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Lots to happen here - onward!

Chapter 13

Erik's pace was brutal, and Christine struggled to keep up without having to actually run after him. Like their path to the restaurant, they kept to the deepest shadows, twisting and turning through abandoned alleyways. She felt a blister start to form on one of her heels. She would probably have more in the morning. Not once did Erik speak to her or look at her. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth, the taste of bile still present.

Finally, they turned a corner and a black SUV sat in the darkness, the engine running but the headlights turned off. The windows were tinted too dark for Christine to see the driver from the side, but this didn't concern Erik at all. He stalked to the car and opened the door to the backseat.

"Get in."

She did, knowing better than to argue. A dark head belonged to the person in the driver's seat. As she slid across the leather, Erik leaned down, flattened one hand on her head, and shoved her downward.

"Keep your head down, girl," he snapped before slamming the door closed.

The driver lowered his window so he could speak with Erik. She immediately recognized Nadir's voice, and she relaxed just a fraction.

"What happened?" he asked Erik.

"An Iranian nationalist knew I would be at the restaurant," Erik said, agitated, his eyes scanning around them as though thinking they would be attacked at any moment.

"Just the one?"

"Yes, just the one," Erik sneered.

Nadir ignored the nasty tone with practiced ease. "Did he say anything?"

"Only the usual insults."

"Where is he now?"

"I assure you, I took care of him, but there will be more. Daroga…" Here Erik dropped the attitude for a moment, leaning toward the window. "Only three of us knew I was in New York." He held up one white finger, then a second. "Myself. You."

"Erik-"

"You are not that stupid." Erik dismissed the idea of Nadir's betrayal without another thought. For a brief second, Christine envied the trust Erik had in his friend. He was always so guarded around her as if he expected betrayal. Would he ever believe in her the way he did Nadir?

Erik held up a third finger. "Darius."

Darius, the man who had followed Nadir from Iran, the one Nadir had known longer than he had known Erik? Christine remembered Erik once telling her that Darius was a trustworthy man, that they had trusted him with intelligence and finances, at least on the East Coast, for years.

Nadir sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Do what you must."

Erik stepped back from the car, his tall form melting into the shadows. "Get Christine to safety."

Nadir turned on the car's headlights and pulled them out of the alley. Christine stayed bent down into the seat as Erik had demanded, and her angle let her catch a glimpse of the clock on the radio. It was almost 1 o'clock in the middle of the night. Classical music poured from the radio, turned down so low she hadn't heard it at first.

Once they had merged with the rest of traffic, for the big city's streets were never really empty, Nadir glanced at her in the rear-view mirror.

"Are you hurt?" he asked quietly.

"No." She wasn't, physically, though she longed to take off these shoes. She held her tongue. There were far worse things to deal with than the state of her feet.

"What happened?" He was repeating the same question he had asked Erik, hoping for what she had seen herself. But there was no sense in hiding what had happened from Nadir. He would get details one way or another.

"A man showed up at our table, and Erik attacked him," she said. She couldn't bear repeating the things the man had said to Erik, calling him Angel of Doom, a corpse. "Erik killed him with his punjab."

Nadir was silent for a long time as he drove, his large hands white-knuckled as he gripped the steering wheel. Christine's feet throbbed. She sat partially on her clutch so the wrist strap dug into her skin, but she didn't dare shift to free it. Her neck was beginning to ache from the awkward angle. She couldn't see out the window, so she watched the streetlights flicker across the interior of the car as Nadir drove.

"Where are we going?" she asked, unable to tolerate the silence any longer.

"Right now, I am driving a set pattern to make sure we are not being followed. After another hour, I will take you to a safe house of sorts. We can wait for Erik there."

"Not the hotel?" She desperately wanted out of this dress. She now felt so ridiculous dressed up in this fancy gown that Erik had chosen to her, wearing his diamonds, letting him take her out on the town before he would murder someone. Plus, the hotel felt safe, someplace that was separate from the events of the night, even if the room was in Erik's fake name.

"If Darius did betray us, we can't take any chances, Miss Daaé. This apartment was paid for with cash a long time ago, outside of Darius's knowledge. You will be safe there. Later, once things settle, we will retrieve your belongings."

