Between preschool, rescuing some stray cats, a new job, and a lot of writing…I haven't had time to update a lot. There's only a few more chapters of Rose to go. Maybe three or four, actually. Anyhow, thanks for sticking around with me through this story—and EXTRA big thanks to all of you who supported my very first release. (FYI: I'm making a donation to the local humane society with some of the royalties since it suffered a recent fire—no worries—volunteers saved every living creature in there).

If you haven't bought a copy of the Viking Stones and want to know more, check out my website under Erika Kire and see the way cool reviews we received as well as the video on YouTube. If you like the vid, please rate it!

Thanks again for all of your support! This is a long chapter since I've slacked for so long!

Gabrina

Rose40

Christine scratched at the carriage, holding on for dear life as Bouquet attempted to drag her through the graveyard. In the back of her mind, she heard a familiar, slurred voice.

"Use the force, Christine."

"Wh-what?" She looked around, afraid that she was starting to hear voices coming from the squirrels.

"I said use the force."

"What force?"

"Oh, for God's sake! Do I need to spell it out for you, you idiotic chorus girl? You have legs like a thoroughbred! Kick him where it counts."

"You always said I had legs like a mule."

"No, that was brain like a mule. Use the force, Christine! Use it!"

Madame's voice faded away as Christine used the very last of her strength to pull herself forward. She planted her feet on the ground, closed her eyes, and kicked like a racehorse, a mule, and an emu combined.

"Bloody hell!" Bouquet moaned as he writhed on the snow. "What did you go and do that for?"

"A nice little girl like Christine doesn't appear to have it in her, does she?" Christine grabbed Raoul's sword and circled around the fallen stagehand. She tossed her head from side to side to move her hair away from her face as she stood over him. "No one ever suspects Christine."

"Excuse me?" he quavered.

"Christine is a weak little waif in need of saving, Christine will never amount to anything more than a chorus girl, Christine is met with hateful critics everywhere."

Bouquet began to tremble. "I never said anything of the sort."

"No, you thought for certain you could use me as bait, didn't you? You thought for certain I wouldn't be able to defend myself." She pointed the tip of the sword between his legs. "Answer me."

"No!"

The razor sharp edge came closer.

"Yes!"

Her eyes narrowed. "Well, now what do you think, you smelly drunk? Answer Christine under penalty of pain."

"Why are you referring to yourself in third person?" He inched away, gaze fixed on the sword in her hand.

"I have no idea, but if it instills fear in the very bottom of your wretched heart, so be it." She stood straighter, glared down the length of her sword. Behind her, Raoul groaned. "Everyone always underestimated me. They saw me as nothing more than an orphan."

"I've always thought you deserved a starring role."

"Christine doesn't care what you think. I know what I am…a rising star on the Parisian stage. Not you, not Carlotta, not a well-endowed chorus girl…no one will keep me from my dream." She momentarily came down from her cloud and glared at him. "Well, Monsieur, I hate to cut the fun short, but your joke has worn thin."

He looked at her curiously. "Why don't we consider this a misunderstanding?"

"A misunderstanding? Abducted, threatened, used to lure a music genius with the body of a god, and you think I should consider this a misunderstanding? No, Bouquet, you misunderstand the situation. It is time to make certain there is no longer confusion."

"I will never trouble you again." He attempted to scramble away.

"No, you will not. I shall feed your heart to one of Carlotta's dogs and we'll be certain of that."

"You wouldn't…"

"Why? Because I couldn't tolerate the blood or because I'm not strong enough to impale you with this sword?"

"Because you are…are…an...an…angel?"

"I am your angel of castration."

Bouquet went bone white. He glanced around, finding his back to a tombstone and no escape in sight. "We should discuss this rationally."

"There is no rationing now, Bouquet. You've messed with the wrong chorus girl."

"It's nothing personal."

"You've made it personal. Let me guess: You assumed chorus girls don't have feelings, that we care about nothing more than dancing in corsets or slave girl costumes, ten pounds of make up, and feathers for fifteen bloody hours a day. Well, Bouquet, allow me to clear up this misconception."

He nodded amiably toward the sword that threatened his family jewels.

"I don't want to be a chorus girl for the rest of my life. I'm tired of dancing in little chains and being ogled by strange, smelly old men. I want to be the star, and you, Monsieur, are impeding my progress."

