A/N: Thank you for the reviews and sweet words! And now...

Chapter LXXIV

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The staccato blasts of gunfire shook him awake, sharp explosions that repeated three times and echoed in the moist night air.

He opened his eyes to darkness and vicious pain in his skull. The odor of wet horseflesh and damp wood pervaded his nostrils. His entire body ached but his ability to move proved he was only bruised, not broken. Slowly bringing his hand up to the back of his scalp, his fingers made contact with damp, sticky warmth. Blood, and a lump the size of a small egg.

Had the fiend Henri and the crotchety old Joseph beat him senseless and locked him in the stable again?

He shook his head in an attempt to clear the pervasive fog that clouded his mind. It only made the throbbing worse…No, that was not right. He left England long ago. Years. He was no longer part of that world, if ever he truly belonged, forced into servitude as he'd been. He was no longer in Haworth…

But where in blazes was he?

The hard boards beneath his prone body suggested a floor made by men. Narrow rods of dim white light glimmered off the short wall he faced, the blackness not absolute, and in confusion he rolled over. Iron bars filled an oblong opening high in the door facing him.

A cage?! Had the gypsies found and imprisoned him a second time?

"No, damn you," he growled and lunged for the door.

Faint flashes of remembrance ricocheted inside his skull, along with the pain – snippets of the frequent violence, neglect and abuse he suffered as a boy in a filthy gypsy tent and an even filthier animal's cage. He threw his palms then his body against the wood, with no thought but to break free. Never again would he be made a pathetic subject for their greed!

"What the hell is going on back there?"

At the distant and surly voice speaking fluid French and not Romani, his slowly reawakening memories took a turn to the past hour.

Soldiers of the gendarmes had captured him. A bad lot who worked for Jolene's uncle. Not filthy gypsies. And Christine had been struck down by one of those foul fiends…

Dear God – where was she?!

"DuChamps, go and silence the prisoner," the same voice ordered from a distance.

In the faint glow of moonlight seeping through the rods of iron, he could see that he was in the back of a wagon. Footsteps sucked through mud, moving to the rear, and Erik pressed himself in the corner by the door, out of sight, his eyes ever watchful. A shadow blotted out the light.

"What the bloody hell?" he heard his potential victim mutter as the man craned to look within the dark interior for sign of their prisoner.

The Phantom had hoped the guard would then reach for his keys to investigate. When he turned away instead, he knew no other option existed but to break his self-made vow. He had no wish for the guard to alert the others. As weary as the Phantom felt, in the captive position in which he'd been placed, he was uncertain he possessed the skill to bring another under his spell…

But for Christine's sake, and his own, he must try.

His arm shot out through the bars and wrapped across the fool's windpipe, bringing the back of the man's head to crash against the rods. The guard grunted in agony, unable to vocalize a shout as he gasped for breath, his hands clawing at the Phantom's sleeve. As the former chief assassin to the Shah, strangulation having become a skilled art, he knew well the correct amount of pressure to exert, careful not to deal the killing blow. Yet…

"Listen well to my words, monsieur," the Phantom whispered near the soldier's ear, the soft timbre of his voice an angry and dark velvet lure designed to mesmerize. "There is a matter of importance that I require of you with regard to your friends. But first, you will release me…"

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xXx

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A quarter hour after Raoul left the sitting room, Arabella was informed her carriage was ready, and prepared to set out on her own task of urgency. She feared for Christine, alone in the unfamiliar city at night, but had seen enough to know that her friend's sheer obstinacy and courage would see her through whatever trials she might come up against. Nor had Arabella's sharp eyes missed the absence of the knife she'd earlier used to peel her apple. Her greater concern existed within the opera house – or rather below it. In the form of one small boy.

Nodding to Giselle to accompany her, Arabella left the room and locked it, then made her way down the long corridor. At a point up ahead where the halls intersected, she was taken aback to see a tall, fair haired gentleman hurry a petite redheaded woman along, his hand clutched above her elbow.

Raoul…?

