A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) Seemed fitting to work on another chapter of this for the season. ;-) And now…
V
.
In a chamber cloaked by the velvet darkness, with the moon a faint luminescence barely touching the fringe of pale shadows, Christine's soul struggled for light…while a base part of her nature she once thought nonexistent succumbed to the dark.
His cool touch on her shoulders, with the warmth of his breath whispering against her ear cast a hazy film through her mind, and she struggled to make sense of his words -
Do you really wish to know?
He must have heard her question on the balcony with regard to his identity, but now that her wish was at last being granted, she could articulate no words to give a reply.
"Because I will tell you…"
His quiet, steady voice was a trap, and she willingly allowed herself to be bound by its silken chords, nodding faintly at his words.
"Do you feel this, my dear, this fathomless pull that exists between us?"
His fingertips ghosted over the tops of her shoulders to their curves, barely tracing down her arms, and she shivered, her head falling softly back against his shoulder.
"I am the forbidden thoughts that fill your days…and that which your soul cries out for in the night…"
Christine's heart quickened at the echo of her feelings put into words.
"Give yourself over to me…"
His demand came as a seductive caress, sweetly invading her soul. She shivered with heat as the length of his chill form pressed against her back; she could feel every smooth plane and lean muscle through the scant material of her chemise and wrapper. Her breathing grew labored at the sinful feel of him, at the feel of his desire that made her blush. One of his hands slid to just below her breasts, stroking along her stomach and clasping her hip, drawing her even closer to his hard body.
Christine whimpered softly at the flurry of confusing sensations he aroused. She should not be here with him like this, should not even entertain such a scandalous thought of where this shocking interlude might lead, and at last found her voice.
"My Lord Count, please I…"
He quietly chuckled.
"Erik."
"Wh-what?" She could barely follow anything save for his rousing touch on her quivering form.
His other hand slid beneath her jaw, his fingers slipping into the loose ringlets of her hair, and he turned her face toward him.
"To you, sweet Christine, I am Erik."
Erik…
She lost all will as his mouth descended on hers. Feeling the cool press of his lips, the stirring heat of his breath, a surge of something wonderfully foreign and dangerously alluring swept through her blood. Barely cognizant of her actions, she craned her neck more fully to return the intimacy. Pressing her mouth to his in shy, reckless need, she lifted her hand to cradle his head.
At the brush of her fingers against his mask, he sharply pulled back. Christine made a soft sound of dismay at the back of her throat to lose his kiss that had barely begun. Her despairing groan ended on a delighted gasp as his mouth latched to the side of her neck, his tongue hot and tracing swirls of patterns along her flesh.
Her bones melted to liquid fire, a strange damp heat between her thighs that only he ever caused. His arm around her middle, his body against hers, was all that held her upright. With his other hand he pushed wrapper and chemise from her shoulder, his lips following the path he bared to whisper against her flesh. She felt powerless to stop him, was no longer sure if she wanted to or why she must.
He pushed her clothing further down her arm; with the bold action, his fingertips brushed ever so lightly against a sensitive nipple that strained against the thin material, his palm sliding against her elbow. The chemise slid further still, exposing the upper globe of her breast as his mouth brushed the curve of her bare shoulder.
Christine rasped an unsteady breath, sparks of fire surging through her blood. Her dark Count tightened his hold, almost painfully, his own breathing ragged. She wished to turn in his arms, to touch his face, to mindlessly lose body and soul in his daring seduction…
He went suddenly still, unnervingly so, causing her heart to beat with uncertainty and unease.
"Erik…?"
x
The innocent whisper of his name on her lips was almost his undoing, but the Count held fast. His senses reeled in delight with the feel of her soft, warm body against the shell of his own...
…while his mind felt undone with the alarming discovery just made.
Maintaining what scant control he yet possessed, he groped for what little hope he could manage, that his sharp eyes for once had been mistaken.
The sudden wash of moonlight reviled him, illuminating her silken skin in a mocking sheen of white, and bringing into vivid relief the hated mark of the accursed sun upon her flesh.
No … bloody damnation –
NO!
