A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :) Glad you guys are liking this! It's definitely a new experience for me – to write in this genre. lol But I always have loved a challenge… And now…


VIII

.

Any uncertainty Christine might have hoped for dissolved to dust as she glared at his broad back.

"That is your name, isn't it? Erik."

She said it again, ignoring the gooseflesh that popped out beneath her covered arms and the manner in which his shoulders stiffened.

The oppressive chains of silence stretched between them and bound her there. Even so, the words of accusation struggled up, relentless to be freed.

"You came to my bedchamber that night. You seduced me. You took liberties and touched me in ways no man ever has…"

She cursed the tears that wet her eyes. Cursed the waver in her voice. Cursed the man who stood so still and silent before her.

You left me, she whispered in the silence of her mind.

"You had no right," she said heatedly to the empty space between them.

"I know…"

It was an eternity before his reply came, and when it did, Christine was struck anew by the sensuous chords of his velvet, dark voice.

Dear God, that voice…

"It was a mistake."

She flinched as if slapped. Those were not the words she expected to hear. They wounded and mocked, branding her a fool, and she allowed harsher words their freedom in just reprisal.

"Are you such a coward that you cannot even face me?"

The sudden ferocity with which he turned on his heel and closed the distance to mere inches between them trapped the breath in her lungs. Shaken by the proximity of his towering strength, she forced her gaze to lift from the broad expanse of his heaving chest to the feral glow of his eyes behind the sockets of his black mask.

Such vehemence blazed within those shadowed eyes, and she knew in an instant that he could destroy her if he so wished. He could wrap his large, slender hands around her slim bones and break her like a twig. He could smooth those same chill hands upon her flesh and send her inhibitions up in a blaze that would forever scorch her soul…

And for one fleeting moment, she knew she would be wise to fear what he could do to her, even wiser to run away. But now that he was finally here, standing so tall and still before her, after so many empty days and nights without him, she found she could not retreat.

God save her soul…

Or perhaps it was already lost.

"Lucy," she said with resolve to vacate such troubling thoughts, surprised by how steady her words came. "Have you been meeting with her at night, in the maze? Are you…" She took a bracing breath and forced herself to say all of it, "Are you her lover?"

The confusion that so suddenly filled his enraged golden orbs revealed the truth and made the embarrassment suffered worth the sacrifice to utter such contemptible words. A wave of relief soothed her, followed once more by a peculiar wave of regret just as strong.

"Why would I want Lucy when you –"

He did not finish the thought, his words that seemed torn from him abruptly cut off as if sliced away. In that instant the atmosphere shifted between them, rendering Christine breathless and silent.

Their eyes remained locked, his now burning with a raw need that quickened the beating of her heart. Sensation, thick and heady, rose up to drown Christine's soul. It made her want to run. It kept her fixed in place. For a transfixed moment that hung suspended, neither of them moved, standing so close, so unbearably close…

She felt her body sway a fraction toward him. His gloved hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.

"You never said goodbye," she whispered, the hurt he inflicted with his frequent desertion guiding her words. "Why did you leave without saying goodbye?"

His eyes flared, the look in them causing a rush of warmth to stir her blood. His gaze flicked down to her parted lips. He stood statuesque - a taciturn, dark god of the forest, never once moving, as the wind picked up and whipped about them, the edges of his cloak rising with a rippling snap. His eyes lifted, burning her in gold.

"I did not think it necessary."

"It would have been kinder."

"I am not a kind man."

She shook her head in frustrated denial. "If that were so, you would have left me to be trampled underfoot at that pagan festival. You would have left me to wander alone lost in the mist. You would have left me to lie insensible when I was thrown from my horse…" for now she was certain that had been no dream possessed by a dazed mind either.

"Perhaps I should have, perhaps that was a mistake as well," he said through gritted teeth, his gloved hands clenching and unclenching near his thighs. "And so, goodbye."

Stung by his mercurial shift of mood and the sudden cold, clipped farewell, a sardonic mockery to her earlier request, Christine took a step back in angry confusion.

"Fine then – goodbye! And never seek me out again!"

She whirled about and took no more than a few steps, cursing the tears that rose to film her eyes, when suddenly the pressure of leather-encased fingers clamped around her arm.

Before she could gasp out a curt question, before she could question her reasoning, he hauled her spinning around to face him. Seizing her mouth with his, he held her as his captive. Long, slender fingers crushed her scalp. Hard and demanding, his cold lips plundered the soft curves of her lips, his hot tongue commanding entrance into the hidden recess of her mouth…

And she gave it. At first too stunned in surprise to resist, then too lost to him to covet her freedom. Barely aware she was kissing him back with such shameless and fervent surrender.

