Here you go everyone! Hope you are all happy with this chapter. I know you have all been waiting patiently for Brielle and Erik to interact more…so here you are!

By the way my editor Terpsichore314 is fantastic! She got me this chapter back on the same day I sent it! So hurray for her because she is great! Thanks again my wonderful hard working Beta!

One quick note, which does not apply to anyone who has ever reviewed the story. I was extremely disappointed at the small number of reviews for the last chapter. I don't expect everyone to review every chapter or anything but it would be nice for all the people who have never reviewed, and I know how many of you there are, to throw me a line once in awhile. I take everyone's suggestions seriously and it is a little disheartening when not that many people bother to even write a single sentence saying what they think. It is sort of like talking to an empty room.

But anyway, getting away from that. I would like to thank all of those people who have reviewed my story, even if it was only one time. It really does make writing the next chapter easier when I hear what you all think. So thanks.

Chapter 42: The Man Behind the Phantom

The winter wind blew savage and cold over the roof panels of the Opera Populaire, slicing across Erik's exposed cheeks like a thousand tiny knives as it whistled off into the distance. Blinking against the wetness involuntarily gathering in his stinging eyes, the masked man hunched his shoulders. So preoccupied was he with the icy depths of his own thoughts, Erik hardly even registered the numbing air and gathering pain except for when the wind blew the folds of his cape open.

Since the night Brielle and he had come face-to-face, the masked man could think of nothing else. The scene of those few short minutes played over and over within his head in an endless looping production, as he analyzed and critiqued every word and gesture. It had not taken him long to become heatedly embarrassed over his own actions. The situation had given him the opportunity to voice all of his grievances against her, to openly berate the damned woman and finally be free of the sympathy he felt for her. And yet, he had allowed that moment to slip through his fingers.

Instead of facing her like a man, he had flipped the cowl of his cloak over the top of his head and altered the pitch of his voice so it would have been impossible for her to recognize him in the shadows. At first Erik considered these reactions disgustingly cowardly, but looking back now he realized that perhaps it was for the better. At the moment he had heard her voice call out behind him a shiver of fear had streaked through his abdomen, making him nearly physically ill, making him forget any acts of bravery he might have done. And so, to escape the curls of anxiety blooming within him, he had wrapped himself in the protective and familiar mantle of the Phantom, drawing comfort and confidence from the mystique of the character he had created so long ago. It was only because he had pretended to be someone other than himself that he was able to speak to her like he had, in a semi-calm manner, he knew that now. Yes, it is far better this way. It is less dangerous this way.

Shaking his head slightly, Erik closed his eyes against the biting wind, finally feeling the arctic blasts as he came out of his brooding thoughts. With slow movements he brushed the light dusting of snow off his shoulders and stood. Rubbing life back into his numbed legs he allowed his gaze to sweep over the gray city below him. Annoyed at the sight of so many people scurrying about upon the ground, Erik stopped massaging his stiff limbs and took a step forward to lean over the edge of the roof, his eyes narrowing as he watched the men and women going about their daily lives. I should have known better than to come up here. It always puts me in a bad mood. Seeing the city moving about below…they don't even know how lucky they are.

His mood quickly taking a downward spiral once again, Erik leaned down further, resting his elbows on the frosted stone ledge. As the bitter wind picked at his neatly combed hair, he ran a gloved finger along the outer curve of his mask, his thoughts backtracking to brood over Brielle's presence at the Opera for the hundredth time that day. Of course that blasted woman can't leave well enough alone. She has been asking too many questions. I can't go anywhere without her snooping around. She is worse than a damned bloodhound…

"But what the hell am I supposed to do about her? She does have just enough leverage on me to make sure I stop irritating her," he said aloud, his lips thinning in annoyance. Growling, Erik smashed a fist against the cold stone. "I shouldn't have let her sneak up on me. What a stupid mistake. But then again I seem to have been infected by stupidity…lately almost every other thing I do smacks of idiocy. After all, what is wrong with me that when I had the chance to make her squirm I backed off…even felt bad for her? Something about her expression at that moment shattered my resolve. Blast her! It was almost as if she expected me to strike her."

