Title: The Devil We Know

Summary: Christine Daae is the daughter of a recently deceased mafia boss. Suddenly, she finds herself toted as an up and coming gang leader, learning from the Phantom, a man who is feared by even the most powerful in the field as a notorious hit man. Will Christine find the strength to carve her own path, disregarding both darkness and light? Raoul's in it too. I guess.

Disclaimer: Phantom isn't copywritten any more, is it? I don't know. But the book belongs to Leroux and the musical belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber. Regardless, Erik, Christine, and Raoul aren't my original characters.

Author's Note: So, I just read Susan Kay's Phantom for the first time ever at the encouragement of Sara. Ouch. That book is like a crowbar to the chest, ain't it? The moral of the story? No one's happy. But getting to read about cracked-out Erik was an experience. "Presents. I must buy birthday presents." It's never gonna get old. Also, Sara helped me with figuring my way through slight writer's block.

Chapter Six: Last Daae Standing

For once, Erik felt a slight wave of gratitude for his mother being who she was as he led a wide-eyed, excited Christine to the dance floor. His mother had danced on this very floor in Madame Giry's some 30 years prior with her light, sure feet. Even before coming to Madame Giry's, she had made her livelihood through her body and dancing.

His mother was a pretty woman with a brief attention span and too many young men who had followed her home from strip bars panting for encores. Such encores always ended with poor Erik abandoning their apartment and wait in the car to escape the moaning. The squeaking beds and rustle of blood money echoed in his head every time he saw his mother.

Her love was reserved for music and dance, though she slept with men to provide for herself and her ugly burden. She'd tried to drop Erik off at an orphanage when he was seven and speed away in her faded station wagon. When she had to stop at a red traffic light, the passenger door creaked open and little Erik climbed back into the car, the mask on his face slightly askew from running so fast. He was persistent in his need to be near her, even if she hated him.

"Erik?" Christine whispered, cutting through the hazy fog of memory with her sweet concern. They were standing motionless on the dance floor, his hands on her waist, her arms circling his shoulders. He exerted no pressure at all in leading her through the steps, his hands flitting restlessly over her curves as if afraid she would turn to mist and escape through his fingers if he tried to truly touch her.

She looked up from resting her head against his shoulder. "You seem so far away."

Smiling down at her, he whirled her around to the sound of music flowing around them, dipping her low as he supported her weight easily. Her mind reeling with the sudden movement and the beauty of his unity with the music, she clung to his arms as he smoothly led her out of the dip into a close, waltzing position. Still, he left a careful inch between their bodies that made Christine want to scream.

Instead, she threw herself against him, breaching that distance with a defiant glint in her eyes. Trailing her fingers up his arms seductively, she was rewarded when an errant shiver racked his normally steady shoulders. His eyes closed briefly as a crescendo of happiness overtook his senses. He wanted to memorize each perfect detail of the moment, sure there wouldn't be another to match it.

She proved him wrong when she tugged him down by the lapels of his suit to press her soft lips to the left corner of his.

The urgent whispering is what reminded Christine they were in public. Erik pulled back to search the area with anxious energy. Irritated, she wondered if no one had seen two people kissing before, but the crowd wasn't murmuring about the Phantom. This was a name she knew only through the memories of others.

"Carlotta! It's Carlotta!"

The high, annoying laughter that followed in the wake of the crowd's murmur set Christine's teeth on edge. Erik returned the pressure her hand was exerting on his and she realized she was reacting instinctively to the other woman. She was an enemy. And Erik knew with surprising certainty that Christine would be an impassioned leader. That could be a source of strength, but also a gaping weakness. He needed to teach her cold patience in vengeance.

Carlotta swept into the nightclub like a goddess of night in a flowing black gown lined with silvery mesh webbing that spanned from her wrists to the bottom of her dress like freakish wings. Her tall, skinny stiletto heels clicked as she strode forward on Piangi's thick arm, the two physical opposites striking a contrast when placed next to each other.

No different, Erik supposed, than Christine beside him.

Carlotta's piercing gaze slashed across the main club area from behind her regal face mask, coming to rest on the dainty figure dressed in white and light purple. A smirk tilted her lips as she raked them with her calculating look. "Forgive me, for a moment I thought I saw the ghost of a woman I once called friend. Now I see you're only a pale imitation."