-o-

Erik saw the carriage first and feared he was too late to rescue his beloved Christine. He jumped from his horse, allowing the beast to run away (which was much harder than Raoul made it look) as he approached the carriage.

And found Raoul knocked out cold with a twig in his blonde hair.

"Damn it," Erik muttered. He glanced around and saw a swirl of black fabric disappearing behind a tomb. "Christine?" he whispered as he stalked forward.

His hand tightly clutched the hilt of his skull's head sword. If there was a hair misplaced on her head he would kill Bouquet. If there was a single tear on her cheek, if there was a quiver in her bosom…death would come knocking without mercy. No one else was allowed to cause a quiver in that bosom.

"Oooh, my head," Raoul groaned.

Erik ignored the Vicomte and approached the sound of Christine's voice. Did he hear correctly? Did she quaver in fear? Did she yearn for his guidance?

"Christine!" he called out as he bolted around several tall statues of half-naked angels. He sprinted toward the sound of voices and found her in a complementary black dress. With a sword in hand.

"Christine?" he questioned.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. "Good afternoon. Just a moment, my dear." She turned back to Bouquet. "Now, as I was saying…"

"Allow me to defend you," Erik insisted. He stepped forward, sword in hand, completely prepared to rescue his damsel in distress. "Come away from him, Christine, before you become anemic with the stress of it all."

"Christine can defend herself," she snapped.

He skidded to a stop, his jaw slack. "Excuse me?"

"Christine can obviously defend herself." She faked out Bouquet with a jab at his inner leg.

"Why are you referring to yourself in the third person?" Erik questioned.

"I don't know! But I suggest you stand back before he bleeds on you."

His brow furrowed, his dreams of carrying her to safety suddenly dashed. "Christine, whatever this thing, this monster has told you…you are not a killer."

"Oh, I don't intend to kill him. Or do I? Hmm…Suffer, baby," she said through her teeth as she turned toward Bouquet. "Suffer."

"Christine!" Erik warned. She wasn't herself.

"Do you know what it's like to have everyone think you're something you aren't?"

"Yes, I have."

"Then you should want this as much as I do." She gritted her teeth and turned away, poised to stab Bouquet in the groin.

"Christine!" He bolted forward and reached for her sword arm, barely able to believe what he was about to do. "Not like this."

"What?" she snapped.

Somewhere in the distance Raoul moaned, a sound that was more sexual than agonized.

"You can't do this. I won't let you."

"But this solves all of our problems." She ran her fingers through her hair in frustration. "He has been the core to all of our suffering. Once I dispose of him, we can live in peace…in our beautiful countryside home, with our six children and our lovely Basset hound and Irish wolfhound."

He glanced down at Bouquet and then back up at Christine. "We should discuss this."

From the corner of his eye, Erik saw Raoul stumble through the gravestones, his shirt untucked and his hands on his head.

"Where am I?"

"In Our Lady of Perpetual Longing," Christine answered.

"Dear God! I'm dead inside a woman! I'm far too young and aristocratic to die!"

Erik cleared his throat. "You're not dead." He gritted his teeth and added under his breath, "Unfortunately."

"What happened?" he muttered. "The last I remember, there was wind flowing through my hair."

"Well, you attempted to rescue me and—"

"Never mind." Erik thrust his sword into Raoul's hand. "Watch him."

"Wait. What?" Raoul stammered. "I have a concussion. I should be resting my injured head on Meg Giry's sweet, angelic, and cushiony bosom."

"I said watch him." Erik growled.

"Or that," Raoul mumbled as he reluctantly stood watch.

Erik whisked Christine away and walked some twenty feet—far enough for privacy but close enough to apprehend Bouquet should Raoul pass out.

"You can't do this," he said sternly. "It's not like you."

"Perhaps you don't really know me," she replied.

"I do know you." He kept his hands on her shoulders. "You're the only person I know."

In the Biblical sense, he thought of adding, considering he knew Madame Giry and—unfortunately—Raoul de Chagny. He didn't know what else to say to her, so he merely stared at her and frowned.

"I'm doing this for us. A threat to me is a threat to you and vice versa. Don't you understand that?"

"I could have—"

"Could have what?"

"Protected you," he answered lamely.

"As I've said, I can protect myself."

He bowed his head. "I see."

"Would you rather I succumbed to being tied up and molested?"

"Never." His stomach churned at the thought.

"Then what?"

"I don't know. It's just…"

"Just what?"

"I want to be a man for you."

She blinked at him. "Excuse me?"