Furious with himself for every treacherous ounce of sympathy he felt, Erik began to worry his bottom lip between his teeth. Shifting his weight slightly, he frowned when he felt something bite into his ribcage. Pulling away from the stone ledge, he glared down at one of his vest pockets in irritation. In one quick movement he dug his fingers into the offending pocket, hooking a long silver chain on the tip of his index finger. What in the world? Curious now as to the identity of the object, Erik gave the chain a smart jerk, surprised dismay darkening his features as he recognized the emblem dangling before his eyes.

The image of Saint Jude winked at him as the pressed silver disk rotated with the wind a few inches in front of his eyes. He had found the gift Brielle had given him on the day of his mock birthday. The barest hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth as he remembered the moment she had handed it to him. She told me she thought it appropriate, seeing as Saint Jude is the patron saint of lost causes…She laughed when she told me that…teasing me…God, how I loved the way her eyes lit up whenever she laughed.

"I was sure I had misplaced this," he said with a touch of confused wonder. "Strange I don't remember feeling it in my pocket before now. Surely I have worn this vest since then…but…" Trailing off, Erik's expression immediately began to darken. Stop being foolish…these memories are false…you KNOW that.

Gathering the chain into his palm, Erik slowly brought his fingers closed over the benevolent face of the saint, crushing the necklace in a fist. As the leather of his glove creaked from the sudden tension, something occurred to the masked man. I should have known better. Allowing a stranger to share the birthday of your daughter…ha…I was a fool not to question her motives then. But I have learned my lesson, as I always do.

Pulling his fist back, Erik moved to fling the symbol of his disillusionment over the edge of the Opera, but at the last moment something stayed his hand. Trembling with the effort to purge himself of the necklace, he stood frozen in mid-action. But the harder Erik fought, the more difficult any sort of movement became. Memories flickered unrelenting across his mind. Closing his eyes, Erik recalled images of Brielle's flushed and smiling face as she had taught him to dance all those months ago, and of Aria's shy, beguiling eyes grinning at him despite his obvious oddities. Even a flash of Conner's easy acceptance and good humor rose up from the depths of his memory. As he pushed the memories back into the vaults of his mind, Erik slowly lowered his fist to his side. He knew then that he would not be able to throw the medallion away nor his memories as easily as he had thought he could. And his fight to do so had just begun.

Sighing heavily, Erik straightened and stalked away from the edge of the roof only to turn and pace back. Feeling restless, he rubbed his hands together nervously. "Brielle is smart…too damned smart to not eventually figure out my habits…the ways I travel about the Opera. When that happens she will make even more of a nuisance of herself." Kicking the base of a statue, he grimaced as a flash of pain shot up his already half-frozen foot. Cursing fluently in several languages, Erik hopped haphazardly across the flat expanse of the roof.

"Blast and damnation! Keep your temper under control. Everything is fine." Dropping his foot gingerly to the ground, Erik carefully eased his weight onto the throbbing appendage and headed toward the door back into the Opera. "I have never met another person in the world who can match me when it comes to illusion and deceit. No one has ever fully discovered all of the Phantom's secrets, and in this place I am most definitely the Phantom. I don't know why I am having so much trouble fitting back into my old ways. After all, I was the Phantom for over twenty years…I was only Erik after Brielle dragged me to her house."

Wrenching open the roof door with a loud bang, Erik strode into the building, the warm air billowing up from the floors below bathing his skin, sensation finally returning to his face. Taking a deep breath, he gathered his scattered thoughts and closed the door behind him. "From now on I am determined to treat that woman with all the indifference of a stranger. It will be easy as long as I remember all the things she has done. I will not allow myself to be tricked by her pretty face again. It will be easy…"

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The door to Brielle's dormitory slowly creaked open midway through the morning. All of the room's occupants slept on soundly, a few snores punctuating the stillness, as a pair of dainty feet quietly glided to where the Irish woman was sleeping. Squatting down next to the bed, the petite blonde reached out a hand and gave Brielle a gentle shake.

Starting up in bed as if she had been slapped across the face, Brielle let out a loud gasp before recognizing the person kneeling at her bedside. "Meg! By the saints, you nearly gave me heart palpitations. What in the world are you doing sneaking around in here?"

With an apologetic smile, Miss Giry turned and opened a trunk at the end of Brielle's bed. "I am sorry I scared you. I didn't mean to." Rummaging through the small box of the Irish woman's clothes and personal possessions, Meg pulled out the best dress she could find, a simple dark blue affair with the tiniest bit of lace at the throat and wrists. Looking up to see the blank questioning expression on her friend's face, she quickly stood. "I am terribly sorry to wake you, Brielle. I know how late you were working last night, but there has been a commotion onstage and Madame Dubois told me to get you specifically."

