Onward!

Chapter 12

Erik left the private box as soon as applause rose up after the last note, kissing her hand and promising a short car ride with James to the next location. She thought about refusing to be parted from him, but she knew he needed to hurry out before the house lights came on. He always moved best within darkness, not someone who thrived on being around other people. She wondered how the general populace reacted to his mask, and if he had often given them the chance.

Christine stood with the rest of the crowd in giving her standing ovation, but she hurried out of the box as soon as she thought wouldn't be impolite. She had to wait a few minutes before James came around with the car. Soon, she was able to eagerly climb inside, and she immediately spied the note sitting on the white leather seat next to her.

She broke the seal and read the familiar red inked handwriting:

Dearest, warm up your voice.

Christine's heart began to thunder with nervousness.

"Um, James?"

She had insisted earlier that he keep the partition at least somewhat open between them, and now he glanced at her in the rear-view mirror.

"Mademoiselle?"

"Would- would it bother you if I sang?"

He grinned. "I was promised you would!"

She reminded herself to kill Erik later. "Okay then." She closed her eyes and pushed aside her embarrassment. She really should have known Erik would work her singing into this adventure. She ran through some triads, then some scales, trying to remember snippets of what Erik had taught her so many weeks ago. After a little while of doing that, she sang bits and pieces of some of her favorite songs until she felt the car roll to a stop.

James opened the door, and she found him bowing at the waist. "A true pleasure to hear you, mademoiselle."

"T-thank you, James."

"This way, please." He indicated with a hand as she stepped out of the car, careful not to tangle in the train of her dress.

They had stopped between two buildings, the alley fading into the blackness of night, lit only by the oily glow of a single streetlight. Christine drew back. "Are you sure?"

"Monsieur Garnier was very insistent."

Christine swallowed and held onto her wristlet with both hands. Erik had surely paid a huge amount for this man's services, so she had to trust the situation to unfold the way it was supposed to happen.

She began to walk into the narrow alley, the bricked surfaces rising high to either side of her. The further she entered, the more she left behind the noise of the street and the city lights. Her heels clicked loudly on the pavement. Behind her, the Rolls Royce stayed, and she felt a little relieved that James hadn't abandoned her just yet.

She walked almost a full block when a door opened to her left, the sudden creak startling her. The hallway beyond stretched into more darkness. As she peered inside, she heard the soulful, slow pull of a violin start to play.

Gathering the dragging folds of her dress over one arm, she entered the hallway and pulled the door closed behind her. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out more light ahead, and she followed it, the music becoming louder. She rounded a corner, made her way up a few wooden steps, and found a heavy curtain blocking her path. The violin was definitely coming from straight ahead.

Using her hands to feel around the velvety curtain, she found the edge and pushed it aside. A small stage spread before her. She must have entered the side entrance of a theater. She took in the rows of seats stretching from the stage; it wasn't a large theater, and the place was empty save the man standing on the stage, lit by a single spotlight.

Christine slowly made her way closer, not wanting to disturb him. He faced the seats, and he had draped his cloak and hat on a nearby chair to the side of the stage. She was mesmerized by the sight of his long bare fingers moving across the surfaces of the violin. His white mask shone in the light; his eyes were closed. She recognized the song; she had recognized it after the first few notes because it was one her father had often played as he toured. The Swedish folk song had been a favorite of his, and a favorite of hers.

The man standing before her was very different from the man who had been her father, but they both played with a passion that many would never reach. Christine had no idea Erik could play other instruments, and the fact that he had chosen one so dear to her heart… His towering frame swayed with the notes, his long limbs bending as his fingers pulled the song from the strings with ease, and she was reminded of a time she had watched her father play this very song on a stage the same size as this one, under the glare of spotlights and the hush of a full audience transfixed.

Her voice rose up, joining in. He didn't turn toward her, but she saw the shadow of a smile play across his lips. She was a little girl again, joining her father on the stage after his gentle insisting, singing a song in Swedish that her father had hummed since she was old enough to remember. He had left Sweden to purse his music and met her mother at a show, utterly by accident. He had been instantly smitten, he had told Christine, winking in that way he always did. Her mother had been smitten by the way he played, and maybe that is why when he died, she buried his violin, buried his music forever.

Christine didn't know how to speak Swedish, but she knew this song through and through. She hadn't sung it in years, but her voice remembered the notes and her tongue remembered the twists of the language.

