Author's Note: Review, review, review.

The Mask and Mirror

Like fire
Hellfire
This fire in my skin
This burning
Desire
Is turning me to sin

(The Hunchback of Notre Dame, 'Hellfire')

Chapter 19

It was a Thursday when they went to the market.

The morning sun was already white-hot and intense, glaring off the houses and dusty streets. Erik had finally succumbed to the searing heat and ventured out of doors without a cloak, wearing only a loose-fitting shirt and breeches. A dagger was displayed prominently on his belt should anyone be foolish enough to venture for his purse. However, had he but known it, such a precaution was scarcely necessary. There was hard, savage, dangerous quality to him that resisted approach.

Erik inhaled deeply, now familiar with the raw, earthy smell of Alger. It stirred his blood, caused his pulse to beat with a new, thrilling energy. He had no native land, no home country, but something instinctive and primal drew him here again and again. Perhaps because the vivid energy and endless bustle made him feel fleetingly that he was actually a part of humanity. Different from the sensual, deathly lethargy of Persia, where perfume reigned in the voluptuous air and flowers bloomed spiked petals of beautiful precision. Different from Paris, with its Gothic heights and abyssal depths. Dei sub numine viget.

Mustapha was simpler. Humanity lived in its rawest sense, obeying only those basic wants of food and money and sex. No political intrigue or power-grasping here. No society etiquette or the fear of God striking into these untutored hearts. These men were not tortured with the pangs of guilt and self-loathing, or torn by the ravages of lust.

He was electrically aware of Christine next to him, drawing in a quick breath each time the voluminous material of her cloak happened to slide across his arm like dark water. Even the dark, spicy and mysterious smell of the market could not hide the scent of her hair that would tantalise him whenever she moved her head, could not prevent him from imagining his hands entwined in those curls and drawing her towards him...

Erik wondered if she could smell the desire on his skin.

It would appear not; she seemed less apprehensive than she had been on their first visit; asking a thousand and one questions, her eyes eagerly drinking in the exotic sights in a mixture of disbelief and fascinated awe. Erik had seen too much of the world to be surprised by anything.

But still.

Something about this place struck him, made it different. Not the heat. He had experienced enough of that, God knew. Not the mass of people pressing around them. He had seen that before, too. Crowds gathering to witness a living corpse in a Siberian tent. An angry mob with eyes and teeth and hands like claws. No, it definitely wasn't the multitude that was new to him. It was something else. Something indefinable.

Perhaps it was the passion.

Erik knew well the power of passion, the things it could drive one to. It was the flame, the core of him. The one thing that could both consume and be consumed. Passion was the shape of a slender girl with large, soulful eyes and whose song was the sound of sorrow given voice.

He could not help but wonder whether her voice could have reached such transcendent heights of heartrending beauty had he not hurt her so deeply.

Erik's jaw clenched as a sudden, piercing longing overcame him. He missed their lessons with a painful, yearning intensity that seared his soul and refused to go away. His fingers curled into tight fists as he struggled a breath, then another to his constricted lungs. There was no use in harbouring false hopes or pining over long-dead memories. He would simply have to believe and accept that those days were gone. She would no longer sing for him. He swallowed hard, dry-eyed and unmoving.

He must look only to the present.

"Stay close to me," he cautioned in a low voice. He noted with relief that he sounded steady, himself again. He reached out a hand to lay on her arm in affirmation of his words, but checked himself at the last moment, afraid of her flinching from him. Erik's face darkened as he pressed his sensual mouth into a harsh line. This constant need for restraint was becoming an increasing source of frustration for him. If she only knew how much she ravaged his soul.

Christine watched him not-quite touch her. There was a mesmerising, hypnotic power in those dark eyes that she felt would burn her if she came too close. The atmosphere between them electrified, but he deliberately looked away, hiding as always behind that layer of fabric. She sighed, and wondered how it was that she could inspire his most refined and high-souled genius and at the same time be responsible for his most physical and primitive impulses.

When she looked up, she saw that Erik had begun bartering with one of the stall owners over the price of fruit and looked as though he was going to be occupied for some time. Christine waited a little to one side, coughing slightly at the heavy and overwhelming dust-and-amber smell that was Mustapha. It was hard to breathe when the market was this busy, pressed in by so many people, the meaningless noise of foreign voices surrounding her. She couldn't hear herself think. The market normally held a kind of alien fascination fpr her, but both hot and tired; she found it too oppressive and she felt herself wanting to escape if only for a few minutes. With a last glance towards Erik who was still in the furious spirit of haggling (something she had never been quite courageous enough to try for herself yet), Christine pushed away from the fruit stall and began to weave her way through the busy town of Alger.

