XXIV

"Christine! Christine, wake up!" A high, female voice shattered the sweet dream of sunshine and Erik's voice. Behind her, Raoul groaned, flopping onto his belly and pummeling the pillow into a shape more pleasing to him. A rapid, woodpecker's knock, followed by Elise's voice, now marred with a petulant whine: "Come on, Christine! Get up you . . . you slugabed!"

"Coming," she slurred, sliding out of bed. She gasped as her warm, bare feet made contact with the icy wood floor. Gingerly pinching the bridge of her nose to keep the headache at bay, Christine undid the latch and opened the door.

"There you are!" Elise's blue eyes narrowed, hands braced on her hips. Stifling a jaw-aching, blisteringly painful yawn, Christine grinned at Elise's impatience.

"Good morning, Elise."

"Good morning," Elise rushed through her greeting, sucking in a breath to say more, when she caught sight of the locket. Her pudgy finger stabbed the air.

"Hey! Where did you get that? It's Erik's! A gift from his mother!" A look of wary speculation animated Elise's generous features. Christine clutched the locket to her heart.

"It was a gift. He would want me to have it," she snapped. His little sister was within her rights to take it back. In that, his sister ranked well above his whore lover. Elise's expression cleared instantly.

"Well, if he gave it to you, then it's all right. Now come on, there's something I want to show you."

Grasping Christine's good hand, Elise hauled back with all her strength. Christine snatched a robe from its place on a hook. Belting the sash of the deep blue robe, Christine followed at Elise's urging. Climbing down the stairs proved to be within Christine's strength, but only just. She clutched the banister and tried to will the trembling from her legs once she reached the foot.

"Do I need to fetch someone, Christine? You don't look so good," Elise asked, her small hands patting Christine's back.

"I'm fine," Christine said, waving off her concern. The cold marble felt good on her broken fingers, which ached unbearably sometimes. Her ribs were also complaining about so much sudden activity. Her stomach lurched and churned in sympathy. Coughing, Christine swallowed down the urge to vomit.

"Now what's so important that you wanted to show me?" Christine asked, eager for distraction from her bodily woes. Subdued, Elise threaded Christine's arm over her shoulders.

"You can lean on me if you need to. What happened to you, anyway?" Christine regarded the little girl for a long moment. A young noble lady did not need to know what had happened to Christine's face. But then again, Elise was not insulated from violence. God, her own aunt was shot right in front of her.

"A very bad man hit me. I made him angry and he hit me." Elise's brow forked, and to Christine's horror, her lower lip began to quiver. Slowly, painfully, Christine knelt.

"Oh Elise, oh darling. What's the matter?"

"I'm—I'm so sorry that h—happened to you." Elise sniffled, flinging her arms around Christine. Pressed against Christine's chest, her next words were muffled with tears and fabric: "When we left Paris, Erik said one of his friends was in trouble and he was going to go help. Did he mean you?" Tears filled her eyes. Her Erik, gallant and brave, he'd cared for his sisters in the wake of Claire's death and then immediately thought of her safety. He had been too late though. She had already lost all faith and given in to her despair.

"Yes," she whispered, reaching for the locket for comfort, "I loved him very much." Elise peeled back, peering into Christine's face.

"Loved him? You mean you don't love him anymore?" Wet with tears, Elise's eyes seemed deeper, bluer. Like Raoul's, she thought. Pain cramped Christine's heart. Had anyone told this poor child that Erik was dead?

"No, of course not. I will always love him. It's . . . it's just different now that he's gone." Elise cocked her head like an inquisitive bird, brow furrowed.

"Gone? Erik's not gone. That's what I was going to show you: we just got a telegram from Reims. He went there looking for you and Raoul. Madame Villon just went to town to send one back. He'll be home soon!"

Not gone? Not gone? Alive? Christine's world lurched and spun on a new axis around this thought. Her heart pounded. Hot and cold washed over her in waves.

"W—When did you get this telegram?" Her voice sounded so strange: warbling, with barely enough breath behind it to make a sound. Hope, oh God, hope was so cruel. It breathed life into all the hurt, broken places. It hurt. Christine didn't know whether to laugh, cry or scream.

"This morning. Christine, you're hurting me." Christine immediately loosened her grip on Elise's shoulders, rubbing apologetically. This morning. He was alive. Alive. Alive. Alive! How was that possible? Raoul had said . . . he had said . . .

"You saw him? Before you left Paris? Was he hurt?" Could he have survived a gunshot to the chest?