When at last the song was over, Erik laid aside the violin and bow and came to stand before her. His hands, warmer than usual from his playing, cupped her cheeks, his thumbs smoothing away tears she didn't realize were there.

"I did not mean to make you cry."

She pressed a kiss to his palm, then stepped back a pace to dry her eyes with a handkerchief he produced. "No, no, that was beautiful. It's been years since I heard that song. How did you even know about it?"

"Here I must admit to long hours in your apartment, my dear," he said, the tiny smile back.

Her eyes widened. "You snooped?"

"Hardly snooping when you leave it on the shelf for all to see."

"I… guess I might have done that," she conceded.

He moved back to the violin and ran a hand across its smooth surface, musing. "I could not resist listening to a recording labeled with your father's name."

"He used to send that CD out to prospective employers. I was actually lucky enough to find the files on my mother's computer before she had the chance to delete them. That song was particularly meaningful to me – he used to sing it often."

"Your father played marvelously. He was quite talented."

Christine dabbed at her eyes again. "Thank you for saying that."

"Is it any wonder that he produced you?" Erik was so in earnest that she had to look away into the shadowed rows of seats. "Your voice is as lovely as I remember, Christine."

She walked to the edge of the stage, looking into the darkness. "What, no critiques about my stance or breathing?" She peered over her shoulder at him, smiling in case he thought she was upset.

"This is not a voice lesson, my dear, but merely a chance for us to sing together." He spread his arms wide, indicating the space around them. "Will you sing for me?"

She arched an eyebrow at him. "Do you have something in mind?"

He went to his cloak, pulled out a folded stack of paper, and handed it to her. "You read music, yes?"

"Yes, mostly." She smoothed out the three pieces of sheet music, all written in Erik's hand. His original works had always been covered in notations and changes, but this print was clean as though he had copied it legibly for her benefit. She glanced over it. "This only has my part."

Erik shifted his feet, as close to squirming as she'd seen him. "This is not meant to be a duet."

"You said together. You did say that. I want you to sing with me." She let him stew as she studied his composition once more. She read the notes first, completely through the piece, and the intricate arrangement of notes took her breath away. He really thought she could sing this? She read it through again, this time beginning to hum it, first very shaky and unsure, then again with a bit more confidence. It had been a long time since she had sight-read anything, much less something composed by the man standing before her.

After she felt more certain of the melody, she read the words as she hummed and when she got to the end, she jerked her head up to stare at Erik. Her voice hadn't carried the last note, strangled into silence by her own sudden trepidation.

He wasn't looking at her. As she had studied his music, he had turned to face the back of his stage so his face was bathed in shadow.

"Erik?"

"It is not meant to be a duet," he repeated.

She jutted out her chin, her back straight with sudden anger. "Why not?"

He still wouldn't look at her. He had given her a glimpse inside himself with this song, and now that she had read it, he couldn't face her. "I could never say those words to you."

"But you expected me to say them to you?" Her heels stomping across the wooden stage, she moved to stand in front of him and shoved the sheet music against his chest. "How could you try to do that to me?"

His eyes were wide, the golden irises glowing. "I meant it as a song of longing."

"It's a break-up song, Erik. The person singing that – she's leaving him. She's decided she's going and at the end, she does. How could you possibly think I would want to sing this song at this moment?" She would not cry over this, she most definitely would not. She bit the inside of her cheek and focused on the sting.

Erik's hands hung at his sides, one fisting the papers. "I thought, if you sang these words in that angel's voice of yours, if you sang them to me first, then the speaking of them later, the moment you would leave, that is a moment which I could then withstand."

"Oh Erik, you are so damned infuriating!" She spun away from him, grateful that he didn't move to follow her because she wasn't sure what she would do or say if he reached for her. What kind of terrible logic had fired off within his head to make him think this was okay? When had he even had the time to compose this song?

She ached with the thought that he had so little faith in her, even now. Hadn't she come to New York at his bidding? Hadn't she made him swear that he was the one who had to say goodbye when the time came? Didn't that meant she expected him to be the one to leave?

She stalked over to the edge of the stage until her toes touched the curved rim of the wooden planks. Then she began to sing part of a song she knew he would recognize. She knew she was butchering the French, she knew she hadn't practiced the song in anything but her own head, as part of her research when she was trying to understand why Erik would leave her with those two lines from Faust.

She didn't care if he found the quality lacking. She held up her arm with its heavy bangle, diamonds glittering in the spotlight, and gazed into her imaginary mirror like Marguerite.