She was more confident of the market now, not so paralysed by the sheer noise and volume of the crowds. She was also learning that Parisian manners were not recognised here. People would not be insulted if she pushed past them, or shouted with emphatic hand gestures for them to move aside. It was strangely liberating, in fact, to act as these earthy, vivid Arabs did without fear of censure or ridicule. It made her feel wonderfully alive, and she felt a sudden surge of feeling that was almost affection for these strangers who did not seem strangers because of their very closeness and vivacity. She was already beginning to feel better now she was able to move around and explore as she wished rather than merely standing around in the searing heat, feeling she was an obstruction and a burden.

She wandered on through the labyrinthine alleys, passing several stalls. Brightly coloured silks and rugs hanging from a shelter with a woman beating the dust from them, rows of jugs and pots of brass, baskets of fruit, the over-ripe smell pungent and overpowering. Turning, she passed into a little side street where the noise and rabble was less overwhelming. She could still hear the drumbeat and music of the Kasbah in the distance threading its way through the hazy air. Christine hurried onward, keeping her head down, aware of men hovering around her, and still unnerved by the hands that would sometimes reach out and touch the material of her cloak or attempt to stroke her abundant curls. The action was just so… uncultured.

Yes, for all her fascination with Alger, Christine was still a girl of Paris, a girl of the city where men lifted their hats to respectable women and the ladies were delicate and modest and compliant, not half-naked Salomes who danced among shadows and did things for payment that were not discussed in polite Parisian society.

She continued to walk on when the sight of several mirrors laid out on one of the open stalls made her pause. She approached slowly. The owner perceived her interest at once, and began talking rapidly, but Christine merely frowned, thinking. She remembered asking Erik what had happened to the mirrors in his house beneath the Opera.

I destroyed them. I felt if you could not find beauty in me, than nothing could.

Piercing guilt speared through her swollen heart, although she tried to tell herself it was unfounded. The vivid memory of Erik's face as he had said those bitter words made her cringe. There had been something not right about it, as though it had just… broken. So broken it couldn't be put back together. Like shattered glass. Fragmented.

Christine reached out and picked up one of the gilt framed mirrors, gazing at it ponderingly. Its surface was clouded with a layer of dust that she blew at to dispel and it dispersed around her in faint clouds. Her own serious brown orbs looked back up at her with a determined resolution. Perhaps it was time to right those wrongs. This was the cross that she had taken upon herself to bear, even though no one expected or demanded it of her. But it had never been about what others thought. It had been about doing what was right. What had to be done, because – because –

She searched furiously for the reason why this meant so much to her, so much that she was sacrificing moths, perhaps years of a marriage to Raoul whom she loved more than anything in this world. She loved Raoul deeply, desperately. Christine's fingers tightened on the edges of the mirror, the sharp corners pricking the tender skin of her hands, lacerations, a painful reminder of what she had left behind. Left behind for Erik.

At times like this, she could understand Raoul's jealousy.

Even she did not fully understand this precarious standing between herself and Erik. They were not friends, nor enemies, nor even lovers. But they were… something.

He has a hold over me, she thought, sombrely. And he knows it.

Her heart felt as though it was being pulled in two directions, inch by slow and painful inch. How long could she go on like this before one end would snap like a severed cord? The human heart was not made to be torn so cruelly. How could anyone stand to live like this?

If ever anyone had the proverbial angel and devil hovering over each shoulder, it was her.

Christine frowned in wearisome confusion, the same futile questions prodding at her suddenly painful temples. What was it that drew her to Erik again and again? The answer was buried away in one of the darker corners of her mind, unwittingly surfacing to face the harsh light of day.

He was her shadow self. Her repressed desires and impulses she would never admit to having in the light of day. So very different from her idealised, heroic Raoul, whose ardent love shone from his beautiful blue eyes, promising a world of light and happiness. She blinked back the sudden moisture that blurred her vision. A better world. No pain. No conflict.

