nadir!"

Only silence answered her sobs.


"How is he tonight?"

"In and out of consciousness."

Cool hands touched his face, his chest.

"He is still feverish."

"I've given him all of the medicines you left."

"Darius will fetch more."

"I don't know how to ever thank you…you've save both of us, M Khan."

"Please, call me Nadir. I only wish we had been there sooner."

"I thought no one was below."

"Sheer chance; we were returning for a misplaced set of notes he thought might still be in the old study. He heard you cry out and was gone. We followed, but had no idea you were in the old Communard tunnels…and you know how fast he moves. Darius and I got there too late."

A watery smile. "Not too late."

A sigh.

"Can he hear us?" A gentle hand smoothed his hair, caressed his skull.

"Perhaps. I do not know. He has lost a great deal of blood."

"M Khan…Nadir…will he live?"

The voice was tired. "He has much to live for. I think he will fight, this time."

A long pause. "I can't thank you enough for all you've done…getting him out of there, the doctor…"

"Please…do not speak of it."


"How is your wrist?"

"It hurts…it's throbbing. But I don't mind."

"If it begins to swell, you must let me loosen the bandages."

"I will."

"You should rest."

"I am staying here."

The gentle hands touched his cheek, his chest, and pulled the blankets around him again.

"What happened to…to…"

"Darius pushed the body over toward the whirlpool. He'll surface in the Seine; another victim of the night."

"Do you think he was really Piangi's son?"

"No. Erik had asked me to investigate him some weeks ago. He was a chorus girl's son…no doubt she told him the great tenor was his father."

Sad laughter. "I wondered. Piangi only ever had eyes for Carlotta, as far back as anyone could remember."

Softly. "I'm not sorry he's gone. I should be, but I'm not." The hand rested on his chest. "I'm only sorry he had to kill again…I think it eats at his soul more than he will admit."

"The fall killed him, or perhaps the water, not Erik."

"It's the same, in the end."

"I didn't know he still carried the lasso."

"I have never known him to be without it, not since Persia."

"You met in Persia, did you not?"

"Yes, many years ago…but it is not my story to tell."

"You're friends, though."

A short laugh. "The closest thing to a friend he has, yes. I owe him my life, and he his to me."


He had been brought in two weeks before, the man known as the Master of Mirrors. Tall and thin, he was chained at his hands, neck, and feet yet somehow still looked regal and imposing. His robes were black, embroidered with gold, and a black silk cloth covered his face. His long dark hair was tied back with a simple black cord. All that could be seen of his masked face were blazing golden eyes. They said it had taken hours afterwards to break him.

Ali stood outside the cell, contemplating the emaciated, naked figure slumped in the far corner. So this was the famous assassin, the lover of trapdoors, the sultana's golden plaything. He looked anything but impressive now, filthy and gaunt, long matted hair hiding truly horrific features. Ali wondered briefly what kind of torture or beating could produce injuries like that. He had seen them only once, when the guards had taunted the man into raising his head. Once had been enough; the sheer hatred in those demonic golden-red eyes had been worse than the seeping open wounds that marred his face and body.

Now he sat, legs drawn up to his face, clawlike hands chained behind his back, his forehead pressed to his knees hiding his features, looking utterly broken. Ali could not resist leaning against the bars and taunting him again.

In a lightning fast move, the man rolled forward, somehow impossibly twisting and rotating his shoulders to bring his chained arms in front. Too late Ali realized his mistake as the chain whipped around his neck. The other prisoners watched in silence as Ali pawed frantically at his throat, thrashing and gurgling in the roaring blackness, until falling limp and broken to the floor. The prisoner shoved battered hands through the guard's robes, finding and stilling the keys. Holding them in his mouth, he unlocked the shackles on his wrists, then ankles. Muscles and ligaments screamed in agony as the prisoner lurched upright, gasping, to stand for the first time in weeks. Stooping, he stripped the young man of his clothing, rolling it tightly under one arm, and listening, stepped out of the cell. Glowering golden eyes swept the room contemptuously, then he moved rapidly to the far end and opened another cell, unshackling the beaten man who hung from the wall. Half-dragging, half supporting the semi-conscious prisoner, the former assassin of the shah-in-shah carefully laid his burden on the floor and crouched beside the door, wrapping the chains around his arms.

He screamed then, an unearthly sound of rage and pain, and footsteps came running, only to trip immediately over the prone body of the man on the floor. Whirling, screaming that inhuman shriek, the prisoner whipped the heavy chains through the air, choking and felling the three guards in a maelstrom of violence.

The prisoner fell to his knees, sides heaving, when it was done. He raised his head, his hideously deformed and beaten face toward the other men, who had watched the entire encounter in silence.

"Effendi…" whispered the nearest man, submissive and begging, and the gruesome blood-spattered being nodded once, tossing him the keys. He bent to raise the other man from the floor, and was gone.

They had been too late to save Rookheeya, he remembered painfully. It had been Erik who had gently but firmly pulled her battered, abused body from his arms and had laid her on their bed. "Pack," he had ordered in his hoarse, damaged voice, and the two men had salvaged what food and necessities they could from the ransacked house. It had been Erik who had lit the fires, fires he had not seen until they were on the outskirts of town, fires for her funeral pyre, and Erik who had pretended not to see his grief, letting him rage and weep in turns, and without his wife and son it had been Erik whom he had followed to France, for no other reason than it meant no thought, no decisions, in his blind misery.


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