"Yes. A bad man shot him and threw him in the river. Erik said his friend Nadir helped him. I like Nadir, he always bring us candy. He didn't this time, though. All he brought with him was a lady."

Oh God. The past few days were a string of blood-soaked battles and tragic near-misses. Her hands flew to her ruined face, her ruined voice. He would come to her now—now that she was ugly and mad and broken? The wild, insane laughter surged up in her throat and she wrestled it down.

"I . . . I think I'm going to-" Christine muttered, before her vision bled to black.

XXX

R and C at manor –STOP-Persian just arrived—STOP-All safe and well—STOP- Come home-STOP-

Erik stared at the yellow scrap of paper, reading and re-reading Madame Villon's message. Releasing the breath he hadn't known he was holding, Erik steadied himself against the counter, knees watery with relief. Safe and well. He would be safe and well now too. Fresh energy welled up in him, a smile stretching his wind-chapped lips.

"I take it all is well, Monsieur le Comte?" the telegrapher asked, long fingers drumming an uneven tattoo on the station's counter.

"Very well, Monsieur. You have my thanks," Erik replied, folding the telegraph neatly and tucking it into the pocket over his heart. Offering a few bills, Erik excused himself with a polite nod and stepped into the howling wind and the brilliant sunshine. Elation lightened his stride, he felt as if he was floating over the ground. Safe and well.

Safe and well and free. At last, they were free.

César sensed his change in mood as he swung astride, gathering the reins. The stallion pranced, tossing his elegant head.

"Home. We are going home," Erik said, and touched his heels to the stallion's flanks. The surge of speed lifted his heart and soon Erik was laughing in sheer wild joy.

It was the following dusk before the Château was at last in sight. By midday, César had slipped a shoe and Erik had dared not push his gallant stallion faster than a slow trot. In the way of anticipated journeys home, the distance seemed to stretch on beyond the horizon into an infinity of cold, hungry, weary monotony. Upon seeing the familiar looming shape of the Château ablaze with light, Erik's heart took up a new, lurching rhythm to her name: Christine, Christine, Christine . . . So close now.

A breathless steward was the first to greet him as he dismounted, a plump, rosy-cheeked lad that Erik recalled with some fondness.

"Monsieur le Comte! We had begun to worry for you!" he gushed, taking César's rein. Erik's smile was more of a tired grimace. He gave César's thick damp neck a firm pat. The stallion offered a weary nicker, nibbling Erik's sleeve companionably.

"Your sisters and . . . your brother are waiting for you. As well as that Persian fellow and . . . and . . . her." With a certain dry amusement, Erik wondered how Raoul had adapted to life at the Château. His heart leapt at the 'her.' Christine.

"Thank you, Albert. Give César some pampering this evening. Hot bran mash, a good rub down, and watch his right fore. He slipped a shoe yesterday." Nodding vehemently, Albert squeaked, "I will, Sir. I surely will!" Albert led the stallion away toward the cozy haven of the stable. As he watched them go, a jagged glass memory of another stable knifed into Erik's consciousness and suddenly he was there, staring into bottomless black eyes filled with such hate . . . Erik swayed on his feet.

Speaking with Albert made Erik feel at once more weary and more human. Since the moment he had last seen Christine, his days and nights had mutated into a torment of loss and fear, blood and cold. His surge of elation upon hearing they were safe had exhausted his emotional reserves. Everything around him held a surreal, dream-like quality and for one wild moment he wondered if he would wake up and hear his father and Claire on the stair, his life wholly unchanged.

The door exploded open to a gale of joyful shouting. A small, dark-haired whirlwind struck him hard in the middle, followed closely by the taller, brown-haired whirlwind. His little imps. Their twin impacts struck his wounds and set them afire, but he didn't care.

"Erik!" Jacqueline and Elise cried in unison. Since Claire's death, Jacqueline's taut, adult self-sufficiency had given way to a sort of wounded need. She yearned for affection but rarely allowed herself to ask for it. Erik's heart ached for her. Elise had the same sweet, generous heart, and coped by being desperately cheerful. The tears and pain would come, and Erik swore he would be there to comfort her. Erik held them close, dropping kisses on upturned foreheads and murmuring endearments. After a tender moment thus, Elise was bouncing up and down like an overeager puppy.