She glanced at Giselle to ask if she knew the woman, but her eyes were downcast, focused on the intricate carpeting. Arabella hastened her steps to the point where the corridors fused, and looked to the left. The man and girl walked close as swiftly they turned the corner.

"Mademoiselle?"

Standing silent with indecision, Arabella brought her focus back to the maid.

"Is everything alright?" Giselle asked.

"Did you see that gentleman and the young woman who hurried past?"

"No, mademoiselle."

Her maid looked at her a little queerly. Arabella knew she had not imagined her fiancé hurrying a young woman from an empty corridor containing nothing but bedroom suites, but she refrained from following them.

She did not miss the smirk the concierge gave as he caught sight of her in the lobby, though he nodded courteously, as befit his station. The look he cast Giselle was sharp and pointed, and Arabella made a show of taking the girl by the hand, whether it was done for ladies to befriend their maids in public or not. She did not give two figs who might see, later to whisper behind their fans.

"Come, my dear, I'll have need of your assistance once we're there."

Before the concierge could confront Arabella about her spontaneous decision – for Raoul had only arranged that the maid would solely see to Arabella's needs while staying at the hotel, with nothing mentioned about her leaving its confines – Arabella hurried toward the waiting carriage, tugging Giselle behind her. There was much she would love to say to the spiteful little man, but she did not trust herself to speak and possibly arouse his suspicion.

Giselle nervously giggled once the horses took off, her eyes wide with barely suppressed awe tinged with no small amount of fright.

"Monsieur Picard was not happy."

So that was his name; odd how in all the months they'd been in Paris she never knew.

"I could care less how Monsieur Picard feels," Arabella retorted stiffly, then gentled her expression. "You really should not remain within his employ. Surely there is some other work you can find in Paris?"

"No, mademoiselle, there is none for such as me. I have no schooling. Most of us who work there do not, only those tasks we have been trained to do. But the few girls who know how to read and write cannot find other work either…" She hesitated, biting her lip. "It is not possible to leave the hotel. We are closely watched. Only Jolene ever has gone, and now he has found her."

"Never leave? But – I saw you, in the street the other day, talking to a young man."

"Peter." Again the girl hesitated, as if weighing whether or not she should speak. "Monsieur Picard makes Peter spy for him. Peter only does this to protect his family. He is one of the men who guards us, but he is kind. Not like the others. He does not report to the monsieur when we bend rules, like the other guards do."

What the girl described sounded little more than a prison. A hotel of elegant destruction to the unfortunate servants who resided within.

"I ran after him because I was concerned," Giselle continued. "He's been acting strangely this last week, distant and quiet. I am one of the oldest girls at the hotel – I mean, I've been there the longest – so I'm allowed to go to market twice a week, always with a guard. That day Peter was to go with me, but he didn't show."

Arabella studied the demure, fresh-faced beauty sitting across from her. The girl did not fit with the class of prostitutes she had observed from afar during her time in the Mediterranean – brassy, bold, loud and colorful – and Arabella pondered the mystery of Giselle.

"How did you come to be at such a place?" she gave soft voice to her thoughts.

The girl was silent a moment, her somber gaze dropping to her skirt. "My father owed a debt to Monsieur Picard."

Horrified, Arabella listened to her sad story, of how a father wanted a son and felt overburdened with his small daughter after his wife's untimely death, giving her away as payment at the age of six. Arabella had never known such cruel disregard, even hatred within families, though she was not so naive as to doubt its existence. But never had she been affected personally, with someone in her service. The little maid's woeful tale gave her much to ponder, and they arrived at the opera house before she was quite aware.

Putting her mind to the immediate task at hand, she exited the carriage. "Stay here," she told Giselle. "If I have need of you, I'll send someone."

The girl looked completely baffled. "Oui, mademoiselle."

Arabella had not brought Giselle with her because she required her services as stated, but because she wanted to get her out of that den of iniquity and away from the lecher who ran it. She could do nothing to help the others, but Giselle was temporarily in her care and she would not see the girl harmed if she could help it!