Erik stood on the brink of desolation, wavering on what course to take, suddenly indecisive of his path for the first time in his wretched existence. Had it been his father in his place, were the bastard still alive, she would not still be breathing. Yet for all the death he had borne in his unnatural reign upon the earth, Erik could not follow through with such a foul act, not against this woman…not Christine. He struggled with what was expected, what he must do to survive, and slowly began to withdraw his arm from around her. She swayed; after his heavy seduction, could barely stand. With his entire body against hers, he felt her knees begin to give way, and again tightened his hold to prevent her fall.
He closed his eyes in resignation. There was little choice what must come next.
"My lord?"
"Shh," he whispered, his lips tenderly touching her ear one last time, "do not speak…"
He could not bear to hear the tender plea in her lovely voice. She turned her silken cheek against his neck, tearing a rift inside his empty soul. She was so lovely, an angelic goddess, soft and pliant in his arms, definitely like no other woman…miraculously wanting him of her own volition, as much as he wanted her – how long had he yearned for that which he once considered an impossibility?
A coveted dream that could never be borne, never his to embrace…
Only one method existed to seize complete control before she could look beyond the façade and see the monster that held her – indeed, he was surprised she had not yet discovered the truth of his affliction, had not sensed it during the night of the festival. Was her kind not supposed to discern what ordinary mortals could not begin to grasp?
It was a vicious method, one that may briefly satisfy his relentless dark thirst but would utterly destroy the woman in his arms. Could any satisfaction be found in causing her death?
He did not believe it possible.
True, he barely knew her and was no stranger to causing mortal demise, but Erik had not spoken carelessly of the deep pull that drew them together. With no other woman through the centuries had he felt this inexplicable bond, more profound than anything he'd ever known…
A bond that should not exist and was never meant to be.
With grave resolve, the Count pressed three fingers against the pulse thrumming rapidly in her neck and watched with forced detachment while Christine faded from awareness. He lifted her limp body into his arms and stared down at her beautiful countenance, her lashes feathered dark crescents against highly flushed cheeks. His gaze lowered to the snowy column of her graceful, swan-like neck, and he cursed the lot thrust upon him.
Fate was a vindictive mistress, jealous by the mere thought of what few morsels of happiness he could salvage, always seeking to destroy them before he might discover the depths of their pleasure!
A life lived in solitude would forever be his curse.
He held her close to his withered heart a moment longer, before walking to the bed and laying her gently down on the coverlet, doing what must be done. The silver moonlight bathed her innocent beauty, beguiling him once more. Swiftly he reached for a blanket that lay folded on the trunk, covering her slender form, before he could submit to temptation's cruel snare and lie beside her, again to hold her in his arms.
With one last fleeting look, the Count cel Tradat stepped away from Christine's bed and swept out into the night.
xXx
The Vicomte Raoul de Chagny stood by the mantel of his uncle's study, a snifter of brandy in one hand, his attention fixed to the low burning flames in the hearth.
"Tonight's ball appeared to be a success," he said more out of passing the time with meaningless words and filling the vacant silence.
"It did, despite that fool girl's attempts to ruin my plans."
Raoul sighed and took a swig of his brandy. Christine's latest venture into the night had once more given him cause for grave concern. He supposed it was understandable, her frequent desire for the fresh air of the outdoors, given the years she cloistered her life away at the Opera House, but she refused to acknowledge the danger. Her uncle, of course, was miffed with her for different reasons. Yet to come to Christine's defense now would only instigate an argument in which Raoul had no desire to partake.
He looked toward the earl, who sat in his chair by the hearth.
"Then you still mean to marry Christine off to one of those men who attended?"
"Of course." His uncle scoffed. "That's what women were created for, Raoul – to form strong alliances through matrimony and produce male heirs. And Lord Lomax has expressed a desire for a son before he dies. His first wife gave him four daughters…"
"Lord Lomax?" Raoul repeated in horror, wincing at the thought of Christine in that lecherous geezer's arms. "He's rather old, isn't he? And she's still so much a girl."