"It's the daughter of a king,

It's no longer you.

One must bow to her as she passes!"

"Christine." She heard Erik's choked gasp of her name, but she ignored it.

"Ah if only he were here!

If he should see me thus like a lady

He would find me so beautiful like a lady."

"Christine!"

"He would find me beautiful!"

His hand grabbed her upper arm and spun her around, both of her shoulders then clasped tightly in his grip. His hands were cold again – was music the only thing that could warm him? He had reacted exactly the way she thought he would – with shock and horror at what she had sung. She might have laughed if it weren't for his face twisted in undisguised pain.

He shook her and her teeth rattled from the force. "Stop it, Christine!"

"Isn't that what you expected, Erik? Marguerite receives so many lovely jewels from Faust, and in return, she gives him a kiss. And in return, she gives him everything. But in the twist of your song, I would be the one to leave afterward, not you. I would wake up in the bright light of morning, and what, Erik?"

She had to stop herself from speaking aloud the truth of what they both thought at that moment, the words thick like bile in her throat. In the light of the morning after, would she flee at the sight of him? He was trembling, his whole body shaking with the force of her words and the reality of what she had put together. Had he really thought to make her his Marguerite – whored out for some baubles? His hands hadn't left her shoulders as though afraid she would flee if he let go.

"I made a mistake," he said, his body coiled with tension. "I thought you would find the song pretty enough to sing, and the words I would keep for my own memory in case I needed them. I was wrong."

She glared at him, defiant. "And the gifts?"

He shifted, looking away, then meeting her eyes again. Clearly, the subject still made him dreadfully uncomfortable. Well, it wasn't an easy table conversation for her either.

"I wanted to please you, to treat you well. That is all I wanted or expected."

She searched his face, looking for any sign that he was hiding his true intentions from her. She wished briefly that she had the gall to take off his mask in that moment, so she could fully read his expression, but she flattened her hands against her gown in case she was tempted.

She finally decided to concede. "I'm sorry for comparing you to Faust. That wasn't fair of me."

He inclined his head though he still seemed pensive. She wondered if some unspoken line had been crossed between them. She wished she could go back in time and erase the last five minutes.

"Would you play for me again?" she asked, gesturing at the violin. "Anything at all. I loved hearing you."

He thought for a span of time that was too long for her comfort. Then he strode over to the instrument, picked it up, and began to play. She wasn't familiar with the song, its melody slow and mournful. She thought maybe he was playing his emotions out; he had certainly found music to be his outlet in the past, and she remembered the furious way he had pounded upon the piano as she left his home in Paris.

She was content to listen to him, and he was content enough to play for her, at least until the growl of her stomach cut through the notes.

She pressed a hand to her belly, mortified. "Sorry, Erik."

"No need," he said, frowning. "It is late, and you need to eat."

She was indeed very hungry. She hadn't eaten anything substantial since lunch, which felt like ages ago, and her last snack had been an hour before the opera began. Erik laid aside the violin and fetched his cloak and hat, replacing both on his person with his usual grace before pulling on his gloves. Then he climbed the stage and outstretched a hand, beckoning.

"James is waiting," he said. "He will bring you anywhere you wish to eat."

She didn't follow him. "Aren't you coming too?"

"Aren't I?" Erik swept his hand to indicate the room. "After this, you want to end the night, yes?"

After the mess with his composition and her subsequent accusations, he meant. She shook her head. "I didn't come all this way to go home early, Erik. I came here to spend time with you."

"You… do not want to leave?" The hope in his voice saddened her. She shouldn't have flipped out as much as she had over the song. He had, after all, wanted her to sing something he had written, and she had thrown it in his face.

"No, I don't."

This time, when he indicated that she should follow, she did, taking his gloved hand and letting him lead her back into the night.

They moved only through alleys and back roads, ducking between street lights and pressing themselves into black corners when it was necessary to avoid other people. Erik knew exactly how to move from one place to another without being detected, though she suspected he might be able to do so quicker without her.

Heels weren't exactly the best footwear for walking a long distance across uneven concrete, but Erik didn't suggest she climb inside the car with James again. After the second time she stumbled and had to grab onto his arm to keep from falling, he paused and took a long look at her.

"This was not my plan," he admitted.

She gave a little laugh. "I don't mind. I like skulking about at night with you. Do you always travel like this?"

"As necessary," he replied, which was probably always. "You are cold."

"Only a little."