Arabella hurried to the side entrance. This late at night, the doors to the public were sure to be locked, but from what Raoul said, they often kept the door backstage unbarred for late deliveries. As she had hoped, the latch responded to her touch and she swept inside the dimly lit interior.

A few stagehands were working with some wheeled contraption and looked up at her in surprise, clearly recognizing her if their instantly guarded expressions were anything to go by. She nodded once in acknowledgement and hurried toward Madame Giry's office.

Upon her arrival, she was curious to find not the ballet headmistress, but her daughter exiting the room. The girl jumped a little, a flicker of guilt shadowing her eyes.

"Meg, isn't it?" she asked the girl, looking into the empty office behind her. "I was hoping to speak with your mother."

"She's not here at the moment. You're here rather late."

"I have urgent business with your mother. Could you tell me where I might find her?"

"She's busy elsewhere. Perhaps I can help?"

Arabella blew out a dissatisfied breath. "I have come here on behalf of Christine."

Meg shook her head, her manner a little cooler. "I'm sorry, I cannot tell you where she is. I don't know where she is."

"But I do – at least I did."

Meg studied her in confusion. "I don't understand."

"You are a friend to Christine. I have witnessed your loyalty to her. In that matter we are united." Arabella had no desire to betray Christine's wishes, but time was surely of the essence. Still, she tried one more time. "Do you know where your mother went? I have a message I must give her, from Christine."

Meg shook her head. "Christine sent the message? Give it to me. I will see that Maman gets it."

Arabella hesitated.

"You did say it was a matter of some urgency?" Meg prodded. "I really do have Christine's best interest at heart."

"What do you know about…Christine's situation?" Arabella hedged.

"Situation?"

"With the Phantom."

"Oh. That." Meg stalled, as if uncertain she should speak.

Arabella blew out a breath. "Oh, horsefeathers. This is getting us nowhere. Both of us wish to be faithful to Christine's wishes, and desire her happiness. You were at the Bal Masque, where we worked together to deceive my cousin so he would not hunt them down once they disappeared through the floor in that ghastly red smoke and flame. We helped one another then. Can we not work together now?"

Meg wrinkled her brow, deliberating her answer, then nodded. "I know that Christine and the Phantom are very close, inseparable really."

"And did you know about their wedding?"

"You heard? It was only hours ago that I spread the news."

"Raoul told me upon his return to the hotel this evening. The truth is I've known about her marriage to Erik since the day I first spoke to her here."

"So, you know about that too. His name - Maman didn't even know that." Meg hesitated. "I was a witness at her wedding. I helped her get messages to her husband when they were separated."

Clearly Christine trusted this young woman, and Arabella could not justify stalling any longer. "Did you know a child has been living below with them?"

Meg's eyes widened. "A child? No… But why are you telling me this? What matter of urgency brings you here so late? And where is Christine now?"

"The gendarmes found them – Christine and her husband. They took him away."

"Mon Dieu," Meg breathed in horror, her big eyes growing even larger.

"My cousin intervened for Christine, but she escaped the hotel chamber when we were unaware – literally, out the window down a rope of knotted sheeting. I assume she went to find her husband. It was all that was on her mind. That and one other matter. The child. Before she left, the last thing she told me was to see that Madame Giry gets this letter."

Meg headed for the door. "Then we must try to find my mother."

A hurried search of the divided chambers, nooks, and crannies that composed the backstage of the opera house brought them no closer to their goal. Most of the performers had long since retired for the night, and the several they ran across had no knowledge of where Meg's mother was, nor had they seen her since the conclusion of evening practice.

"You have to show me that letter," Meg insisted. "You have no choice."

Arabella nodded in resignation and handed over the missive.

Meg made quick work of breaking the wax seal and skimming its contents.

"Christine asked Maman to go below, find the boy and take him into her care until she returns." She frowned and looked up. "I know there must be secret passageways within these walls that the Phantom used, but I have no idea where they are or how to get to his lair."

"I do. But first I need a key."