Then she thought of Erik: brilliant, brooding Erik who was intense as dark fire, almost a force of nature. Trying to tame him was like trying to hold a tiger by the tail. She tried to picture his face clearly, but could visualise only an idea of the whole, rather than any distinctive features. The lasting impression was like that of a volcano on the brink of eruption, something expectant slumbering and smouldering beneath the surface that was hinted at in the interplay of his expressive features. There was nothing still or calm in Erik's face; it was one made up of mobile flame and shadow, an outer shell for a soul as incendiary as a keg of gunpowder. Even his moments of quiet were deceptively still waters; it was often in his softest tones that he said the cruellest, most cutting things with a shrewd smile and a sardonic glimmer in his eyes.

And the other – the demon pressing against the disfigured side of his face – what did she think of that?

It fascinated her. With an odd attraction-repulsion, it awed her. Sometimes, it seemed that if he would only remove the mask and allow her to examine the intricate scars and jagged flesh that formed a distorted maze across his face, that she would be able to understand the inscrutable mind of this man, as examining the interior mechanics of a clock reveals its complex workings. After all, that was the side of his face that had shaped who he was, had driven him to his darkest and most desperate recourses, was the side that she was striving so earnestly to save… and it was the side he would never let her fully see.

No longer an angel. No longer a demon. That was what she earnestly believed, what she needed to show him. After all, if he could not bear to look at himself, how could anybody else?

But still a part of her hesitated. Would he understand the feeling behind the gesture, or merely cast it in her face as yet another perceived insult?

The market stall owner's sudden and intrusive questioning forced her to make up her mind quickly. The woman asked for three sous, and looked utterly astounded when Christine paid the amount without even attempting to barter the price.

It had occurred to her that she needed to get back to Erik, and she could only hope he was where she had left him. She did not now relish the idea of trying to navigate the crowded market in an attempt to find him. There were a hundred streets and alleys and boulvards mazing through the town of Alger, and beyond, hills and tall trees opening out onto villages and a wilderness beyond. This was not the place to get lost in. Exploring these unfamiliar regions with Erik was one thing, but alone... It then struck her as rather ironic that she should feel safer in Erik's company than without. She wondered if he would even notice she had been gone –

Christine's thoughts were broken off by a hand wrapping itself around her mouth, and, with a muffled scream, she was dragged into one of the darkest recesses of the alley.

Erik had long since left the fruit stall, scanning the busy market place for any signs of Christine. He had told her keep close by him, and this wandering off worried him a little. By no means did he want to keep her a prisoner, or make her feel like one, but Alger was hardly the safest place for an innocent ingénue to be left alone in.

He turned deliberately into a narrow and deserted side street, walking with a measured pace. A dark something that wasn't a shadow continued to move behind him. Erik then made his move. He spun round, his body taut and humming as though in combat, fingers curling around the hilt of his knife. Facing him, too startled by the abrupt action to move, was a whip-thin man, dark face closed like a fist, although the eyes flickered to his mask with that familiar look of curiosity and fear. Erik observed the inconspicuous dark clothing, the serpentine grace, the high quality leather boots that nobody in this region could afford through legitimate means. The stranger in the meantime had recovered his equanimity and attempted to walk on as though he were merely passing by, but Erik swiftly moved in front of him, blocking his access.

"You have been following me for the last twenty minutes," he said coldly.

The stranger didn't miss a beat. His heavily accented French was smoothly offhand, nonchalant. "You are mistaken. I –"

"Don't insult me," snarled Erik, not fooled for a moment. His hooded eyes followed the man's hand that was moving slowly towards a concealed poniard. "Who sent you?"

"Sent? I don't know what you –"

In an explosion of sudden movement, Erik slammed him hard against the wall, an arm across the man's throat, aware of a grim sense of satisfaction when the slanting, scornful eyes became clouded with slight fear. Something savage and primal rose in the masked man's blood. He had done this many times; relished the way in which he could reduce proud and derisive men into quivering wrecks of their former selves. Old habits died hard. His mouth curved. It had been long - too long - since he had had power over anything. Anyone. But how slowly he forgot.

"Who sent you?" he repeated.

The man remained stonily silent. Erik used his arm to begin applying pressure to the stranger's windpipe, knowing just how much force to exert before the man's instinct for self-preservation kicked in.

"He never gave his name –"

Erik's breath hissed between his teeth. "Are you quite certain of that?"

"Yes! He never said –"

In a movement of slow deliberation, Erik used his other hand to leisurely remove the knife from his belt and slide it in a murderous caress along the rogue's face. Steel on flesh. A brief reflection of swarthy skin and murderous dark eyes narrowed in exultant savagery. The reflection of someone he had not seen in a long, long time. "Fortunately for you, I know the man. Now tell me, who is he travelling with?"