The blood drained from Christine's face then surged back through her veins in a flush of embarrassment and rage. That… bitch! How dare she-

Erik placed a hand on her arm as she took a step toward the taller woman standing across the dance floor. Christine stilled and peered at him. The expression of calm he wore was nothing short of terrifying.

Carlotta watched them with a harsh bark of laughter, one hand flicking at them dismissively. "Weak wills run in the women of your family, little Miss Daae. You already found someone to dominate you. And here I was worried you might amount to something of a rival from the way my informants spoke of you."

In the farthest recesses of her mind, intense hatred sprung up like an overflowing river. For a fraction of a second, she thanked Erik's decision not to give her a gun. Gun… In a barely audible whisper, Christine asked Erik, "Do you have Piangi's gun?"

He nodded once, a furtive, quick gesture. She stared at Carlotta without backing down and held her hand out to Erik. "Give it to me."

"But you can't fire it-"

"Give me the gun, Erik." Christine stated in a voice of cold steel. Then she added in that soft, barely conceivable murmur, "Trust me. Stay here."

Without further dissent, he slipped the telltale pistol into her small hand. Her fingers curled around the handle and she held it in plain view before her chest as she walked confidently toward Carlotta. Both stood straight, heads high. They were women warriors dancing a razor's edge. One wrong move from either of them and Erik or Piangi could pull a gun and then they'd both be dead.

Carlotta's eyes rested on the approaching girl and the gun in her hands. Christine stopped a few feet away from the other woman and presented the pistol for her inspection, just beyond her reach. "You recognize my new weapon? Your servant does. Look at him tremble. Did he tell you how I took it from him after his failure?"

Piangi's face paled, though his hard eyed expression didn't waver. Christine tapped the barrel of the gun to her chin in thought, wrapping her free hand around her waist in a gesture of careless ease. "Such sloppy work from professionals. How long have you been in this line of work? Really."

Piangi stepped forward to mutter something swiftly into Carlotta's ear, his hands behind his back like a child whose favorite toy had been taken away as punishment. Carlotta's eyes widened in shock and she jabbed a black nail at his chest. He winced as she hissed indignantly, "NO, I will not ask for it back, you fool!"

At this point, Madame Giry swooped in to disburse the crowd that was beginning to congregate around the interesting show. "Carlotta, welcome. Christine, if you wouldn't mind? It's been so long since I spoke to an old friend and former employee."

Christine left the dance floor irritably as a version of Janis Joplin's "Love is like a ball and chain" rang out from the speakers. She swept from the area toward the booth table situated in a dark corner of the club. It was occupied, but when she approached with the formidable gun in her hand and a dark look on her face, the women and men seated there skittered away like bugs. She felt a thrill of power course through her at this and reveled in it as she plopped down on the plastic seat, placing the gun on the table in front of her.

The raspy singing beating from the speakers was strangely soothing and she leaned back on the head rest behind her. Erik slid into the other side of the booth, staring at her across the shiny, black table. "There could have been better ways of handling that."

Christine shrugged, pushing the gun across the table's surface toward him, a preoccupied expression on her face. "Did you know she would be here?"

"There was a possibility. Madame Giry's masquerade parties generally attract a larger crowd than usual."

The strain in her face worried him. By nature, she was a creature who sought warmth and compassion. She tried desperately to protect what she loved, and she loved the memory of her dead parents dearly. Enough to put herself in danger to stand up for them. Enough to order him around knowing he could not resist obeying her.

An unexplainable flood of jealousy knifed through his chest as he realized her love for her parents was wide and deep. The love she claimed to feel for him was new. Fragile. For the first time in his life, he resented Elizabeth Daae, irrational as it was to begrudge a girl loyalty to her mother. "Your mother wouldn't have wanted you to pick fights thoughtlessly with dangerous people."

Christine eyed him and shrugged, propping her elbows on the table. "My mother is dead. I make my own decisions."

"Don't get too carried away, Christine. You aren't ready to take on someone like Carlotta. You have no power base, no one to command, and no experience in this field."

"I have you."

"You want me to wage a one-man war against the most powerful leader in the area and all the members of her gang?" his visible eyebrow hitched up on his forehead. "I'm flattered, but you overestimate me and underestimate Carlotta."

"Then tell me what I have to do to get rid of her!" Christine snapped, hands shaking with anger. "I don't know what's happening to me, Erik. I've never hated someone this way. It is almost uncontrollable."