"She's the same age as your great aunt when we were wed. Then, too, there's the Count cel Tradat…"
Raoul set his glass goblet on the mantel in horror. "Tell me that you're not considering handing her over to that disfigured madman!"
"Bah. You've been listening to the servants' stories." The earl reached toward a small table nearby and lifted a cigar from a silver box.
"Stories? Until tonight, he hasn't left his castle for a social event for two years – and why else would he wear that ridiculous mask if he wasn't grossly disfigured?"
After their brief meeting hours ago, Raoul was reasonably certain the eccentric Count had more than one secret hidden away behind the ivy-covered walls of Castle Dragan.
"I don't care if he sprouts two heads," the earl gruffly said. "He's also the wealthiest man in the district, perhaps in all of England and Scotland combined, save for the royals of course."
Raoul doubted such an exaggerated claim. He had hoped to appeal to his uncle's sympathetic nature, if he even had one, and had not intended to speak this soon but saw no choice.
"Marry her to me."
"What?" His uncle regarded him with amused disbelief and lit his cigar. "Don't be a fool, boy."
"I'm deadly serious. I care for her. I always have, since we were children."
"Sentimental hogwash," his uncle grumbled. "It would not prove a good match. Montmarte is in dire need of numerous repairs, and your brother squanders what is left of the de Chagny fortune with his gambling. It is a marvel that your family still holds the estate and he hasn't used it as a stake at cards."
Raoul winced at the blunt words. "Let me speak with Phillipe before you make a decision."
"Any amount the Comte could be persuaded to part with in a marriage agreement would never match what either the Count cel Tradat or Lord Lomax could offer."
"Uncle Matthias, at least give me a chance – Phillipe returns to France in a fortnight. I will leave here then and travel home to speak with him."
The earl grudgingly gave his consent. Raoul sincerely thanked him then excused himself to retire for the evening, not wishing to tempt fate and say something that might cause his uncle to change his mind.
Once in his bedchamber, Raoul locked the door, lit the desk lamp, and sat at the small table provided. Pulling the contents from a leather dossier, he sorted through the memorandum collected – notes on sightings, witnesses, and the killings themselves over the past two years. Random and sporadic in the timeline they occurred, the victims were of both social classes – peasants and lords alike. Their bodies drained blue, with twin holes found at the side of their necks…
Raoul sighed, rubbing bleary eyes with forefinger and thumb, and lifted his gaze from the eyewitness account of a barmaid to the ever-changing night sky that flickered from light to dark in rapid succession. A blur of motion on the grounds caught his eye, and he stood to his feet, suddenly alert, then strode to the balcony doors. He scanned the lawn, uncertain of what he saw or that he saw anything, as weary as he was. The darkness grew thick as the moon was again swallowed by clouds – but something felt amiss. On impulse he went to Christine's room, three doors down from his.
Raoul knocked on the door. "Christine…?"
He waited a reasonable amount of time then tried the handle. Locked. Damn it.
"Christine?" he said a little louder in impatience.
No response came, and he sighed in disappointment. What was he thinking? It was the middle of the night, and she must be as exhausted as he felt after the strain of the ball. Resolved to talk with her first thing in the morning, Raoul returned to his room.
He had been taught that ladies were the gentler sex, weaker in mind and physical aptitude, to be treated as delicate china. The journals had opened his eyes to the strengths of the women of the Van Helsing line – those chosen. Yet unless Christine embraced her fate and learned the skills required of her, and to hone those abilities she had no knowledge she possessed, she was as weak as any other female and in need of his protection.
It was his fondest hope that she would recognize and accept the truth of her destiny. Only then, together as man and wife, could they fight the evil that pervaded the countryside, just as her parents had done. Somehow, Raoul must convince her...
For marry her, he would.
xXx
The morning sun cut a persistent swathe along her prone form, the disturbing brightness settling on her closed eyelids.
Christine groaned and turned on her side, putting her back to the annoying light. The soft patter of what sounded like droplets striking wood invaded the slumber she tried hard to recapture, and as she slowly came to consciousness, her mind told her what she heard.
She rolled over to see that the balcony door stood wide, a soft rain striking the floor while the sun shone from beneath rose-tinged gray clouds.