"I don't know –"

The knife pressed in a little deeper. The surrounding skin had turned chalk white. The temptation to map out the flesh with violence appealed to one of the darker recesses of Erik's artistic mind that was not buried so deeply as he had wished to believe. He was still very capable of carving a disfigurement on this man's face to rival his own. And perhaps he would, if this man did not prove to be a little more forthcoming.

"It's been a long time since I last killed a man," he said, musingly. "So this may take a while." He noted with a detached eye the beads of perspiration that were forming on the stranger's brow.

"I haven't seen them –" The man's voice was now a whole octave higher than it should have been.

Erik's hold tightened, the knife pressing into skin. A droplet of blood welled from the slightly lacerated flesh, a thin rivulet coursing down the taut jawline that was strained with fear. A part of him, newly awakened, was cautioning him to pull back while he still could, but Erik ignored it. Better to be damned in fire than choked by indifference. "Them?"

"Two women…"

The man looked as though he was losing consciousness. Erik shook him hard. "Who else?"

The rogue was gabbling wildly, rendered almost incoherent by real terror. "I don't know! A gentleman – older – Oriental –"

Erik's hold on the man slackened as he staggered backwards in disbelief. "Nadir," he whispered.

The man doubled over in pain, clutching at his throat as he gasped down mouthfuls of the hot, dry Algerian air. "I didn't catch his name – please –"

Erik leaned back heavily against the doorway. The distant noise of the market had become a meaningless howl of white noise, punctuated by short bursts of lucid sound. Something sharp and jagged seemed to be slicing through the tattered remains of his heart.

No. It – it can't be him – it isn't him…

Overwhelming misery filled him like blood welling from an open cut. He clenched his jaw, fighting hard to keep the struggling tears from rising to the surface. Violent shudders wracked his heavy frame, as though his soul was trying to shake off the fetters of flesh and bone that bound it in its torturous prison. He closed his eyes, maddened to despair, distraction.

He had thought Nadir was –

Different. Cast in another mould. Possessed of a nobility for other men to aspire to. He had trusted him, cautiously, fleetingly. It had given him something. Filled the cancerous, rotting void of his heart with an ember, a flicker. But he had learned that lesson the hard way, he should have known by now –

Everybody betrayed you.

Then vengeance, white-hot and consuming, leapt within him.

Anger.

Dulled the edges of pain. He clung to it, needing that purpose, that clarity. Erik's hold on the knife tightened, the flash of silver brilliant in the burning sunlight. The man was staring at him, newly reawakened fear flickering in his eyes, not knowing what the terrifying masked man would do next, what he would dare to do next –

Erik's mind was scorched. His intent was blazoned across his brain as though by a branding iron. He had come too far to stop now. The knife slid against the perspiration on his palm as he lifted the blade with a steady hand, pausing several inches from the rogue's marked face.

He was already sliding towards the brink of Hell. One tiny push would send him hurtling over the edge.

What would Christine think, if she saw you now?

That unexepected inner voice halted him. Erik wavered a moment, agonised with indecision. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse with rage and despair. "Take a message to your… employer… the Vicomte de Chagny."

Slowly, the man nodded.

"Tell him that if he values his life –" Erik suddenly paused and smiled unpleasantly. "Actually, I think your face sums it up rather nicely, don't you?"

The rogue stared at him, finally, daring to speak. "You're not going to kill us?"

A slight tremor passed through the hand holding the knife. Erik's voice lost some of its silken surety.

"Us?"

The stranger smiled, suddenly sly, the confidence of old returning to his expression as he sensed the balance of power subtly shift between them. "You didn't think I came alone, did you?"

"Christine –" Erik said hoarsely.

He turned and ran.

Primal terror slammed into her ribs. Christine screamed again into the hand pressed against her mouth. She struggled frantically, unable to see her assailant, only aware of harsh breathing, darkness, and the icy claws of panic gripping her stomach.

"Stop struggling," a voice hissed into her ear, low and sibilant, and a sickening wave of faintness overcame her.

"My purse –" The words tumbled out of her in a rush of blind panic. "In my belt – take it – take anything –"

The hand was over her mouth once more, cutting off her desperate entreaties. "I didn't come for your money." The man continued to propel her down the deserted alley with an inexorable force, the hand on her waist tightening unbearably. She knew there would be five bruises there and then wondered if she would even live to see them.