"I suppose I should at least be grateful you didn't try to shoot her," he grumbled after a long pause. "Christine, if you want me to get rid of her, that isn't a problem. But know that my days as a hit man have been over for a while. I serve myself now and, because I care for you, I try to protect you. If you order me to do something, I can't deny you."

Christine watched his shoulders slump briefly, sagging under the inevitable weight of her assumed reply. Sighing, she reached out to trace the tiny seams of his gloves with her nail. "Even if you killed her now, someone else would take her place. No. Besides, I don't know why you hate taking orders from people, but it obviously bothers you a lot. I can't abuse that trust."

Before he could wrap her hand in his, a man wearing a full face mask of blue and silver walked over and bowed to Christine. "I see you have no rose, Miss. May I have a dance?"

Erik glared at the man's presumption, anger flaring violently from the core of his soul. Surprisingly, Christine jumped to her feet and chirped, "Yes. Let's go. Dance."

She left on the masked man's arm, her back rigid and a slight tremor in her shoulders. Erik watched the man, mentally comparing him to people he knew.

Raoul thought he was quite clever, parading Christine across the dance floor in a slow, whirling dance. She kept flicking gazes over her shoulder to check on what Erik was doing. His brooding gaze was trained on them. How could he not know it was Raoul? Well, if he didn't know it yet, he would realize the truth within seconds and then the shit would hit the fan.

Damage control! Christine's mind whirled as Raoul spun her in his arms. "Why are you here? You have to go!"

"I wanted to apologize for earlier. You were right."

"Yes, I was! And if you had half a brain, you would have taken my words to heart and stayed away from this place!" The panic in her whisper must have registered in her expression briefly, because Erik was now on his feet. Grabbing Raoul's hand, she began leading their dance further into the sea of people. "Shit, shit, shit. Why do I have to save your sorry ass?"

"I saw how you stood up to Carlotta. I didn't know your parents were mafia dons." Raoul said in a distasteful voice, but Christine barely heard him. Erik was now climbing up the stairs in an attempt to keep an eye on them despite her attempt to hide behind a cover of other dancers. "People are already talking about your vendetta against her. They're saying you might try to take over."

"Raoul, I hate to be blunt, but my safety is the least of your concerns right now. I have to get you outside before Erik-" The rest of her words were lost when a sharp pain sliced through her side, cold and urgent.

She pressed a hand to the place where the pain resonated and brought it up for examination. Warm, sticky blood.

"Sweet Jesus!" Raoul exclaimed as red blossomed on her stark white dress. The attacker, a nondescript man in a suit and mask, pulled back the knife for another stab, but was stopped when another man intervened.

Christine had noticed the bald man with dark tan skin watching her throughout her confrontation with Carlotta. His mask was a thick sash of red cloth tied around his upper face with holes cut to allow him to see. Now the man with a mask like Zorro grabbed the attacker's arm and twisted hard. There was a bone-shattering snap and the knife clattered to the dance floor.

The attacker's scream ricocheted off the walls of the club and Christine cringed back, stumbling into Raoul as she clutched at her side. He fumbled with her weight, trying to drag her off the dance floor and away from the violence.

Her mind felt too calm, she realized with a clarity that frightened her. Shock, maybe. A person only had to loose 40 of their body's blood before entering a shock-induced coma that was irreversible.

"Erik," she moaned frantically, an unnamed fear bubbling up within her as Raoul struggled to pull her to a chair. "Where's Erik?"

"Someone call an ambulance!" Raoul snapped at a nearby dancer who watched in stunned silence.

Shoving Raoul aside, Erik scooped Christine into his arms and vaulted up the stairs without a backward glance, leaving Meg and Madame Giry to sort out the mess. Christine huddled close to his chest, his comforting scent enveloping her blank mind and slowly coaxing her out of shock. The pain returned and she welcomed it, anything was better than that horrible numbness between life and death.

"Don't be mad at him. He's so stupid. He doesn't know." Christine babbled almost against her will as she gripped his suit jacket in a white knuckled fist. "Don't hurt him. He's just… he's like I was. He's innocent."

"Hush now," Erik said in a brusque voice. Here she was, bleeding out before his very eyes and she dared to beg for that impudent boy's life? More than that, a dread he hadn't felt in his life clamped icy hands around his neck. He couldn't reach the bedroom fast enough.