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Brielle sat up, trying to make out what the other girl was trying to say. "What are you talking about? What time is it?" Turning her eyes to the bed beside her Brielle frowned when she realized it was empty. "Do you happen to know where Aria ran off too?

Pulling the covers off her friend, Meg put a finger to her lips. "Shh. We don't want to wake anyone else. But yes I do know where Aria is. I took her to the school room earlier this morning. She had said she wanted to go and see it even though she is too young for the classes right now. But come on you have to hurry!"

Rolling her eyes and standing, Brielle snatched the dress out of Meg's hands, more than just a little annoyed at being woken up. "Why in the world did Madame Dubois say to wake me? That woman is beginning to drive me crazy!"

Turning back to the trunk, Meg pulled out a clean set of undergarments and tossed them to Brielle. "I know, I know. I feel terrible. But she said that several important people have arrived today and you seem to know how to conduct yourself in a discreet enough manner to be about while they are around. So I suppose that is why she wanted you to come."

Subtly Brielle adjusted the angle of her wig when Meg turned her head, trying to ignore the terrible itching of the blasted thing. Once again wishing that she and her daughter had a room to themselves, she quietly walked to the back of the room and pulled out a changing screen from where it rested against the wall. Stepping behind the screen, she pulled her nightdress over her head and slipped on the thin cotton chemise Meg tossed over to her.

Giving in to the temptation, Brielle reached up and snatched the dozens of pins holding her wig firmly to her head. Pulling the black headpiece from her real hair the Irish woman undid the tight swirl of the white braid crowning the top of her head. With a quick shake she let her hair fall down her back, rubbing her fingers along her scalp to ease the tingling and itching wearing her disguise nearly twenty four hours a day caused. Knowing this small reprieve couldn't last long, Brielle quickly rewound her hair, sticking the pins she had clamped in her mouth into the braid to keep it in place as she slipped the wig back on. Removing the remaining pins to secure the wig, she winced slightly when one stabbed a little too deeply. Before she could move to fix the offending pin, Meg strolled around the edge of the privacy screen, stockings and a pair of shoes in her hands.

"Do you want me to do up your laces in the back for you?" Meg asked, not noticing how quickly Brielle lowered her hands from her hair. "I can re-braid your hair if you want."

Bending to pick up the corset, which had fallen on the ground, Brielle vaguely waved in Meg's direction. "I pre-lace my corset so I only have to do it up the front. It is quicker that way, and it allows me to control how tight I make it. Scrubbing floors doesn't go well with tight laces and a tiny waist," she said with a crooked smile as she wrapped the undergarment around her waist and quickly did the hooks up the front. Reaching up, she pulled the dress from where it hung over the screen and tossed it over her head.

Meg moved forward without a word and started working at the buttons up the back. Starting slightly at the efficient movement climbing up her spine, Brielle waited for the uncomfortable clenching in her stomach which normally came with awkward situations. But the feeling didn't come. Surprisingly enough, she found herself feeling perfectly comfortable with her new friend helping her dress. Turning her head to look over her shoulder at the young girl, Brielle felt the beginnings of a grin twitching at her lips. Even growing up I don't think I had a friend whom I would have allowed to help me with anything so personal. I suppose my natural reserve often prevented me from forming such friendships. It was never easy for me to meet new people…it still isn't. But somehow, despite all that, I have managed to secure a friend in just a few weeks whom I feel closer to than any other woman in my whole life. It is strange how things work out.

"Who are these important people you mentioned before?" she asked as Meg finished the last button.

"The managers are showing a few potential patrons around the Opera today. They have been having a great deal of trouble securing proper funding because of what happened last year. Many people were frightened off, I suppose. So it is extremely important that today goes well."

Hopping on one foot, Brielle pulled on one scuffed black boot and then the other, tying each quickly. "Well, what sort of commotion was there that forced Madame Dubois to send for someone to clean it up? Usually they don't want us around when anyone important could see us."