She didn't argue, knowing she had no choice in the matter. Lulled to silence by the gentle motion of the car, she eased down until her cheek pressed against the cool leather of the seat. She hadn't cried yet though she kept expecting the tears to come. Of course she had known of Erik's past, of course he had told her himself that he had once killed people. But he had made it sound like he'd had no choice in the matter, that he fled the country once he was able to escape his life as an assassin. How easily she had ignored reality when it wasn't right there in front of her.

Nadir drove on, and eventually, he stopped the car. Christine cautiously rose up to peer out the window; they were inside a parking garage, parked in a dark spot away from other cars. He opened her door and helped her out, and she didn't protest this, welcoming the warmth of his friendly hands. Nadir seemed like the type of man who defaulted to father figure, and the role suited him well.

"This way, Miss Daaé." He led her to an elevator, and they climbed all the way to the top of the building, sixteen stories up.

The elevator door opened to a hallway covered in expensive-looking wallpaper that stretched to a window on the opposite side. On either side of the hallway stood a door, one with 1636a, the other with 1636b in bronze lettering on the decorative nameplate.

Nadir walked to 1636a and unlocked the door, leading her inside. The air conditioning was on, and Christine shivered against the onslaught of the cold air on her bare arms. Her stilettos clicked on the dark hardwood floors. Everything was shiny and expensive, from the marble countertops to the black leather couches to the sparse but opulent furnishings. The place was immaculate, barely lived in.

"This place belongs to Erik," Nadir said. "Mine is next door, but I will wait here with you until he arrives. Can I get you anything?"

"Where's the bathroom?"

He showed her the guest room, separated by a short hallway from the master. The large room was filled with solid furniture all in dark woods, the floor partially covered in a plush white rug.

"There are extra toiletries in there if you have need. I'm afraid there are no clothes for you."

So she would have to sleep in this dress after all, unless she wanted to be left in nothing but her underwear. She shuddered at the thought of putting on one of Erik's shirts again. He probably had his own belongings in the master bedroom, they had been here in New York for a few days, but she didn't dare change into something of his.

She murmured a thanks and shut herself inside the bathroom. She wanted a very hot shower. She wanted her own fresh clothing and her own bed in Boston. She wanted to forget this night ever happened. Her clutch was still dangling from her wrist, and in it was her cell phone. She could easily call Meg, call her mother, call the police, and this would all be over.

Instead, she found a spare toothbrush and brushed her teeth, finally getting rid of the taste of bile. She washed her face with a bar of soap, and afterwards, stared at her reflection, startled by the terrible haggardness of her tired face. Who was this girl in the mirror, who hung around these sorts of people and couldn't seem to stay away? What kind of person would witness a murder and not think about using her cell phone to call 911 until over an hour later?

She went back into the guest bedroom. She pulled the comb free of her hair and slid off the heavy cuff, setting both on the dresser. After a moment of hesitation, she set her purse down as well. The bed was plush, no doubt the finest quality, and she ached to slide between the sheets and fall asleep. Her feet rejoiced as she took off her heels and set them aside, before she scooted backward and laid her whole body upon the mattress.

She lay there for a long time, staring up at the ceiling, before hearing a knock on the door.

"Miss Daaé?" Nadir called.

"Come in." Like she could stop him.

"I didn't wake you?" He put a glass of water on the nightstand. "Try to sleep if you can. I don't know how long Erik will be gone."

"How long it will take him to kill more people, you mean." He gave one of his long-suffering sighs. She rose up on her elbows to glare at him. "That is what he's doing right now, isn't it?"

"Yes." Nadir spread out both of his hands, his round face asking for understanding in this. She would give him none. "He'll use Darius to find out who else knows he's here, and then he will wipe them all out."

My god. "You knew what Erik would do when he left us, yet you let him go off do it!"