"A key? Christine said nothing about a key in the note."

"She told me to relate that information to your mother. She didn't wish to put too much in the letter, in case it fell into the wrong hands." Arabella looked around the shadowed area where they stood, a dark honeycomb of partitions. "Unfortunately, I cannot recall how to get to Christine's dressing room from here."

"I'll take you, but I'm going with you to find the boy."

Any hesitation to involve Meg Giry dissipated when Arabella considered walking alone through the dark forest to find the cave.

"And your mother? Surely she'll not be pleased to learn of your absence."

"She need never know. Now, shall we go and collect that key?"

Minds attuned to their mission, they hastened down the corridor.

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xXx

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Seconds after Arabella had left Christine alone in her bedchamber, Christine grabbed the small knife next to the apple core and set to work, cutting and ripping sheets from the bed into long strips, tying them end to end in sturdy knots.

Her makeshift rope did not come close to reaching the ground, but she managed to make it to the balcony beneath, praying all the while that the rope would hold her and the sheet would not tear. Once over the banister, Christine tried the balcony door, relieved to find it unlocked. A new dilemma occurred when in the scant moonlight she noticed that the room's occupant lay huddled beneath the sheets of a distant bed.

With the sound of her heart drumming in her ears, she anxiously crept across the seemingly immense floor to the door that led to the sitting room. The mountain of sheets stirred.

"Grace…?"

Christine froze, her horror magnified at the rustle of sheets to her left. In the darkness of shadows where she stood she hoped her profile would go unrecognized as a stranger.

"What are you doing out of bed?"

She had no choice but to answer, and did so in a bare whisper, hoping the lack of volume would mask her voice and the fact that she was not this man's companion.

"Tending to nature," she forced the words through trembling lips. "Go back to sleep."

Christine heard him grumble something then turn over. Grateful for the abrupt reprieve, she hurried for the door, praying she would not run into Grace. She made it to the cold hearth when she heard a soft step and melted into the turn of the wall, slipping around the corner. Across the room, a woman in a white nightdress walked past and entered the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Christine allowed herself a shaky breath to collect her panicked wits before carefully opening the door to the outside corridor. Seeing the way was empty, she made quick work of finding the back staircase the servants used and at last exited the hotel, undetected.

The hour was late, the streets dark and vacant of all but drunkards and derelicts who roamed the night in search of illicit pleasures to gratify their dark urges. One such scoundrel stinking of stale liquor and old sweat eyed Christine as she skirted a wide berth alongside the wall against which he leaned. He pushed away from the stones to follow.

Clutching the knife she'd brought, she swung it up at eye level, the light from the steady flame of a street lantern glancing off the blade.

"I'm not afraid to use this," she threatened. "Come one step closer and I'll show you."

"Foul wench," he muttered, retreating the few steps back to his post against the wall.

Harsh recollection of the violent abuse suffered at the rough hands of her cousin and later the ill-fated Monsieur Buquet palpitated a shock of terror with each urgent beat of her heart. Christine picked up her skirts and ran till her chest burned as if fire stung her soul. She melted into the shallow crevasse in the crumbling wall of a building while she struggled to capture her breath. Her attention caught and held to the sign hanging above a door across the street, with the carving of a mortar and pestle – an apothecary's shop – and at once she recognized where she was. This was the same street Arabella took her down to reach the forest in search of the cave. She had only to retrace their steps of that day to find the road down which the soldiers had taken Erik.

Where to find the asylum was the real dilemma. With no one she could trust to help her, Christine must manage on her own, and all she could think to do was return to the road in the forest and attempt to follow the path the soldiers had taken. She hoped Arabella had gotten the message to Madame and the boy was safe, but Erik was her first priority. She would find him or die trying.

She had not yet reached the outskirts when the skies opened and the rains poured from the clouds in a torrent. No stranger to the damp after living on the English moors, she pulled the hood over her head and plodded onward. Soon, however, it was impossible to see the path and she took cover beneath the overhang of a nearby building to wait.