Wrinkling her nose in an uncharacteristically sour expression, Meg stepped back and led the way to the door of the dormitory. "In order to attract some very wealthy investors, the managers have hired a few famous artists. It took them nearly six months to do so. The story of what happened a year ago has spread all over the continent. Not very many were willing to come and work here."

"You still haven't explained what the commotion was about."

Quietly closing the door behind them, Meg's irritated expression only deepened. "The new prima ballerina and the lead soprano got into an argument. Several of the flower arrangements which the managers had given them were thrown. Along with the vases they were in."

A snort of laughter burst out of Brielle as she imagined what two puffed-up peacocks fighting would have looked like. "On their first day of work they got into a fight? Over what?"

Shooting Brielle a disapproving look as the Irish woman continued to laugh, Meg waited for her friend to retrieve a broom and dust pan from the supply closet. "I believe it had something to do with what dressing rooms they wanted. Maryann, she is the new prima ballerina, said she wanted the room next to the one with the big mirror but Carlotta said she wanted the same one. Our Prima Donna stated that she had to have that specific room in order to house her entourage, which has yet to show up."

Pausing in what she was doing, Brielle glanced up at Meg. "Did you say Carlotta? Wasn't she the lead soprano last year?"

"Yes she was. Actually for a long time she refused to come back and finish her contract. But in the end I don't think any other theater offered her a job, so she had to come back. Even though she is a royal pain in the behind I do feel a little sorry for her…last year her…well I suppose you would say…her lover was killed in the fire, he was the lead tenor." Looking over her shoulder at Brielle then, Meg slowed her pace. "How did you know she was here last year?"

Flushing over her mistake Brielle dropped her eyes to the floor and hurried past the dancer. "Well the cleaning staff is known for being a hotbed of gossip. I merely recognized the name from stories the others told."

Accepting this explanation without question, Meg hurried to catch up with the Irish woman. "One thing I have to tell you before we get to the stage is that when I left Carlotta and Maryann were still screaming at each other. So if I were you I would keep my head down and get out as soon as possible. Hopefully they haven't made any more of a mess."

"Don't worry, they won't even notice me," Brielle reassured her as a high-pitched screech broke through her words. Wincing at the sound, the Irish woman hurried forward, not liking the increasing commotion issuing from up ahead.

Bursting onto the scene, Brielle stumbled to a halt at the outer edge of a small crowd. Rising up onto the balls of her feet, she tried to see over the shoulders of the stagehands standing in front of her. It was obvious the leading ladies had not completed their argument. Curious to see the two artists clawing at each other, Brielle stepped to the side and ran right into Madame Dubois.

Taking hold of Brielle's arm in a firm grip, the older woman squinted up into her face, her eagle eyes studying her for a moment before tugging her off to the side. "Where have you been, girl? We have been waiting all this time and here I find you loitering around."

Biting down hard to keep her sharp retort to herself, Brielle waved farewell to Meg as she was dragged off around the outer edge of the crowd. On the other side of the gathering the crowd appeared slightly thinner. Brielle cast a glance over her shoulder toward the area where everyone else was looking and caught a glimpse of an imperialistic, dark-haired woman snarling down at a petite redhead. The first of the enraged pair stood a good foot taller than her opponent, a bright, almost garish hat teetering atop her ebony curls as she flung her hands out furiously, her heavily accented voice rising in unintelligible gibberish somewhere between two languages. The smaller woman was much younger than the first, perhaps twenty-two to the other's thirty something, but despite her smaller frame and her youth the girl brazenly stabbed a finger at the dark-haired woman's chest, laughing when the other woman's face turned bright red in anger. The scene, for some reason, struck the Irish woman as particularly funny. She would have laughed if Madame Dubois hadn't let go of her arm at that moment, throwing off her balance enough to make her stumble.

"Now make yourself useful and sweep up this whole mess," Madame Dubois stated; her wrinkled face pinching up as she glared down at a scattered pile of broken glass. "Blasted high-minded wenches wrecking all of the nice polish on the stage," she continued to grumble as she strode off to wade through the melee surrounding the fighting divas, leaving Brielle to sweep up the broken vases.

Shaking her head at the silliness of the whole situation, Brielle placed her dustpan onto the floor, sweeping up the broken shards in quick, efficient movements. Placing her foot on the back edge of the pan to hold it in place, she ushered her little piles of glass onto it and bent down to pick the pan up. Gathering a fistful of her skirts in her hand, Brielle made to get up when the air froze within her lungs, mid-breath.