He put her on the bed, swiftly pulling a fold-up, emergency kit out from its placed strapped beneath the gun holster on his back. He flipped it open and grabbed his small shears, cutting the dress free from her body without a second thought.

The flesh on her left side red and swelling, a steady stream of blood dribbling from the slice. It was a clean cut and as he examined it, he was relieved to find it wasn't as bad as it looked. The blood that had seemed to pour from it only moments before downstairs was slowing to a clot. Still, she would need to have it properly disinfected then stitched to prevent reopening the wound with normal movement.

There was a syringe of Xylocaine secured within the kit and he took it out, preparing it for injection. It was only a local anesthetic, but it would help immensely. Her mind was already in such a panic, the stinging pain of stitches might be too much for her.

He was careful of her kidneys when injecting the drug. It was such a tricky area to deal with, but he had seen far worse. After a minute, Christine relaxed a fraction, the pain abnormally gone. That was enough of a sign for him to continue. He grabbed the water and peroxide solution and another antiseptic along with cotton balls.

The wound was cleaned with the water and peroxide. The area around the injury he swabbed with the external antiseptic. There was a needle already prepared to a suture in the kit and he was grateful he'd done it in advance as the trembling in his hands was increasing as time went on.

He glanced up to check on her before beginning the actual stitching. Expecting her to have her face turned away in disgust, he was surprised to find her watching him from behind the mask she had forgotten about with a look between curiosity and amazement. Then he turned his attention to finishing the task.

Once he had a square of gauze bandage taped over the sutured wound, he was finally able to expel a long sigh of relief that ended in dry, choked sob. Christine glanced up at the sound, worried, and he had plopped down in a seated position, his legs bent and his elbows propped on his knees. His hands dug into his hair as he fought for silent control.

She reached out her left hand, her arm length falling short of reaching him. He recoiled from her hand like it was a poisonous snake, ready to bite. "I'm sorry, Erik. I'm sorry you had to do that for me."

There was a knock on the door and Erik could have screamed in frustration. Could no one take care of themselves in this town?!

The door swung open to reveal the bald man, now divest of his cloth mask. Erik was on his feet instantly. "Nadir!"

"I have the attacker bound and gagged in the cellar. I thought you might want him alive for questioning."

A look of pure rage passed over Erik's face like a storm cloud before the man revised his previous statement. "Perhaps I will interrogate him with you when the time comes."

"But what are you doing here?" Erik demanded.

"I heard the last Daae standing planned to join this silly little gang war." Nadir shrugged easily, picking at a spot of blood on his white tie. "And from what I saw tonight, she is in dire need of a bodyguard and unbiased advisor."

Erik tensed visibly. "That is my position, in case you hadn't noticed."

"So you say," a smile crept across his lips as his dark eyes slid from Erik to Christine and back again. "I'm not quite sure that's exactly what you are, but regardless… Erik, you were never a bodyguard. You're an assassin by profession, a spy occasionally and you are very good at what you do. You are… unaccustomed to the subtle differences in offensive and defensive roles."

"You can't protect someone by power of will alone no matter how hard you try. And no one ever died from having too many advisors, so that can't be the problem."

Erik shot him an acidic look. "As you can plainly see, I managed to dress her wound without your help."

"Yes, but if I had been her bodyguard at the time there would be no wound," Nadir inclined his head toward Christine before leaving. "I will wait for you before questioning our careless assassin."

Once the door was shut, Christine asked from beneath the layer of blanket, "Who was that man? Is he a friend of yours?"

"Friend is such a harsh word," Erik mused darkly. "Rival, perhaps. He was Gustav's bodyguard and assistant. I haven't seen him for weeks."

"If my father had a bodyguard then how did he die?"

"Nadir was away for awhile." Erik replied hesitantly. "The rest is his business."

Christine squirmed in her resting place as if trying to sit up. Her restless wiggling knocked the blanket away from her bare chest and onto the floor. Erik was at her side immediately, holding her shoulders down against the bed. "No. Stay there. You'll reopen your-"

When he looked down at her, one arm shielded her breast while the other grasped around frantically for her blanket or anything to cover herself. A violent blush spread across her face, blossoming down the skin of her neck. He knew she was deathly embarrassed, but for all his self control he could not tear his eyes away from her perfect, beautiful body.