The entire wretched length of time she tried not to think of what even more delay would cause. Was she already too late? Had the vile party delivered their insensible prisoner to the asylum's bleak doors?

The squall blew out as swiftly as it blew in, and Christine hurriedly resumed her trek through the light pattering of rain the storm left in its wake. Soon that too petered out, watery moonlight washing the thin cloud covering and outlining the copse of trees ahead in pale white. In relief she noticed a long dark snippet of cloth dripping from a lower branch. The same that Arabella once tied there to help them find their way. Christine had only to follow the bedraggled snippets to find the road, which they had crossed in their trek. If it was the same road...could there be more than one?

The trail of cloth was easy to spot and she soon found the narrow pathway. The rain had washed away any fresh wagon tracks, the trail now one of water and mud. Her heart fell. What was she to do? Her sense of direction among the dense trees made it impossible to be certain of which way to go, to the left or the right.

A gunshot exploded in the distance behind and she spun around in horror. Soon another followed, then another.

She had no doubt the terrible blasts were somehow connected to Erik and hurried along the fringes of slick road in the direction she'd heard the gunfire. Twigs and branches scraped her arms. Leaves sodden from the storm slapped moisture in her face.

She walked at a hurried pace, hidden within the maze of looming trees, soon losing track of the minutes and the distance and fearing she had become lost.

The moon broke through the clouds as she broke through a dense gathering of trees at the curve of the slope, her attention immediately going to the road below. In shock, she stood with as clear a view of the area as nighttime allowed. A short distance away, she made out a wagon and two horses, standing motionless. What looked like a body lay off the road, near the wheel.

Dear God…

As furtively as she could manage, with her heart banging against her ribs in worried fear and her breath coming in frantic spurts she could not silence, she drew closer. With slow care she made her way down the slippery hill.

A peculiar sense of quiet disorder made the hairs stand at attention at the back of her neck. The only noise heard above the whisper of wet leaves was the soft whicker of a pair of horses harnessed to the wagon. Where were the other soldiers? The horses…she remembered at least five…

…and who was that lying so still upon the ground?

Anxiously she crept near, relief bringing a warm shiver to see the metal buttons of a uniform gleam on the man's form sprawled at the edge of the road. Reassured that he was indeed unconscious if not dead, she skirted his body and moved to the back of the wagon, where she had seen the soldiers throw her husband.

"Erik?" she whispered, noting the door stood ajar.

She swung the metal door wider, not all that surprised to see the cage empty inside.

So where was he? Had those missing fiends on horseback taken him away? But where?

"Erik…?"

Christine moved to the front of the wagon, stopping in horrified shock to see a second man, his body longer in length, lying prone in the mud. A pool of wicked black seeped into the puddle of rainwater beneath his dark cape.

"Oh, God, no…" she whispered, feeling ill. "No...it cannot be…"

With her hand covering her mouth, she awkwardly retreated two steps in shocked denial, then hastened forward, with the intent to roll him over and witness the extent of what must be a gaping wound, judging from the amount of blood – to see if there was any breath left in his broken body…

As Christine bent toward him on shaky legs, the sound of hurried footsteps sloshed through the mud and closed in from behind. Before she could confront her attacker, a strong arm clamped around her waist at the same time a large hand covered her mouth. She struggled to break free, burying her nails in his muscled arm, and heard his hiss, nearly fainting when his lips touched her ear.

"Sheathe your claws, woman," he ordered little above a whisper, "and cease in fighting me. Or is this how you show your gratitude…?"

Her eyes widened further with each dry word uttered, her heart fluttering to fall somewhere to the pit of her stomach. Before he could finish his light criticism, she swung around in his hold and threw her arms tightly around his neck, pressing her lips hard against his.

Her Phantom was safe! He was there, with her, breathing and alive, so wonderfully warm and solid beneath her hands.