Her gray eyes widening in shock, Brielle dropped the dustpan onto the floor with a clatter. An all-too-familiar panic set in, the warning bells in the back of her mind clanging into life. The pent-up breath caught in her throat finally burst from her slack lips just as her vision began to blur. Something is wrong…something… Shaking her head to clear it of the ringing, and the remaining fuzziness, Brielle glanced up toward the rafters, her eyes following where her instinct directed.

Finding her eyes drawn to a particular group of sandbags hanging over the collected group of onlookers, Brielle stared blurrily at the largest bag of the three. For a moment her vision doubled, laying one reality over another, multiplying the rafters and sandbags into what she could see with her eyes and what was shown to her in her mind. While the first set remained stationary, one bag in the second trembled and then plunged downward at an alarming speed. As she followed the phantom bag down with her eyes she saw it smash into the very middle of the gathered group right atop the head of the screaming dark-haired woman. Blinking her eyes rapidly, the disturbing image vanished from her sight, leaving her staring horrified up at nothing.

Recognizing the short-lived wave of unexplained terror as far more than just anxiety, Brielle drew her eyebrows down into a frown. Slowly the tightness in her chest and the sick rolling in her stomach faded as she regained her composure, anger plucking at her heartstrings now, rather than fear. Gaining her feet, her broom and dustpan were forgotten on the floor as she took several steps forward, her eyes glued to the dimness looming over her head. There is only one person in this theater that I know of who could possibly pose any sort of threat. I am going to tan his hide when I finally figure out who he is… I told him that if anyone should get hurt…

Ignoring the argument still screaming off to her left, Brielle continued to stare upwards until finally she caught the flicker of a shadow out of the corner of one eye. Squinting at the movement, she watched as a sandbag high over the gathered crowd twitched, then began to swing. Gasping out loud when the bag took a two-foot plunge before jerking to a stop, Brielle lunged forward, plunging into the crowd of onlookers.

Instantly feeling the claustrophobic pressure of other people's bodies pressing around her, Brielle jabbed her elbow into the ribs of the men on either side of her, leaving a trail of shouted oaths in her wake. Bursting into the inner circle where the two women continued to screech at each other, the Irish woman hurried up to the two of them without preamble.

"Madame? Signora? Please may I ask you to step just a little to your right?" she asked hurriedly, tilting her head upward the whole time to watch the bags above their heads.

Shocked by the impertinence of the interruption, the younger woman turned and gaped at Brielle, a strand of her long flaming hair falling from its pins and sticking to the slight sheen of sweat across her cheek as she took a surprised step back. The other, taller woman, whom Brielle was coming to suspect was the returning soprano, only stayed silent for a single moment before turning her ire on the Irish woman.

"Eh! And 'ho are you? How dare you…eh…dare you a speak to us! Do you a know 'ho I am? I am the leading lady 'ere, you do not a speak to me! Get away now!" the older woman demanded in broken French, the Italian in her accent making her words almost unrecognizable. Waving both hands rudely in Brielle's face, Carlotta's dark eyes glittered furiously within her carefully made-up face.

Irritated by the woman's snobbery, Brielle brought her eyes down from the rafters to fix upon Carlotta's face. The Italian woman blinked over Brielle's audacity, obviously not used to having an inferior meeting her gaze. "No, Signora, you do not understand, I was only trying to warn you that the sand bags are…"

Before Brielle could finish Carlotta glanced up angrily and then laughed. "There is a nothing wrong 'ith them." Turning away from Brielle, the singer searched the crowd for a moment. "Madame Dubois? Fire this woman right away! Hey! Did you hear what I…"

Just then a screech from above interrupted Carlotta's tirade. Everyone on the stage looked up at the same time just in time to see a ten pound sandbag plummeting toward the stage. Staring in shocked disbelief, the singer stood paralyzed where she was, the bag aimed directly at her head. With only a second to act, Brielle lunged forward and tackled the older woman to the floor, the impact of the fallen sandbag shaking the floor inches from both of their faces. Lying still for a moment, Brielle took several calming breaths, trying to get her heart to stop pounding within her chest. That was close…

Sitting up carefully, Brielle glanced over at Carlotta only to see the woman staring horrified at the plump brown bag right in front of her face. Slowly the older woman brought her liquid brown eyes to the Irish woman. "How did you know? You saved my life…" she murmured quietly, her lips trembling slightly.