"Could I have stopped him? Do you think he would have listened to me?" She had never really seen Nadir angry, and she had certainly never seen that anger turned toward her. But now the older Iranian was jutting a pointing finger in the direction of the door, his usually kind face livid. "That man thinks of nothing but you – he does nothing now except in your name. If I had suggested he put aside his bloodlust and let them live, you would have seen a lovely repeat of Paris." She didn't need him pressing his own hand to his throat for demonstration. She understood what he meant.

That man thinks of nothing but you.

Christine shook her head. "Erik only has his own interests in mind. That much is obvious! He does whatever he feels like without considering anyone else's feelings. For that matter, I'm a witness to a crime. How do I even know you'll let me go home?"

"Have you not been listening to a word I said?" Nadir threw up his arms in exasperation. "I apologize, but I can't talk anymore about this. Ask Erik himself if you want to know more." He marched out of the room, closing the door behind him. Presently, she heard the TV click on.

Christine dropped herself back onto the bed and dug her knuckles into her eyes, trying to stop from crying from sheer force of will. Erik was out there – hurting other people, killing other people – for her? How could Nadir say such a thing? How could Erik believe she would want any of this nightmare?

She laid there for a long time, staring up at the ceiling. Sleep would not find her.

She heard the soft open and close of the front door, and she jerked upward into a sitting position. Her body protested, too sore from laying still for so long. At some point, she had dozed off. No daylight was starting to peak through the blinds, so it must still be late. She swung her feet off the bed, wincing at the pain of weight on her feet, and moved to the door.

"I expected Russians." Erik's voice made her pause before opening the bedroom door. He sounded… wrong, his voice not quite his usual smooth quality. "They could have paid off Darius, and this had their kind of stench, but it was Shah loyalists after all."

"How many?" Nadir asked, laden with some kind of heavy emotion.

"Seven that knew the immediate plot. Darius kindly took me straight to their den after I… persuaded him. We cannot guarantee that this will not spread. I likely bought us some time, but there will be more to deal with."

Christine heard him walk across the room, clink glass on glass, and pour something. She would guess a drink of some kind. She should go into the living room, but they would never speak so candidly if she was there.

"How far will you pursue this?" Nadir asked.

A pause, maybe as Erik drank. "Don't you mean us, my dear Daroga?"

A weighty sigh. "You know I do. But these ties run deep, my friend, blood runs deep between these people. We are dealing with the sons of men who will never stop pursuing the past, and they can't let it go. And if you have truly severed the hand they had established on this continent, then more will swarm out to follow. This may take years."

"I have to keep her safe." Erik's voice contained an emotion Christine had never heard, one he had never used around her. She was highly aware of her eavesdropping at that moment. She should go to the bathroom, maybe, and stop herself from hearing things not meant for her ears.

But Nadir changed the subject, taking on a new edge. "I must ask, Erik. Where is Darius now?"

Christine pictured them staring at each other from across the room.

"In the trunk," Erik replied, almost too softly for her to hear. "I left him for you."

Nadir murmured something under his breath in another language – Persian, she guessed. A prayer, a curse. They were both quiet, so she decided to open the bedroom door. Immediately, both men turned to look at her, and she felt a flush heat her face. She had nothing to be embarrassed about, nothing at all. She stepped into the living room, chin up.

Erik stood near the unlit fireplace, one elbow on the mantle, the other hand holding an empty glass. A decanter of bourbon was nearby. He had taken off his hat and gloves, but he still wore his cloak. His posture was bent, the unmasked portion of his face weary, his shoes caked with mud. His yellow eyes swept up and down her form, from her messed up hair, to her rumpled blue gown, to her bare feet.

"You should be asleep," he said.

She crossed her arms, daring him to send her to bed like a child. He looked away from her to Nadir, who rubbed both hands across his face, the very picture of grief.

"I will take care of it, as I should," the older man said. "And then I'm going to my own bed. Miss Daaé, I will pick you up after lunch to take you back to Boston." He shook his head. "Leave me to my misery until then."

Christine thought she was going to be sick again. She should call out to him, stop him, tell him to call the police and let them deal with the man in the trunk – his friend, in the trunk. She did nothing, only watched him leave with hunched shoulders and dragging feet.

Erik poured another glass of bourbon and downed it in one gulp. The white expanse of his throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Go to bed, Christine."

