CHAPTER TWO

"No . . . please. . . ." Erik muttered, tossing in his sleep. How had Garcen found him here? But he hadn't, he was back at the dreaded circus . . . back to being treated worse than the animals. . . .

The alarm went off throughout the house, but Erik did not hear. He was in a feverish sleep, now extremely warm . . . and he could not escape.

The crowd chattered excitedly as they waited outside the circus tent. A Persian man was standing slightly apart from it. How anyone could look forward to seeing the Devil's Child was beyond him. Still the King of Persia had ordered him to go see this 'Erik', who was apparently a designer.

Inside the tent were three figures: the lion tamer, Garcen, an overweight man holding an old bag in his hand, and lastly, a boy of maybe sixteen, with a deformed face and body. His

name was Erik, and his mask (really a bag) had just been removed from his head.

"A little whip-shy, isn't he?" The overweight man asked.

Garcen grinned evilly. "Why, yes, Monsieur Shaman. We did train him that way."

Shaman reached over and pressed his finger into Erik's face. He slowly traced down and seemed satisfied when blood came. Erik let out an involuntary cry of pain.

"Just had to make sure." Shaman said. "So many of them are fakes." He pulled the bag down over Erik's face, where the blood stuck to it.

Erik returned to his cage, grimacing in pain as he went. He reached down under the straw for his papers – but they weren't there. All of his building designs were gone – why would Daroga take him to Persia without seeing them first? He was never going to escape from this prison, never going to escape from the awful whip that haunted all of his worst nightmares –

"No . . . no. . . ."

"Erik, wake up!"

"Got to get away. . . ." Erik muttered. He was worse than ever now, a cold sweat was on his forehead, yet his fever had reached dangerous heights.

The street was abandoned, for it was night. The tall man that was moving through the shadows could be seen by no one. He had to run, get away from the angry mob pursuing him,

with the King of Persia at their lead. But Christine was in front of him, the teen girl walked past him, going towards a stone in the road. She picked it up, and shouting, "You tricked me, Angel of Music!" she threw it at his head. A flash of green, and he was mourning by a grave. . . . His own grave. . . . Then Daroga was there, telling him how much nobody loved him, and started to walk away. Erik yelled abuse at the man, and he turned into Christine, a tear fell from her eye as she ran from him – Now Erik stood in a small room of mirrors, an iron tree in the middle, the sun blazed down on his shoulders as he realized that he was not wearing a shirt, but a pair of old trousers and a bag to serve as a mask – a whip fell on his back and legs, but it was invisible – seeing a noose, Erik hurried toward it, praying for a quick death –

And then he woke.