As Brielle opened her mouth to reply two middle-aged men rushed forward and gently pulled Carlotta to her feet, fussing over the diva as if she were made of glass, leaving Brielle to sit on the floor. Glad to know chivalry is not dead, she thought sarcastically. Getting to her feet without help, Brielle straightened her skirts in irritation. Why thank you Brielle…how nice of you for saving our diva…

The Irish woman sighed and glanced up to watch the two men continue to fawn all over Carlotta, the singer remaining uncharacteristically silent in the face of their crooning. Turning her head quickly away from the two men, Brielle cursed silently when she recognized one of them as Andre the theater manager. It had been a year since she had met with the man but she could not risk him recognizing her despite her dark hair.

Carlotta, looking as if she might faint, turned dazed eyes to watch Brielle as the Irish woman slowly slipped back into the crowd. With everyone's attention focused upon the stars of the show, since Maryann was now screaming hysterically, Brielle didn't find it difficult to slip off of the stage and into the backstage area. Her face set in hard, furious lines. I told him not to try and hurt anyone… I TOLD him…

Forgetting the danger she had just exposed herself to, Brielle marched up several flights of stairs, heading toward the upper reaches of the backstage, determined to catch the mystery man fleeing the scene. Slowing her pace as she reached the correct floor, the Irish woman slunk along, changing her movements to careful creeping steps. Only then, when she was alone, did she realize that she hadn't even thought to bring a weapon with her. Cursing herself for a fool, Brielle bit her bottom lip and considered going back downstairs. She had not gotten to the exact spot where she suspected the criminal must have been and she knew that if she left now she might not find him for another few weeks, if at all.

Still hesitating as to what she should do, Brielle froze when she heard a soft pattering sound. Focusing on the sound she grimaced when she realized the sounds were a series of extremely quiet footsteps walking casually on the landing just around the corner where she stood. Narrowing her eyes she tilted her head to the side, trying to pick up more of the noise. Well he is sure casual about this whole thing, if it is him. Why is he moving so slowly? He should be running away…

Tensing as the footsteps drew closer to her hiding spot, Brielle felt her stomach do some rather unsettling flip flops within her. Even without seeing the man, somehow she knew it was the same person she had confronted the week before. Black, rolling fury washed through her body at the realization. He could have killed someone! The maniac could have actually killed someone!

Forgetting all rational thought, Brielle stepped around the corner and right into the path of her tall dark stranger. Her body tensed, and spoiling for a fight, the Irish woman grimly watched the man jump at the sight of her, immediately pulling his hood further down his face. Though his efforts at concealing his identity were quick, the daylight streaming in several windows down the hall provided enough light for her to make out the strong line of his lower jaw, and his shapely, full mouth. Before she could stop herself Brielle's eyes fell to those sinful lips as they tightened in irritation. For a split second her mind blanked, and the same deep visceral sense that she knew this man returned. With a start she jerked her gaze away and focused instead upon where the man held the hood down over his eyes.

As they stood there in tensed silence, Brielle gathered her scattered fury around her like suit of armor, protecting herself from the odd thoughts and feelings slithering within her mind and body his proximity caused. Finally the man moved slightly, shifting his weight uncomfortably.

Tilting his head downward the man cleared his throat. "Sneaking around the upper stories again?" he asked in the deep gravelly voice Brielle had come to expect. "I would think you should stop doing that."

Shocked by how casually the man spoke when he had just committed a crime, Brielle took a threatening step forward, practically bristling with outrage. "Y-You villain!" she burst out, fisting her hands at her sides. "How dare you stroll around up here like you own the place after what you just did!"

Taken aback by Brielle's outburst the man's mouth fell open in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"Do not playact, sir. We both know that you are the devil himself! How could you have done it? Someone could have died!"

"What are you talking about? You are not making any sense," the man stated, a hint of confusion haunting his tone.

Sputtering over his calm answer, Brielle waved her hands about wildly. "Stop it! Stop lying! I know it is you who makes all the trouble around here. Why did you think I wouldn't know it was you who dropped those bags on Carlotta?"

Making a small noise of bewilderment the man tilted his head to the side. "Carlotta is back?" he asked quietly, a touch of what sounded like regret entering his rough voice. "But wait a moment…did you say someone dropped something on Carlotta?"