"Erik -" she all but shouted once she pulled away, a barrage of questions pummeling her mind and demanding utterance, "what happened here? Those men, the other soldiers -"

His fingers pressed against her lips for silence. "We do not wish the gendarmes who earlier left to hear us if they should be in the vicinity," he whispered. "Though with your thrashing about in the forest like a blind doe, anyone within a hundred yards is sure to have heard you and investigate, as I did."

His mild censure came across as both teasing and somber, his draining relief to see her at odds with his anger that she had come.

"So this is the thanks I get for coming to save you?" she asked in a huff, keeping her tone soft, her eyes never ceasing from roaming the lines of his unique face, the golden glow of his eyes. She devoured the sight of him in the realization that she might never have seen his dear features again.

"Save me?" he said in some amusement. "And how do you propose to have done that?"

"I came armed."

He glanced incredulously at the weapon she pulled from her belt and held up for his perusal.

"With a butter knife..."

"A paring knife," she corrected, "and quite sharp too. It can do what is needful."

He pressed his lips together at her absurd logic, his irritation coming to the foreground.

"Did I not tell you just hours ago never to enter this forest alone at night? It is much too dangerous. You could have been lost. A wild animal could have made mincemeat of that lily white skin."

She blinked up at him in disbelief. "You would have preferred that I stay at the hotel with Raoul?"

His eyes narrowed and he clenched his teeth at the knowledge of where she'd been and the familiar use of the cur's name.

"A despicable animal of a different sort, but at least you would have been safe there."

"Oh," she fumed quietly, barely able to conceive such a notion. "Well, if you feel that way about my company, I shall leave you to your blessed solitude –"

She barely took one incensed step in retreat to put a short amount of distance between them, before she felt herself spun around and back into his arms, one of them locking around her waist.

"You are a foolish and impulsive firebrand of a woman who acts without sense or reason!" he hissed, his eyes twin flames dancing in the night.

Christine pressed her palms to his chest, squirming away from him. "And is that all you have to say to me?" she seethed.

"No,'" – he growled through clenched teeth – "I am so damned grateful that you're mine!"

He grabbed her head, his mouth covering and searing hers, effectively melting away her rising pique at his unwarranted boorish attitude. Reminded of how she'd come so close to losing him once more, she clutched handfuls of his shirt, pulling herself even nearer, her tongue tangling with his –

This time, he pulled away.

"Come, Christine." His voice was husky. "We must leave this place."

Thinking of her lengthy trek thus far, she looked over her shoulder. "The horses?"

"There's no time to remove their harness. The missing gendarmes could return with reinforcements at any moment. We will keep to the trees and walk the distance."

Her feet were wet and hurt in her shoes, her legs weary from the expanse of ground already covered, but Christine nodded, resigned to their lot. Surely they had traversed twice the distance in their days on the moors. To be reunited and in his presence buoyed her spirit, despite how unreasonable he was being. But their situation could change in an instant. She could lose him yet again if they did not find sanctuary soon.

He took her hand to lead her up the slope, and for the first time she noticed that beneath his cloak he wore a sabre belted around his waist. Clearly belonging to one of the fallen.

"Those soldiers," she ventured softly. "Should we not tie them up? That is…" She took a deep breath. "If there still exists a need."

His gaze remained fixed ahead of him. "They won't be telling any tales."

"Oh." The finality of his tone made his meaning clear. She wrinkled her brow in sudden confusion, recalling the terrible sight of her husband, wounded and inert, and the trained soldiers with firearms and sabres outnumbering him.

"But how, Erik?" she insisted softly. "How did you escape and overpower those men? You must have… didn't you?"

A lengthy span of silence stretched into the void before he released a heavy breath.

"We will speak of this upon our return to the caverns. For now, we must hurry."

With his hand protectively at her lower back, he helped Christine to ascend the remainder of the slope, losing themselves to the ambiguous darkness of the thicket. With her Phantom again by her side, she felt safe, even strangely content despite their frightful situation. After a long stretch of walking, she only hoped that he knew the forest as thoroughly as he did the opera house and his caverns – for she had become utterly lost.

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xXx

A/N: Well, at least they're back together... 0-:-)