A/N: Happy New Year to all! I hope you are enjoying my story, and thank you for the lovely reviews. The support is much appreciated in the unveiling of this slightly controversial phic. Without further ado, chapter three.

Chapter Three

She had not spoken to him the entire cab ride. Nor could he blame her. Even he finally grasped that this time, he'd gone to far. This time, it was unforgivable. This time, he was truly deserving of the name "beast," or "monster."

It was not so much that the viscount was different from the others he'd killed in the past, though that was true. He rarely killed the rich, usually only poor, dirty men in self defense or during his time in the khanum's employ. Never had he killed to hurt another; never had he even considered this possibility.

To him, it had become a morbid, monotonous routine. Accosted? Murder. Followed? Kill. He'd never enjoyed it until the khanum and Persia had taught him to, and even then the small voice of his Catholic upbringing had told him all along it was wrong. But that voice wasn't loud enough. Surely, he would never have pulled out of that life of sin if it hadn't been for Nadir.

But even Nadir had failed to mention not only how the murders would affect Erik's soul, but how they could affect the lives of others. He'd been a selfish man in his killing, a horrible man, not even bothering to distinguish a father or grandfather who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, from a true low life with foul intentions whom no one cared about.

And now, with just one more murder, he'd hurt, possibly indelibly, the only woman he'd ever given his heart to. Once more he had deceived her, hurt her, betrayed her, and ripped her innocence away. And he'd ever thought she could love him, or even dreamt it? She'd have to be a goddamn saint, perhaps even a bit of a fool for that. Now, simple forgiveness was too much to ask.

He wished for something to say, a meaningless word, even to simply open communications once more, so perhaps eventually he'd be able to voice the apology which now was burning a hole in his soul. Funny, he'd never felt the true desire to apologize to anyone before. But now...it was different. It was all different. His very outlook on life had changed with her kiss and with the viscount's death. Erik had hardly ever believed anything could ever truly change a person, that people were all selfish and evil to the core, including himself, until he'd met Christine...and until now.

Her harsh voice interrupted his thoughts, but he'd been so lost, he'd not heard her words.

"What?" he asked clumsily.

"Where are we going?"

"A train station outside the city," he said carefully.

"And from there?"

He paused with the horrific realization that he'd planned no further than the train station. "Wherever you wish," he replied with gross impulse.

She looked at him incredulously and said nothing for some time. "Sweden, then," she finally murmured into the dim interior of the carriage. "I wish to go home."

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In Paris, Inspector Gaston Mifroid, Chief of Parisian Police, took his breakfast in his study as his wife continued to doze. Mifroid was usually a handsome man, middle age only bringing him distinguishing features; well-placed wrinkles, streaks of gray in his russet brown hair, though it was slowly coming to be the other way around. Mifroid did not mind, however, for as he aged, he only became more efficient in his work, his mind growing sharper with each case solved, his pride growing with each rightful arrest.

Usually in the mornings, he was in a brisk mood, strong and eager for a hardy breakfast before setting off to work. This morning, though, he was a bit weak and out of sorts, having got little sleep the previous night. All night he'd been tortured with the unanswered details of the murder of the Viscount de Chagny, along with the disappearance of Christine Daae the singer and the mysterious masked man who so many claimed to be the infamous "Opera Ghost."

I wasn't aware ghosts could kidnap and kill, thought Mifroid wryly, a thin smile creeping its way to his lips. But it quickly disappeared as he considered this fact. How the bloody hell could he track what people believed to be a ghost? And what was he, anyway? Some sort of madman? A long evasive criminal? Or a true specter?

Mifroid could not help but cross himself at this thought. A strict religious upbringing had taught him the supernatural was not a force to be meddled with, and certainly not one to be mocked. The face didn't help, either. A birth defect, mark of the devil? A result of an unfortunate accident? Or simply one of the many skins of the Opera Ghost?

Mifroid did not know, and what was worse, he had no idea where to go about finding out. He'd already been to the opera the previous night, had a look at the viscount's body and the spectacular house by the opera's lake no one had known about. This, however, gave no insight as to what this murderer was, or to his motives, or the whereabouts of Christine Daae and his connection to her. Raoul de Chagny was dead, as was his brother, the only two people who could possibly been able to give input as to the relationship of Daae and the ghost. The only one available, now, who knew of the ghost was old Madame Giry, whom Mifroid had already questioned thoroughly a few days back.

Superstition was always thick among theater folk, but especially those of the Opera Garnier with their obsession of the Ghost. It seemed to be all they spoke of aside from their work. If one were to visit the Opera, Mifroid was quite certain the Ghost would find his way into the conversation at least once, no matter what the nature of the call. His name seemed to be whispered by the very walls themselves. It was believed, of course that the Ghost was immortal, so Mifroid had no doubt that the majority of the Garnier's staff believed the whole investigation to be a waste of time.

"If the Ghost wants her, he'll have her, and there'll be no more said of it," he'd heard a ballet rat say to her companion as he passed.

But he could not simply give up.

Mifroid pushed his half-eaten breakfast away. He simply could not dine while so many questions floated about in his mind. It made him feel as though he were not doing his job, and that was never something he could bear.

He rose to dress. He would return to the opera, see if there was anyone else who knew anything at all. This would not remain a mystery for long.