"Yes! The sandbags you beast! You dropped the sandbag! It was a ten pound bag and it could have killed her!"

Straightening his shoulders, the man's mouth turned down at the corners. "You are accusing me of almost killing someone? What makes you think that I had anything to do with this situation?"

"Are you serious?" she asked, stunned. "I caught you red-handed last week dropping things on the heads of two chorus girls! That is a pattern!"

Anger now colored the man's skin in the visible part of his face as he pulled his lips back from his perfect white teeth in a sneer. "Brava, Madame. Of course it must have been me since I am the only dishonest man in this place."

Feeling the bite of his words like a knife in the chest, Brielle flushed bright red, every muscle in her body trembling with the wish to slap the man across the face. How was it that in the two times they had spoken he had found every avenue in which to make her feel the fool? "Do not try backtracking sir. You know very well you are the only man in the theater who hides his face and sneaks about playing tricks on people!"

Pursing his lips the man stared at her a moment from underneath the protection of his hood before turning and striding down the walkway away from her. "Goodbye Madame. I no longer have any time to spend listening to you rave like a lunatic," he waved dismissively over his shoulder as he stalked off.

Not willing to allow the crook off so easily, Brielle chased after him. "I told you that if anyone should get hurt I would tell the authorities!"

"Tell them if you wish for they will not find me," he said confidently, continuing to ignore her as he walked off.

"Stop! You cannot treat this with such a flippant attitude! I will send you to jail in a heartbeat." Frustrated that the man didn't even look over his shoulder at her threats Brielle ground her teeth and reach out a hand to grab hold of his shoulder. A shock of electricity shot up her arm the moment her fingers brushed the black fabric of his cloak, creating a strange, not altogether unpleasant, tingling to spread throughout her body.

Whirling under her hand the man staggered violently away from her touch. Backing up quickly he stood stiffly, as if afraid she would attack him. A little surprised by the extremity of his reaction Brielle could only stare at him, looking away only when she noticed something drop to the ground between them. His pocket must have ripped… Her eyes dropping to the sparkle of silver on the ground, Brielle frowned when she noticed it was some sort of medallion.

Bending automatically to pick the necklace up, Brielle flinched when the man lunged forward likewise reaching for the silver bauble. Snatching the medallion out from under his hand the Irish woman pressed it against her chest, her other hand flashing out to hit the man in the chest, effectively knocking him off balance so that he fell over onto the floor. Triumphant, Brielle opened the hand with the necklace and stared down at an all-too-familiar version of a religious medal. Dumbfounded she sucked in a breath and looked closer at the Saint Jude medallion resting in her palm.

A terrible wash of thinly veiled grief surged up, catching her breath in her throat for one agonizing moment. "Where did you get this?" she demanded faintly, a tremor starting to shiver up her spine, spreading to her entire body. Terror flickered in the very depths of her soul. I know this necklace… I gave it to Erik last year… Has something happened to him? Oh my god… what if this man did something to him and took the Saint Jude? Unable to move, a loud buzzing growing in the back of her head, the Irish woman felt her eyes prick with tears. Turning her stunned gaze to the floor where the man was struggling to right himself Brielle felt all of the blood leave her face.

"What did you do to him?" When the man didn't move, going completely still on the floor, something snapped within her. Brielle reached forward and brought her open palm up under his hood, slapping him upside the chin, effectively knocking the cowl from his head. "TELL ME, YOU MONSTER! WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM?" she screamed at the top of her lungs, fearing all the while what he would say.

With one quick movement, as if he didn't realize he had lost his disguise, the man turned and snarled at her, anger etching lines into his handsome, half-masked face. "I didn't do anything, you blasted wretch!" he bellowed. Opening his mouth to say more he hesitated when he saw the look on Brielle's face.

She gazed blankly at the man, her eyes moving over his features in one slow disbelieving circuit. Though half his face remained covered it was obvious he had a darkly handsome visage with a strong jaw line and electric blue eyes. Her face pale as old bone Brielle remained paralyzed in her half kneeling position as shadows of deep, soul biting, pain darkened her eyes. Finally Brielle stirred when the man began to frown at her. Closing her hand around the cool silver medallion Brielle opened her mouth, a clawing numbness ripping up her insides.

"Erik?" she breathed shakily.