Never, since she had come to this part of the country, had she experienced such bizarre weather. Though she had little on which to base her judgments, having lived most of her life in Paris and all of those days within the Opera House, outings into the city being rare.
She sprang from bed to shut the glass door, her bare feet slipping a little on the wet flooring, and suddenly noticed she still wore her wrapper over her chemise. Odder still, she had not pulled down the bedclothes, but had slumbered on the coverlet, having wrapped herself up in a blanket.
She could not even recall lying down to sleep, though she remembered the ball…
The shocking dreams of what followed felt unnervingly real, more real than any dream of the masked Count previously experienced. And she had dreamt many such dreams since they met at the festival…
He had come to her from the balcony. She had not seen him, not truly, but she had felt him in ways that made her blush, felt him more intimately than in any previous encounter they shared. His chill body had been pressed so strongly to hers, an act she both encouraged and desired…His kiss…she had wanted that too. Awkward from the angle in which they stood, with him pressed behind her, and all too brief. Yet those few seconds of his lips touching hers had heated her blood and made her crane her head as much as possible to seek more of the same.
Christine pressed her fingers to her flushed cheeks to remember how brazenly she responded…
But he had hardly behaved as a gentleman, to enter her bedchamber, uninvited…
Unless, of course, it had only been a dream.
She had been weary but not exhausted, to have toppled to sleep over the made up bed. Warmed by the wine, but not tipsy from it.
Christine did not question why she had no memory of his departure; was that not his habit, to disappear in silence and without her knowledge? But she did wonder why she could remember no more after his stirring kiss…
And yet, if it was a lurid encounter fashioned only in slumber - that was often the way of dreams, was it not? To break off abruptly and veer toward another course.
Half convinced that the sensual interlude never occurred, save for in her shameless mind, Christine went about her morning ablutions and dressed for the day.
In the breakfast room, she was surprised to see no sign of Lucy and relieved to note the earl's absence. The silence, however, allowed her mind to roam free, the uncomfortable questions from earlier relentless in their arrival, like a bad rehearsal repeated again and again.
Had he been there? Surely not – how would he have scaled her balcony? Climbed the vines of greenery? Perhaps, but she would have seen him, certainly heard the rustling of leaves. She had only just turned her back to the rail when he appeared behind her as silent as a ghost...
No, it had to have been a dream.
"Little Lotte, let her mind wander…"
Christine smiled and looked her cousin's way. "Raoul. Have you eaten? Please, sit down and join me."
She hoped his usual bright chatter might help dispel the dark clouds of confusion that saturated her mind.
He served himself from the small buffet of silver dishes and took a seat cattycornered to hers, at the foot of the table.
"Have you seen Lucy?" Christine asked.
"Lucy?" he repeated vaguely and took a sip of his juice.
"Yes, you know – the cousin with fair hair who lives inside this manor?" Christine retorted a bit dryly and chuckled. "It would seem your mind has wandered. Is anything the matter?"
"It's nothing." He waved her mild concern aside with a faint motion of his hand. "Didn't get much sleep, is all."
"Yes, well, I haven't seen Lucy since before the ball - not during meals or even wandering about the place."
"I'm sure there's no cause for alarm. She's not much of a social butterfly as you may have noticed. She probably had a servant bring her a tray. Perhaps she was upset that our uncle denied her attendance to the ball last night."
Which made no sense, since as Raoul pointed out, she preferred solitude. Christine knew that Lucy entertained her own company, in her bizarre fashion, preferring her dolls to people. But she had spent time with the family at meals, and Christine hoped the girl wasn't ill. She decided to visit her room later, hoping her appearance would be welcome and not undesired.
As they ate, Raoul spoke of the ball and several guests, causing her to grin with his vague explanations of their histories, dithering more than once in the discourse.
"It sounds as if you don't really know them at all," she chided, pouring milk into her tea and adding one lump of sugar.
He smirked and dabbed his mouth with the napkin, then tossed it to his plate. "Perhaps I'm not the best storyteller to document the town's history," he admitted. "I arrived only three weeks before you did. But…" He reached out to squeeze her hand with his. "At least I got you to smile."