His greedy gaze devoured every inch of exposed flesh, so pale and smooth would probably shine in darkness. His eyes tripped over the large gauze patch strapped to her side and pictured the new, grotesquely stitched alteration to her previously flawless skin hiding behind the bandage. Christine's breath caught in her throat as a look of pure sorrow stole over his open admiration and he brushed a finger along the edge of the gauze. "I'm slowly changing you, little one. I'm draining your beauty bit by bit."

Christine could hardly believe her ears. Arms still crossed over her nakedness, she demanded coldly. "Are you implying that I'm any less beautiful now than I was a few days ago because of a little SCRATCH?"

"It's not just a scratch, it was a gaping wound. And my suturing skills are sorely lacking, so no doubt you'll have a large scar…"

Christine was so angry she ripped off her mask and tore the gauze away from her wound, thankful of the local anesthetic still numbing the area. The stitches ran three inches long across her cut, the skin red and wrinkled from the pressure of the thread holding it closed. "I would rather be scarred than dead. Wouldn't you?"

A sad smile curled the visible side of his lips. "At times, Christine, I'm not so sure."

And then before her eyes, he slowly reached up to the mask covering that dark secret he guarded so vehemently. It fell away from his face, dropping lifeless to the carpet with a glassy ring as he entrusted her with his pain.

Having completely forgotten her nudity, she stretched up to him with a look of incredulous surprise. He stiffened as her warm fingers gently caressed the warped, mangled skin and cupped his half-collapsed cheek. The bones of his skull were so close to the surface of his thin flesh stretched red and irritated. Veins stood out from the veneer of his skin and the scarred tissue trailed down from his face to the right side of his neck. The right side of his nose seemed to have dissolved into a twisted, sunken cavity.

To say Christine was surprised would be an understatement. She was completely shocked at the horror of such a deformity, but her heart and mind had already accepted him. It was just a matter of her body catching up to her, which is why she reflexively reached out to familiarize herself with the damaged part of his face.

Steadying her grip on both sides of his head, she yanked him down to her level. He stared at her in shock, completely baffled that she would want him closer. She smiled shakily as she whispered, "I needed a better look."

When she kissed him, he could have died a happy man.

When there was a knock at the door, he actually groaned out loud and hastily fumbled for his mask. Christine flushed red again as she tried to grab the fallen blanket to no avail. Erik grabbed the mask and blanket at the same time, wrapping her securely under the cover before he placed his mask firmly back on his face.

He stalked to the door and opened it a crack to find Meg's pale, worried face waiting on the other side. His voice was a hoarse growl. "What do you want?"

"Is Christine okay?" she asked, tears glistening in her eyes. "You took her away and there was so much blood… You didn't come back down to let us know if she was-"

"She is fine."

Christine's soft voice floated over from her bed. "Is that Meg?"

That was all the incentive Meg needed to brush passed the formidable man blocking the door in search of her friend. She rushed over to the side of the bed and knelt down. "Christine, you're okay, I'm so glad…"

Meg burst into tears of relief and Christine's eyebrows furrowed in concern, sympathetic tears threatening to escape her own eyes as she ran a hand through Meg's blonde hair. "Shh, it's okay. I'm okay. We're fine."

Frustrated by the intrusion, Erik ran a hand through his black hair before stating, "Meg, since you're here please help Christine put some clothes on. I had to cut her dress away to work on the stitches."

"Stitches?!" Meg gasped and yanked the blanket up to stare at Christine's naked side. Christine squawked in protest and she jammed the blanket back down in place. "Oh, you poor baby, it looks like a rabid dog bit the hell out of you. Don't worry, it'll heal. I can't believe that... that hired thug!"

Erik left them to their talk at that point, as Meg's words had reminded him that he had an assassin to interrogate. Nadir led the way down into the dimly lit basement where their guest was propped against a wall, his hands and feet trussed in a sturdy rope. His mouth was full of the cloth sash that Nadir had recently used as a mask.

Whatever questions they were hoping the man would answer for them would go unsolved for the moment, however. The assassin's throat had been opened with a long, vicious slash, the murder weapon then used to pin a piece of paper to the wooden walls of the cellar above the dead man.

Erik lashed out with a gloved hand, tearing the paper free of the hunting knife. Two words written in bold, red words mocked them: next time.

Crumpling the paper in his fist, he shot Nadir an angry glare as he stomped out of the room. "Great body guarding, Persian. What would we have done without you?"