"No."

She strode over to him, highly aware of the smolder of his gaze, and took the empty glass from his own hand. Pouring herself a portion, she tossed it back. The amber liquid burned all the way down. She remembered his words ages ago, after he had threatened to strangle Nadir. "Don't test me tonight, Christine. My hands have just tasted the intersect between life and death, and I fear what I may do."

She made to pour herself another drink, but he stopped her, taking the decanter away and capping it. She glared at him, feeling safer within the bubble of her anger. Erik had killed a man right in front of her, and Nadir had the gall to say it was all in the name of protecting her, as though she had used the punjab herself.

Despite his obvious weariness, Erik exuded barely-restrained power. Without her high-heels, she felt even smaller beside him. His bulky cloak gave him a dominant presence that threatened to suck the strength from her, while her naked arms and shoulders only reminded her that she was still dressed in a gown he had chosen for her, plunging back and all.

"I am a dangerous man, Christine," he said.

"Right this moment, or always?"

He growled at her flippant words, and she felt the sound in the soles of her feet. She didn't move away, however. She must truly be insane. Instead, she looked him over head to toe. His wig was slightly ruffled, his shoulders two long sloping lines of fatigue. Dear god, what had he done tonight? He had dressed impeccably for their evening together, with a bow tie at his throat instead of his usual cravat. His black suit, while now rumpled from activity, cut his slender form perfectly.

When her eyes landed on his middle, she gasped with fright. "Erik, you're bleeding!" His left side glistened with an unmistakable sheen just above the waist of his pants.

"It is of no concern." He caught her searching hand in a tight grip that encircled her wrist. "Leave it, Christine."

"Let me help," she pleaded. "Please." If she did nothing, he would likely ignore the wound. He didn't have the best record of taking care of himself, and this was more than a split lip or the chafing of his mask. This could be serious. She swallowed. "Please, Erik."

His lips thinned as he frowned at her. "Why?"

"You know why, damn it," she cried. "Now take off those shoes before you track mud everywhere and get in your room. Now!" She didn't wait for a reply, turning on her heel and stalking off to his bedroom. She threw open the door and strode inside – the room looked much like her own, the bed seemingly unused.

Heading into his bathroom for supplies, she rooted around and found a rather comprehensive medical kit under the sink. She filled a bowl with warm water and stacked several towels and washcloths nearby on the bed.

After a while, Erik followed. He had shed his cloak and shoes, as commanded, and stood there in his black dress socks, his jaw clenched. Fine, he could be mad at her as long as he cooperated.

"I'm going to look at your wound," she said. "Don't move."

"Of course, mademoiselle."

She ignored his sour tone. His suit coat was already unbuttoned, so she was able to push it off his broad shoulders with relative ease. She let it fall to the wooden floor, not wanting to get blood on anything fabric. The circle of blood was more obvious through his vest. She reached up to unbutton the vest, starting at the middle of his chest, and he still didn't stop her as she pulled it off.

She had never undressed a man before, and she tried not to think about what she was doing. This was to clean and bandage his wound – nothing more. She wouldn't be able to fully see the damage if she merely pushed up his white shirt. He raised his head to give her better access to his bowtie. Her fingers fiddled with it a bit too long before she finally figured out how to unloosen it enough to pull it over his head; he bent to let her do so.

It was when she reached the top button of his dress shirt that he settled his hands atop hers, a gentle touch that startled her. She tried not to jerk back from that pressure, from those hands that had killed so many tonight. If he had applied any harder of force, she might have screamed.

"You do not have to do this," he said quietly. "You do not have to go through this."

"I can handle a little blood, Erik."

He shifted his feet, looking at some spot over her shoulder. "No, I mean – the state of this body. You should not have to see this body, which has been different from birth, which has weathered many… atrocities."

Her heart broke for him. She wasn't sure if her next words were the right ones, but she needed to tell him. "I've already seen."

"W-what?" He hadn't let go of her hands. If she retreated from his touch now, he might truly break apart. Was she the one trembling right now?