Without asking for permission, he gathered her into his arms, managing to both pull her train off the ground and drape his cloak over her shoulders in one smooth motion. Then he was off, running with a quick ease that might have been astonishing if she didn't already know his strength.

He dashed about five more blocks before setting her upon her feet in front of the back door to some unknown place. From the delectable smells waffling her way, she guessed it was a restaurant. Her stomach rumbled again in appreciation.

"What's on the menu?" she asked, beyond ready to eat.

"French."

She threw back her head and laughed at that. Of course.

Luckily, he didn't seem to take offense at her humor. He pulled open the door for her and bowed. "After you, my dear."

As he followed her inside, he pulled a rope attached to the wall near the door. A tinkling bell sounded as though announcing their arrival. Erik placed a finger to his lips to indicate she should be quiet, then took her hand and led her through what looked like a storage room into a large restaurant-style kitchen. The workers inside stood at attention but facing away from them. Christine found the whole scene utterly bizarre, but she didn't have much time to look at the spectacle as Erik pulled her down a short hallway to a closed curtain.

He drew back the curtain, showing her an enclosed table set for two, lit by a beautiful small candelabrum that hung above them. Another curtain was closed on the other side, and through it, she could hear the distant sounds of a bustling restaurant.

Christine could barely hold back her excitement as she sat down and watched Erik take his place in front of her. She knew she was probably grinning like an idiot, but Erik's face was alight with pleasure at her reaction.

As soon as he had closed the curtain behind them, and they were completely closed off, she had to lean over the table and whisper, "You brought me to a real restaurant to have dinner with you!"

"No need to whisper," he said in a normal tone of voice, his lips curved upward in that way she loved. "They were expecting us."

"Obviously!"

He tugged on a cord behind him, no doubt ringing another bell. A short minute later, a waiter appeared at the table on the restaurant side. He didn't open the curtain, but spoke in a heavy French accent.

"Monsieur?"

"Your best red and a menu for the lady," Erik said smoothly. It was the first time Christine had ever heard him speak to someone other than Nadir, and the weirdly normal moment mystified her.

Reaching through the middle opening of the velvet fabric, the waiter slid a menu before Christine. She caught sight of a young blonde man who smiled and kept his eyes carefully adverted from Erik's direction.

"Thank you," she told the waiter, who nodded and headed off, likely to get the wine.

Christine glanced over the menu. "Le Nuit?"

"The Night," Erik translated as he pulled off his gloves and laid them aside. He also took off his hat and set it on the small bench next to him, and his cloak followed. "This is a French restaurant that stays open rather late at night."

"You've been here before, I take it?"

"I used to frequent here when I lived in New York, but that was many years ago. I did contact them recently when I returned."

She smiled at him. "You have a nice set up. We'll have to leave a big tip!"

"My Christine." He leaned his bare cheek against the back of his hand, gazing at her with undisguised adoration. "I own this restaurant."

"You do!"

The waiter returned and set a bottle of wine on the table along with a corkscrew. "Would you like any hors d'oeuvres to begin?"

"Try the baked clams with garlic butter," Erik said to Christine. "Daroga says they are quite delicious."

"That sounds great," Christine agreed. "And the boneless trout with raspberry vinegar butter sauce. I haven't had fish in a while."

"Excellent choices, mademoiselle," the waiter said, and he scurried off again.

Christine watched Erik as he deftly opened the bottle of wine and poured them both a glass. "You aren't eating anything?"

"For me, food is fuel and nothing more, my dear," he said. He tapped his mask with one long finger. "My deformity prevented me from developing a strong sense of smell. Therefore, I do not taste food the way you do." He hesitated and gave her a long, measured look. "I will… try your dishes, if you like."

Christine's first urge was to squeal in delight, but she settled for hiding her wide grin with her first sip of wine. "I would love that." She took another gulp; the wine was delicious. "How did you end up owning a restaurant anyway?"

"I have acquired many assets over my years and travels, especially in businesses and property. In my experience, I never know when I will have need to call in a favor or have a safe place to stay." He took a draught of his own glass, mindful of his mask. "I can show you more of them, over time."

"That would be lovely." She huffed a sigh. "And here I'm still focusing on paying rent every month."

"You are still quite young, Christine. You have your whole life ahead of you."

"You're not that much older, are you?" She squinted at him. "At least thirty, right?"

"At least," he said dryly but with humor. "In lieu of a birth certificate, or a date of birth for that matter, I would estimate between thirty-five and forty."