She did not wish to lose his company and be forced back into the empty silence of reliving questions that had no answers.
"Actually, I've been thinking…
He raised his brows for her to go on.
"Now, don't take this as my conceding to your wild, outlandish ideas, but I've decided that I would like you to teach me some of those skills you mentioned – as a defensive measure. It can never hurt to learn them."
"Excellent." His smile was blinding. "Shall we begin now?"
"So soon?" she laughed.
"I see no reason to delay, and I'll be busy the entire afternoon."
Christine hesitantly agreed.
A little less than an hour later, she wondered if she'd made a mistake…
She watched with disbelief as on the long table of the same parlor room they visited earlier that week, again locked, Raoul spread out a leather roll, half as long as she was tall. Padded with rich maroon suede, inside were pockets that contained weapons any king's armory would be proud to own. He had earlier moved aside the furniture, to create space, explaining that the area where he usually fenced had open doorways and no true privacy, so the parlor remained the best place for their lessons.
"Raoul, what is this?" Christine shook her head in incredulity. "When I asked you to teach me, I didn't mean this." She pulled out a wooden stake and mallet. "How exactly is this supposed to help me should I need to ward off advances from unwanted pursuers? Am I to nail their arms together?"
"That is your sole reason to learn?" He sounded disappointed. "To ward off admirers?"
"I told you at breakfast my reasons, and I have no use for any of these weapons. Besides, they are much too large and cumbersome to hide on my person."
"This," he said, picking up a strange leather glove with a cuff, halfway up to the elbow, "is not." She watched as he demonstrated, snapping it on. "Observe."
He held up the hand. As if by magic, a sharp pointed stake, slimmer and smaller than the one she held, shot up between his fingers.
"Ah yes," she said dryly, "I can see how well that would blend in with my costumes while dancing."
"Dancing?"
"In the chorus, at the opera. I still mean to find a way back there."
"Christine…"
Hearing the wheedling note in his voice, she shook her head.
"My mind is made up. If you won't take me, I'll find my own way back, somehow, before the earl can carry through with his reprehensible plans to marry me off to some horrible stranger."
The words were foolish, of course, no matter how earnest. She could hardly walk all the way to Paris, especially with some nocturnal wild beast on the prowl endangering the countryside.
"Christine, before you do anything drastic, give me a chance to intervene. I shall do my utmost to ensure that you need never have to suffer such a fate." He opened his mouth as if he would say more, and she waited, but he shook his head.
"Let me teach you what I know," he persuaded.
"I want to learn to defend – not attack. Especially not with these…" She motioned with the stake she still held toward a set of wicked looking silver knives with engraving on the blades themselves.
"Duly noted." He unbuckled the bizarre leather glove from his wrist. "Only allow me to show you how these devices work. Whatever you don't like, you don't have to use."
Christine blew out an exasperated breath at his persistence. She abhorred all of the foul weaponry – but he clearly wouldn't listen. Having shared with him her planned escape, an idea rose to mind. Perhaps there was a way to gain what they both wanted.
"Alright. I will become your student and learn whatever skills you think would prove useful for me to know - no matter that I could never and would never maim or kill a living being - but I ask for one thing in return." She took a deep breath, realizing she must be cautious so he wouldn't suspect. "I want to learn to ride a horse."
Whatever he anticipated her to use as a bargaining tool, it wasn't that, his expression one of complete astonishment.
He laughed, quite loudly, and she bristled.
"Is there something incredibly amusing about my request? Not everyone is taught to ride in their childhood, you know."
"Calm down, Lotte. Don't ruffle your pretty feathers." He grinned, but she only crossed her arms at his condescending attitude. "I would consider it an honor and a privilege to teach you to ride. Time spent in your company is always a delight."
She smiled faintly, pacified, though his words seemed to have deeper meaning and gave her a small amount of discomfort. Almost immediately he averted his fixed gaze to the roll of weaponry and withdrew the first abysmal instrument of death.
"Shall we begin?"
xXx