"When you first came to my apartment and took a bath. I-I knocked on the door to give you some clothes, but you didn't answer. I opened it and saw your back, just your back, and I quickly closed the door again." She shook off his hands, which fell to his sides. "Now, let me see your wound before you bleed all over the place."

He didn't impede her again as her fingers worked the buttons from his throat to his navel, revealing expanses of pale skin. She reached the waistband of his pants, and steeling herself against any awkward thoughts, she tugged his shirt free and unbuttoned the last two. His shirt peeled away from his wound, an angry red gash in his side just above a prominent hip bone. Her hands shaking slightly, she pushed the white shirt off and let it fall onto the rest of the heap.

She remembered the crisscrossing scars she had seen on his back and shoulders, and some of those curled around his chest and stomach now. His arms and shoulders bore the worst of the damage on his front. A large puckered scar covered the area over his heart, and it must have been an almost fatal injury. He had an old gash across his stomach and several bullet holes that had healed into flat red scars.

He was beautiful.

His body, lean as she expected, fell from strong, expansive shoulders to narrow hips. Ribs jutted outward, but he was all sinewy muscle, all strength and dark power, packed into pale skin. Christine blinked, for a moment lost in an image of his body above hers as he took what she had never given anyone else, all that hardness against her, within her.

She blinked again, the image gone. This was a man who had killed seven people today, eight counting the one at the restaurant. She couldn't let herself come undone at the mere sight of him.

"How can you look?" he said softly.

"I've seen scars, remember," she replied, trying not to sound bitter and probably failing. Exhaustion was setting in. She needed to get him cleaned up before she either passed out or made a terrible mistake. "Sit on the bed," she ordered, and began to spread out the items she might need.

Erik obediently took a spot on the satiny black comforter. He leaned back onto his elbows so she could more easily reach his side, his long legs hanging off the edge of the bed. Dipping a washcloth into the water, she began to dab at the wound, steadily cleaning off the excess blood. Now that she had a good look, she could see that while the gash was long, it wasn't very deep.

She glanced up at his face, and his expression was unreadable. "Bullet or knife?" she asked.

"Bullet." His voice was gruff. "Been a while since I took on that many at once. I have gotten sloppy."

"You're alive," she retorted. "I'd say you did well enough."

Once the whole area was clean, she took a piece of bandage and pressed it to the length of the wound. "I'm going to hold this on here until I'm sure the bleeding has stopped. If it doesn't, you'll need stitches." Oh, all those hospital shows were paying off now.

"Very well," he murmured.

She settled onto the bed next to him, keeping her palm flat against the bandage. Her fingertips reached over the top of the dressing, skimming across his bare skin. She was well aware of the warmth of his belly under her palm, the warmth of his whole body washing over her, so different from his usual coolness. His scent invaded her senses, his own masculinity strong after his exertion. His heartbeat thundered in her ears, or was that her heartbeat, and oh god, he must be able to hear her heartbeat for they were only inches apart. His stomach twitched under her hand; her fingers were way too close to the dip of his waist that disappeared into his pants. Like his head, his body lacked much hair, but a wisp of light curls gathered at his naval and traveled downward.

She whipped her eyes up, meeting his own wide stare. His chest rose and fell with quicker breaths. With sudden clarity, she was aware of her own position, half leaning over him, their thighs all but touching, her bare arm brushing against his.

"I'll check it now!" she said, sounding too loud. She peered under the bandage and found only a little fresh blood, and that relieved her on so many levels. Grabbing the roll of gauze, she taped one end to the bandage and began to unroll it around his side. He lifted his arms to give her space, and suddenly, this was all a horrible idea. She had no choice but to lean further into him to wound the gauze around his body and back around to the other side. Quicker than she should have, she made another pass, stuck on another piece of tape, and swung away from him.

She couldn't face him, couldn't see what expression was in those infinite golden depths. She felt herself start to shake. Maybe she was finally going into shock. She had done that once after her first operation, waking up to find her entire body shivering uncontrollably as it fought the sleep-inducing drugs with adrenaline.

"Forgive me," she heard him choke out a moment before his fingers caressed the nakedness of her back. His touch, normally so cold, burned across her skin, down to the small of her back, and up to the curve of her neck. She gasped and hugged her arms against her body, enflamed by the feel of his hand.