"Erik-"

He shook his head. "No matter to fret over, my dear. I have managed well enough as a ghost."

"Yes, this place is terrific, and your home underground was magnificent as well. But, Erik." She chewed on her lip and twisted the napkin in her lap. "Is your plan to live like this forever? For the rest of your life?"

"Like what, my dear?"

She swallowed another gulp of wine, not wanting to anger him. "In the dark, in the night, away from other people, like the way you were when we first met."

"As I said, I have managed well enough."

"Yes, but are you happy?"

"Life is not about concerning yourself with happiness, Christine," he said frankly, all joking gone. "You live, you die, and somewhere in between, you might have a moment of magnificence worth singing about."

She couldn't meet the sudden coldness in his yellow eyes, but she couldn't make herself stop pushing either. "I don't want one thing in my life to be magnificent. I want all of it to be magnificent, all of it to be worth singing about, or composing a song about."

"As magnificent as your chosen career will be?"

Oh, that was a nasty blow that he so often dredged into the open. The waiter arrived with her appetizer, and the baked clams smelled heavenly. Erik was glaring at her from across the table, but she didn't let that deter her from digging into her food with relish. She was famished, and by god, she would eat even if he had just pissed her off.

"Christine."

She swallowed her bite and patted her lips dry. "Look, Erik, I get it. You see some hidden potential in me that I still don't really see myself, even though maybe I do want to despite how much I've told myself to leave singing in the past. But that doesn't give you the right to tell me to do something else."

He leaned forward, insistent. "One month of my instruction, Christine, one month, followed by one audition, and the world would swiftly learn to bow before your feet."

She scoffed and speared a forkful of clam, dipping it in the butter sauce.

"That is all I would need to show you," he continued. "One month followed by one audition. You would shine on that stage, Christine. No one has heard a voice such as yours in a hundred years."

He stopped, for she had leaned over the table and stuck the fork of food in his face. "You said you would try a bite."

"I… did." He took the fork from her, momentarily distracted from his rant. She watched, fascinated, as he carefully slid the morsel into his mouth, keeping it slightly askew to the unblemished side of his lips. He managed to chew with his lips closed, though it seemed like a practiced move to avoid any trouble. He wiped his mouth clean with the napkin and handed the fork back to her. "Satisfied?"

She had been staring too much, but she grinned at him anyway. "Very. Thanks for that. Sharing a meal with you has been on my list."

"Your list?"

"Of things I want to share." She quickly returned to shoveling the food into her own mouth, leaving him dumbfounded into silence. Luckily, he was too unsure to pursue the matter further, and he had been successfully diverted from talking about her singing.

Soon enough, her main course arrived. The raspberry sauce was everything she had dreamed about, and the trout was perfectly flaky and tender. Erik obediently tried a bite as promised. She started on her second glass of wine, and with her belly full of food and drink, she was starting to relax more and more. The two of them had survived several uncomfortable moments without either of them fleeing the room over the course of the night. She considered the night a huge step in the right direction.

She hoped he would escort her back to the hotel. Maybe he would kiss her again? Maybe she would kiss him? The small touch of lips on lips they had shared at the opera had only left her wanting more. How much more, she still wasn't sure yet, but maybe they could find out.

When she had finished her trout, Erik raised a brow at her. "Dessert, my dear?"

"If that's all right. I would love to try the crème brûlée." She grinned at him. "You can tell a lot about a French restaurant by how it treats its dessert."

Erik tugged on the rope to ring the bell for the waiter. It didn't take long for him to appear, a shadow on the other side of the curtain. When he didn't immediately ask what they wanted, Christine opened her mouth to give her order, but she never had a chance.

Erik lunged, his whole body rising from the bench, his white hands flashing in the candlelight. Christine caught a glimpse of a familiar lasso of red rope before it slipped over the waiter's head. Erik pulled him into their space, falling back across his bench, tugging the other man backwards by his neck until both of them were sprawled into the empty hallway opposite of the public dining room of the restaurant.

Christine stifled her shriek with her hand. "Oh my god, Erik!"

Erik crouched behind the other man, whose face was rapidly turning red from the red punjab that encircled his neck, and gazed at Christine with cool composure. "Collect my belongings, head back to the kitchen, and tell them Monsieur Garnier needs to pass."

"Erik, that man-"

"Now, Christine!" he snapped.