"Oh Erik, did you hear? Raoul and Christine found us on the road and now they're here! Christine said a very bad man hit her and that's why her face is messed up. She thought you were gone, like Aunt Claire. I told her you had just gone looking for her and she got this funny look on her face and fainted. She is all right now, though. When I told Raoul, he just got really, really pale. Didn't he, Jackie?"

"He took the news much better. Your Persian friend is here too. He is quite a gentleman," Jacqueline said. Through his little sisters' recitation, Erik's heart wiggled free from his chest and crept by increments up until it resided somewhere in his esophagus. If his own mind still reeled drunkenly from the events of the last week, Christine's would have in equal measure.

"I need to see them." His voice echoed oddly in his ears, his feet carrying him across the threshold into the warm, soft light of the Château. For so many years, he'd found the manor oppressive, but as of this moment, he could wish to be nowhere else in the world.

Madame Villon greeted him with a dry peck on the cheek and babbled explanations. The sight of Nadir calmed him and Erik gladly embraced his friend. They parted with murmured greetings in Persian and Nadir cast a meaningful glance toward the staircase. Had they not heard him coming? Why weren't they coming to greet him? Ice hollowed out his belly, remembering the long climb up the stairs to Claire's deathbed. Erik knelt between his sisters and kissed them perfunctorily.

"I must speak with Christine and Raoul for a bit. I will be down for supper and we can talk, hmm?" Both girls agreed, though he caught a flash of rebellion in Jacqueline's gaze before her solemn nod. He made a mental note to talk to her about that later. Then, at last, still clad in the same filthy clothes in which he had fought and killed the monster of his love's nightmares, Erik climbed the stairs to where she waited.

XXX

Faintly, she heard his voice. Even worn and raspy, it was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. Tears filled her eyes. Since discovering he was indeed alive, Christine had wept almost continuously. Catharsis, she thought, after a year of her emotions stunted and crushed beneath fear.

"He's here! Christine, he's here! Can you believe it?" Raoul was bouncing on the balls of his feet, nearly skipping around the room. Raoul's intense remorse at having been misinformed had given way to a giddy sort of joy that made him very difficult to be around for any length of time.

By contrast, Christine's heart began to pound as she heard the tread of his boots on the stair. Could he love her when she was like this? She had seen her face in the mirror in the hall. A mess of bruises in variegated shades, both eyes still puffy, the white of her left eye red where a small vessel had broken. Her nose was healing, but remained hideously red and swollen. A broken, used-up whore was entirely unworthy of him. What did she have to offer him but her tattered excuse for a heart?

A soft, hesitant knock.

"Christine? Raoul?" Erik's golden voice sank into her skin like the sun's caress. Raoul bounded over to the door, flinging it open. She gasped, fighting the impulse to bury her damaged face in her hands.

Erik . . . he looked . . . older. The dark stubble on his cheeks glittered with a smattering of silver, highlighting the sharp angles of cheekbone and jaw. His black mask had seen better days, seamed with dirt and filth. The lines bracketing his mouth looked worn deep and his full lips pressed into a thin line. His whole attitude was one of weary endurance. Those eyes . . . oh God, his eyes held such naked pain! Unbearable green eyes shifted to Raoul and his expression softened.

"Good to see you, lad." With that, Raoul uttered a strangled sob and flung his arms around his brother. Through his noisy tears, Christine could make out the words: "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! Please forgive me!" Erik gruffly patted Raoul's shoulders, murmuring comfort and absolution. Grasping his shoulders and peeling him back, Erik regarded his brother with the same gentleness he regarded Elise and Jacqueline. While Christine was happy for Raoul's reconciliation, her heart still thudded heavily in her chest. That traitorous organ was so very eager to tear itself free and return to its master, regardless of Christine's reservations.

"We have much to speak on, Monsieur le Vicomte." Raoul stiffened at the title, then laughed at Erik's grin.

"That will take some getting used to," Raoul said, sniffling. He glanced at Christine and offered a blinding smile as he left, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

And she was alone with Erik before a crackling fire, seated on the foot of the bed while he stood like a felon waiting for judgment. The tableau reminded her so cruelly of their last meeting that she shrank a little into herself, uttering a tiny whimper. Then he knelt before her, head bowed. Tears stood in his eyes, his entire frame quivered with powerful emotion.

"Oh Christine." His voice trembled with silken pleading, "Christine. Forgive me. Please." Oh God, she felt the moment her heart surged free, abandoning itself into his keeping. Forgive him? For what? For a brief, horrible moment, she was certain he had decided he didn't want her after all.