The tips of his long fingers slipped along the blade of her shoulder, dipping into the side of her dress.

"How can you touch me now?" She jerked around to face him, tears clouding her vision.

His hand left her, forming into a fist. "How can I not, Christine?" his voice deeply husky. Gone was the point of silence. "The feel of your skin is seared into my mind, and I want more of it, always more of the feel of your softness. Even now I want more than kisses, more than touches. Even now, I want your body against mine, Christine."

She shook her head, not wanting to hear these words. "His dead eyes are seared into my mind," she whispered. "You laid him at my feet like- like a cat might a bird it caught."

"Like an animal?" he sudden spat, rising up on a knee, towering over her on the bed. "Is that what you mean? I acted like an animal!"

She flinched away from his fury. He seemed to grow taller before her, the unmasked portion of his face darkened with rage, the mask itself a stark white in contrast.

"I have been called animal many a time before, Christine. Animal, thing, monster, corpse. All of those names I have heard from the moment I was born. But I assure you, I am nothing but a man!"

He lunged for her, his hands grasping her waist and jerking her along the bed. Her back hit the mattress as she cried out with fright. One of his knees pushed between hers, pining her gown to the bed so she couldn't move, as he rose up above her, a ghost made of immovable pale muscle. He had done this once before, weeks before, in Paris, after she had provoked him yet again with her stupid mouth. Back then, her hands had reacted by pulling him closer; now, she tried to shove him off, and it was like pushing against a mountain.

One hand entangled in the loose curls at the back of her head, yanking her head so she was forced to tilt it upward to avoid more pain. The other traveled up and down her side, not quite venturing anywhere else, but giving the promise that it so easily could.

"I am a man, Christine!" He crouched over her, his mouth hot against the curve of her neck as he pushed his lips against her skin. "I have only ever been a man, despite what they tried to make me. I have wanted as a man, yearned as a man, desired as a man. I see you, Christine, and I want to give you everything, take everything from you."

The grip on her hair pushed her head upward, forcing her mouth to meet his. She could feel tears streaming from her eyes, soaking the edges of her hair, and she kept them squeezed shut, unable to commit to memory what his face might look like. Her lips could do nothing against his except whimper. His thin lips kissed her for a terrible eternity. He slanted his mouth, probed at her retreating tongue with his, doing everything he could to coax her into a response.

When he drew back, she sobbed, "Please stop."

"Oh Christine!" His body trembled against hers. His hand leaving her hair, he tugged her up and against the firmness of his torso, cradling her body with new tenderness. She sprawled in his lap, her legs draped limply over one of his thighs. His chest was sweaty against her cheek. She felt the shape of him beneath her in a most intimate way, but he was clearly not aroused.

"Oh Christine, my Christine," he moaned. "What have I done? What did I do?"

"Please stop," she said again. "Please don't." She struggled to calm down, to get her surging panic under control. The only thing that saved her was the fact that he sat still beneath her. His hands, both on her arm, shook with the force of his emotion, but he didn't try to caress her in any way. "Please please please." She still kept her eyes shut, still couldn't look at him.

His heart pounded beneath her cheek. "I am truly a monster after all!"

Yes you are, she could have said, and that would have destroyed him. Exhaustion draped across her limbs, threatening to pull her under. A monster would have done it; a monster wouldn't have cared that she wanted no part of him.

"You stopped," she said, sounding impossibly small, too vulnerable upon his lap. "You stopped. Please, please I just want to sleep now."

He shifted, and she thought he might tuck her into his own bed, and she truly would get no rest that night. However, his arms slipped under her body and lifted, and he took her across the hall to the guest bedroom. He laid her down with impossible tenderness. She still couldn't open her eyes, didn't want to see any emotion that might flicker across his face. She pressed both hands over her face, feeling wetness from the tears that still streamed from her eyes.

He didn't try to tuck her in or say anything more to her. He turned off the lights and shut the door behind him. After several long moments, she heard the sound of glass breaking followed by muffled sobs before she slid into sleep.