Her hands shaking, she did as he asked, first sliding her own clutch across her wrist, then gathering his cloak, hat, and gloves into her arms. Stumbling on wobbling legs, she made her way back to the restaurant's kitchen and stopped the first staff member she met.

"M-Monsieur Garnier needs to pass, please."

"Of course," he said, as though she had asked for extra silverware.

As he hurried off, Christine made her way back to Erik, who had the man back on his feet. Without a word, he pulled the man along, half dragging him, easily avoiding any attempts at weak kicking or clawing. When they entered the kitchen, everyone was standing at attention once more, and the scene was grotesque – no doubt renowned chefs showing respect for their restaurant owner who was in the process of strangling a man.

In the longest seconds of Christine's life, they made it out the back door and into the darker alleyway. As soon as the door slammed shut behind them, Erik loosened the punjab enough for the man to gasp for breath.

"Who told you where I would be?" he asked the man, shoving his face close, yellow eyes blazing with fury.

The man didn't immediately answer. Erik fisted his hands on either side of his neck and jerked the noose of the punjab tight, again cutting off his air supply. He let the man gurgle for a while, and then loosened the rope again, asking the same question. As before, he got no answer, and the punjab squeezed once more.

Christine clutched Erik's wadded lump of belongings to her chest. She was caught in indecision, poised between screaming at Erik to stop and fleeing for help. What would Erik do if she took off running?

She had no idea why Erik had grabbed this man. She looked them both over with wide, frightened eyes. The man was not their waiter, that was obvious; while their waiter had been a Frenchman with blonde hair, dressed in a sharp black suit, this was a taller black-haired man with a thick beard who wore a white button-down shirt folded to the elbows. Erik was unrecognizable from the man she had been dining with – his golden eyes ablaze, and he surged power that she hadn't sensed since the time he had tried to strangle Nadir Khan.

She had to say something; she had to try to stop him. No matter who this man was, she couldn't stand by while Erik did something horrible.

"Erik," she pleaded. "You have to stop. You have to let him go!"

Erik let the man breathe a third time, and this time, the man grinned through the spittle in his mouth. "Listen to your whore, Angel of Doom," he said, his words hoarsely forced through his bruised throat.

Erik kicked the back of his legs, causing the man to fall forward onto his knees. "How did you know my location?"

"Rot in hell like the corpse you are," the man rasped, and cackled with laughter.

The punjab snapped, cutting off the man's laugh with a sickening crunch, causing his head to jerk to the side. Christine stumbled back in shock, tripped over the uneven pavement, and landed heavily on her backside. The objects in her arms scattered around her, Erik's cloak fluttering like a bat's wing over her legs.

She was desperately trying not to scream. The awkward angle of the man's neck met her panicked eyes, and she shut them tightly, attempting to get her breathing under control before the looming panic attack fully surfaced.

She heard the body slump to the ground, for that was all it was now, a body that Erik had created. Erik, who had taken her to the opera and dinner tonight like it was a date. Erik, who had kissed her sweetly and called her beautiful. She heard Erik walk over to her, heard the motions of him pulling on his gloves, replacing his hat, and she felt him pull the cloak from her legs. The flutter of the heavy fabric caressed her cheek as he fastened it at his neck.

"Christine, we need to move on from here." How could he sound so calm, like he hadn't just strangled the life from someone? His voice was steady.

She cracked open her eyes. Erik's gloved hand was offered to her. Past him, she saw the body stretched upon the concrete, the man's face turned away from her, but that didn't matter because she had seen it, the moment the life had left his dark brown eyes.

Christine turned away from Erik and retched. Up it all came as her stomach heaved, the acid burning her throat and making her eyes stream tears. Erik was silent, but he didn't try to touch her again. She didn't know what she would have done if he had at that moment.

When she was finally empty, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "You killed him."

"I did. He would have done the same to us."

"But he didn't. You just- you just-" She cut off as Erik pulled out his cell phone and placed a call, effectively ignoring her.

"Daroga," he said, all calm steeliness. "We have been compromised. Get here now." He listened a moment. "That will suffice." With the heel of his shoe, he pushed the body to the side of the building, out of the empty stretch of the alley. Then he turned back to her. He didn't present his hand to help her up again, but he did pick up her clutch from where it had dropped a few feet away and offered it back to her.

She took it, unable to meet his intense stare, and got to her feet.

"We have to go," Erik said.

He turned and began to walk down the alley in long strides. Christine picked up the train of her dress and unwillingly followed.