He's going to kill me, Christine thought frantically. Or worse.

She writhed in his hold even though the effort was futile. Her mind was paralysed. Something this horrible could not be happening to her. He was speaking again, accented tones frustrated at her continued resistance. "Come with me, you foolish girl, I was sent to –"

Christine bit down on the hand covering her mouth with a savage ferocity. His howl of pain split her ears and the hand was snatched away. Taking advantage of the temporary release, Christine threw herself backward, both hands against the wall as she stumbled unsteadily towards the distant light and sounds of the Kasbah.

Erik! she thought wildly. Come quickly! Come quickly, Erik, help me, oh please help me!

She could hear ragged breathing behind her, the horrifying, inevitable approach of an assailant who was stronger, faster, and would overpower her in seconds –

"Listen, you stupid girl, you don't understand –"

An almost animalistic roar filled her ears as the entrance of the alley was blocked by a dark shape; a tall, broad-shouldered figure, whose black hair fell around his face in dramatic contrast to his white porcelain mask –

Erik –

"Oh, thank God –" she gasped.

He was across the alley so fast, Christine barely saw him move. There was a grapple – a struggle – she squinted in the dim light – then she saw Erik had the assailant in a deathlike hold. Weakening relief overpowered her momentarily. She painfully groped her way along the wall, and Erik looked up at the movement –

Then she saw the exposed half of his face, and the feeling of relief vanished instantly. No saviour, this. Facing her was a dark and savage stranger, wild eyes alive with demoniac ferocity and burning malice. A choked whimper escaped her raw throat. She scuttled away as eddying fear clutched at her insides and could only watch as something slid from the darkened folds of his clothing, something that flashed in a shimmering arc of silver as it rose towards the sky –

Then, in a sickening rush, she knew what would happen, what he was going to do –

"Erik, no –" she cried, as the knife descended, plunging deep into the struggling body of her assailant.

The silence was enormous.

For a long, long time, the three of them remained stationary in the shadows, frozen in a kind of twisted tableau: Erik holding onto the stained knife, Christine crouched in her position against the wall, and the body lying on the ground.

Christine was the first to move. Slowly, stumblingly, she crawled on all fours towards the prone figure. Gasping, near-crying, she reached out a tentative hand that stopped mid-motion before touching him – it. She saw the man – the corpse – lying motionless; the last expression on his face was one of stark and twisted pain.

Oh God – Oh God –

Her stomach roiled and churned as she struggled to her feet, lurching almost drunkenly and clutching at the wall again for support. She was going to be sick. Taking deep, unsteady breaths, she closed her eyes as hard as she could.

Her mind was screaming at her to run (for God's sake run) but her legs trembled beneath her. She could only, unwillingly, open her eyes once more, her heart racing, as she stared at Erik. His head was bowed, looking downward. She followed his gaze. Something ran over his hands – hot, slick, wet – and the knife slipped from his grasp, hitting the ground with a resounding clang.

Erik staggered backward, staring down at his hands. Something buried that had been rooted deep in his chest was struggling to get out, constricting his ribcage, choking him. He choked back a rising sea of nausea. It had happened. Oh Jesus Christ, it had happened. He had lost control. A rapidly building scream was pressing against the walls of his skull. Erik could hear the blood pounding in his ears. He felt it all over again: the beginnings of that horrific descent that would pull him into a hellish mixture of madness, terror, and ravaging guilt that he could never express. But for Christine, for Christine's sake, he must not, he must not –

Oh God –

Erik's mind reeled.

Christine.

Erik felt his consciousness begin to recede in a towering wave.

"Erik –"

Her face wavered and swam before him in a mist that was pale and swirling and all-enveloping. But the image of her expression; appalled, sickened, horrified – twisted into stark lines as though seen through a distorted mirror – it was branded onto his retinas like an ultra-violet imprint after staring too long at the sun. He wondered if he would ever see anything else again.

If she were any paler, Erik thought to himself – she was going to faint, to die –

But her figure was becoming more indistinct, rushing away with the rest of the world, and the corners of his vision darkened, probing fingers blackening against his lids – Yes – he thought distantly – let it end – please let it be over – and he stretched out his arms to welcome the annihilating approach of unconsciousness –

Christine's whispered voice pierced the swirling vortex of his thoughts, brutally dragging him back from the brink of relieving oblivion. "What have you done? What in God's name have you done?"