Warm, callused hands stroked her hair. Her eyes slipped closed. She remembered that heart-breaking tenderness, and arched into the touch like an affectionate cat. He loved her, as she loved him.

"Why?" she said softly.

"I wasn't there. I wasn't there when you needed me." His voice made her ache. Christine opened her eyes and found his anguished, pleading eyes, reverent hands still in her hair. Life and his family had demanded that he shoulder more guilt and more pain than was just. Christine reached out and cupped his stubbled cheek, restless fingers caressing his hard jaw.

"It was a misunderstanding, and in my selfish pain, I wanted to join you—wherever you were." A ragged sound escaped him and turned his chapped lips into her palm.

"And I know I'm . . . ugly." Christine's confession seemed small and shallow said aloud. Erik exhaled a breathy laugh.

"Impossible. Do you truly think I could not love you after suffering as you have, when you loved me despite my face? Is that what you think of me?"

"No! It's just that . . . I'm not . . . worthy. I am a whor-"

"Don't, Christine. You will not refer to yourself as such. You did what you had to." A small, wry part of her mind noted that it was almost the exact words she'd said to comfort Raoul. Then the harsh timbre eased into a sinuous, slithering caress, like a teasing, lapping tongue and she couldn't think at all.

"I love you, Christine. I won't ever stop." Christine was swallowed whole by the love in his green eyes.

"Love, oh my love. Oh my poor little lamb." Christine sighed, all the tension flowing out of her as Erik's dry, chapped lips rained her upturned face with feather-light kisses. Her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks, her nose. Every battered inch of her he treasured.

"Erik," she breathed, pain and fear loosening their grip on her soul and falling away.

Their lips brushed, met, savored in a series of decadent, languid kisses. She tasted the salt of sorrow and healing, and beneath that, she tasted Erik. As comfort became greed and lips wandered to appease their hunger, Christine threaded her hands into his oily hair, tasting sweat and dust on the skin of his throat. Erik eased her into his lap, hands unbearably tender.

"You are worthy. You are worthy of everything I can give you, Christine. I will give you a home where you will always feel safe. I will give you my love, my fidelity, my name—all that I am is yours, if you want it." Christine laughed breathlessly, her laugh turning to a gasp as he nibbled on the curve of her ear.

"If I want it? Of course I want it." He sealed those words with a kiss that quickly melted from sweet and chaste to something no less sweet, but far from chaste. Christine peeled away the mask to cherish his own pain with kisses, grasping for more of the taste of his skin.

"And I give you my battered body, my less than sane mind, and my wounded heart. If you want it." She wanted to promise children, but the words seemed cruel and fickle. What if the Madame and Bruno had . . . had damaged her in some way? Erik's delicious voice drew her from the sharp needle's prick of fear.

"I want it. I want all of you, forever," he purred against her throat. His stubble rasped against her skin, a pleasant prickling.

Was this real? Or would she wake up in a sumptuous bed with a customer knocking on the door, or Raoul snoring next to her, still shattered inside? Christine's hands cupped his face, treasuring the deformed and perfect sides equally.

"Is this really happening? Are you really here with me?" she whispered, striving to imprint every detail into her mind: the dirt under his fingernails, his taste of sweat and winter and hunger, his scent, oh God, that familiar, wonderful smell!

"Yes, my love. I'm here. I'll never leave again." His voice! Even her grief-ravaged mind could not recreate that voice from the ashes of her memories, not every hue and flavor of it! Christine drew his precious scarred face close, content to feel his breath tickle her skin. That soft, sweet breath, proof that he was alive and here and she wasn't mad.

"You found it." His husky voice drew her from her bliss and Christine peeled back far enough to look into his eyes.

"What was that, love?" she asked. His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes in an adorably familiar way.

Warm, callus-roughened fingers disentangled from her hair and skimmed down her throat. Christine's breath caught at the sudden rush of arousal caused by his finger, curled around the skin-warmed charm of the locket resting innocuously between her breasts.

"My locket. You found it," he purred.

"R—Raoul found it and gave it to me. After he . . . after he told me you'd died." Couched between those words hid the deepest grief of her life. Erik's smile faded and he drew her into his arms, pulling her against his strong chest. With a harsh sigh, she nestled against him, listening to his strong, beating heart.

"You kept me safe. You kept me safe in your heart," Erik whispered into her hair and she thought it was quite the opposite.

A/N: Aw, aren't they cute? Tell me what you think!