Erik tried to speak but the words would not come. Violent tremors tore through him, as though his body was trying to shake itself apart. Madness and fever consumed him. He gasped in lungfuls of dusty air, trying to breathe, trying to think –

Then a sudden numb sensation descended over him like a narcotic. His instinct for self-preservation rose to the fore, turning him at once commanding, swift, decisive.

"Move," he said. "Now."

Christine stared at him uncomprehendingly.

Erik caught hold of her arm in vice-like grip. His tone was hard, urgent. "We have to go before we're seen."

Her arm was limp and lifeless in his hold. Erik cast a swift, searching look around the narrow alley and clenched his jaw. He did not have time to wait for her to be persuaded. They needed to leave. This instant.

The brief phase of madness had passed, and Erik knew where he was again. The knowledge returned to him his cool sense of control. Now came the escape, the contingency, the strategy. This was Persia; this was Paris all over again. The agonies he might choose to tear himself up over in later solitude could wait. Whatever he was feeling now, he would have to bury it. Right now they had to run. Erik was not entirely clear on the laws surrounding murder in this place and he was not prepared to wait around to find out.

He had to drag Christine away from the scene. She could not move herself; she seemed almost catatonic. Erik kept a brutally tight unyielding hold on her as he threw them both into the midst of the busy market and crowd of people, but this could only be temporary, his hands and clothing were covered in blood and Christine's expression of blank terror could give them away at any moment –

There was nothing to connect either of them to the murder, they had emerged from that alley unseen, and if they could only get back to the guest house where he could wash the blood from his skin, scrub himself raw –

His body would not stop shivering. He felt sick. Dirty. Erik gritted his teeth. He would not think about that, he would not –

Roughly, he pushed past traders and merchants, moving onward until the dusty ground gave way to scanty grasses and a shallow ditch running along the verge. He looked up and saw a belt of twisted trees marking the edge of the town. They had reached the road. Erik paused, thinking fast. The roads were busy this time of the day, to steal a horse or cart would be far too conspicuous, both to drivers and passers-by walking along the lane. But they could not remain here, neither could they walk fast enough in this searing heat, covered in blood. Christine was breathing heavily next to him; she hadn't spoken since they had left the alley –

The clatter of approaching hooves interrupted his thoughts. An Arab merchant leaving the market on horseback, trailing a small cart that had sold all its day's produce. Erik made up his mind. He ran into the middle of the road, pulling Christine along behind him and hailed the rider. The merchant pulled up short, gazing down at him with slumberous eyes.

"Please," said Erik, thinking fast. "My wife… she has had an accident. She needs medical attention." He dropped a handful of coins into the Arab's hand, hastily giving the address of the street where their lodgings were located. "Can you take us there quickly?"

The merchant nodded, casting a concerned look at Christine. "It's not very stable in the cart. Will your wife be alright there? Had you not better wait for –"

"I'll sit with her," said Erik impatiently. "Will you help us?"

"Of course." The man nodded, and Erik propelled Christine towards the narrow contraption, making sure she was securely lodged before climbing in after her. The whip cracked and the horse bolted forward, sending the cart down the white road in a cloud of dust.

It was a hot, tumbling, violent, mindless hell-ride over the jagged road; a wild, thunderous gallop under the burning sun, the smell of sweat and dust heavy and close and suffocating. Bolts of pain jolted through Christine's limbs every time the cart pitched into the uneven dips pock-marking the ground. She was sprawled against the hot wooden slats, stunned and shaken, hardly breathing. A vision of sand and sun and sky flashed past her in a dizzying blur. From the corner of her gaze, she could see Erik's dark shape crouched across from her, a deadly figure of night, leather and destruction. There was dust in his hair and blood on his hands, the caged beast finally unleashed and looking ravenous for more. His annihilating presence had struck her paralysed; she could only close her eyes, feeling her body thrown from side to side by the movement of the cart, rattling her teeth and bones, the hair falling over her face. Her ribs were bruised, her throat scorched with thirst and she was wild with fear. He was death and she was death's consort; nothing else existed, there was only this swirling maelstrom of madness and despair –

He was speaking but she could not hear the words, could not think over the pounding of hooves upon the hard road and the screaming in her own mind. Something hovered over her – she opened her eyes and excruciating white-hot fire stabbed her vision –

The shadow reached out and laid his hands on her – the touch was like the meeting of liquid metals –

– Christine felt herself being burned, incinerated –

Her head fell back and she let the darkness overcome her.