Suddenly, he broke free of her, his hands dropping to grasp her arms and push her away while holding her with him as if he had no desire to truly let her loose.

"Go home, Christine," he rasped, giving her a little shake, "Go home – and if you have any sense, never seek me out again!"

He pivoted, his cloak snapping about his legs, and left her standing there, his stride swift and sure as he hastened toward the forest. Pressing shaky fingers to her swollen lips, Christine could only stand numbly and tremble, watching him go.

xXx

The redoubtable Count cel Tradat, feared as a prince of darkness by many in his homeland, by the multitudes in all of Europe, swept with desperate resolve through the dense forest and laughed with scorn at the pathetic irony of the hunter fleeing the prey. No, not prey. He could not think that about Christine, not any longer… could not think of her in any capacity at all.

Their paths must never again cross, lest he be driven to the jagged edge of reason and do that which would destroy them both. Not that he could call himself sane, but he thought he had mastered the art of absolute control more than a century ago. Yet in her presence, he could scarcely recall such blind precepts, such foolish logic…

He had no choice but to forget her.

But how had she not forgotten him?

She called him by name. Even for a slayer, she should not have the ability to break free of his penetrating compulsion to forget. Never had he heard of that occurrence to one with his supreme power, not once in the four hundred years he walked the earth. When he left her insensible on her bed, with grim purpose he had wiped the heated incident from her mind as well as all previous clandestine meetings with him, or so he'd thought. Her most recent words proved she'd been invulnerable to his defensive machinations, as she had also thrice proved resistant to his hypnotic lure – perhaps making her the most dangerous of her kind, since she did not follow the established precedent for a slayer…

Since he had such minimal control over her mind, and even that slim contact could be broken.

He certainly proved unresistant to her lure, again kissing her, this time with the bottled up passion he carried for her these two damnable weeks.

Her mouth had been so soft, so sweet, her response to him so uninhibited - so wanting. Proof that she possessed true desire that was wholly without manipulation. Desire to be with him.

Briefly his eyes fell shut, his hand clenching into a tight fist at his side. Beneath the leather glove that covered his perpetually chill skin, the ring of his father's pressed hard into his flesh. He despised the small circlet of the gold manacle for all it represented but never could he remove it from his cold dead finger. Not if he wanted to live.

He laughed dryly at the irony – or at least live as other mortals do…

His thoughts returned to the slighted woman he left behind.

His thirst for her exceeded what was customary – he ached for Christine in every respect. Hungered for her to see what little of the man remained behind the monster, if indeed there existed one scrap – God, for once yearned to touch and be touched with tenderness and in passion. Freely and without reserve or the force of compulsion. To seize her willing body and take her into his bed. And in her innocence, she would have succumbed. It was made clear from her bold approach and keen response to his vehement kiss that she did not yet understand his vile nature or her true calling – both of them reprehensible.

Would that she might never know.

He could still taste her…could still see her face aglow from her mad dash to catch up to him, later flushed with passion from their kiss - wreathed by wispy tendrils of curls that had escaped her long thick braid. Could still observe the angry sparkle in her eyes as they accused him, and later the wondering desire that filled their mink-brown depths.

By the profane gods, how he wanted her…

It failed to matter. He could not have her.

Had history not taught him that truth through the tragic end of his father's treacherous friend, the beast who'd begun this vicious cycle of gruesome violence, and all due to the one woman he had loved and lost?

A woman would not be his downfall too! And certainly he did not love her – he could not love her! Monsters did not have the capacity for such weakness as to love…

Tell that to the withered corpse of his father's contemptible friend.

The Count lowered his head and picked up his pace within the mollifying shadows of the burgeoning night, recalling his visit with the detestable uncle undeserving of the title of earl. It had been a mistake to accept this most recent invitation to visit Montmarte, a mistake daily to watch Christine from the shadows this fortnight past and covet what he could never have. Despite his obscene wealth, Erik had nothing to offer but a face to conjure demons that was maliciously paired with a curse to frighten angels.

He sighed in weary despair. The days would follow their courses; the seasons would bloom and wither; the years and the decades would whisper past until her presence was no more than ash buried beneath the soil.

And still he would walk alone…

Let this at last be the end of it.

The whispers of the forest mocked him. Or were the taunts inside his mind?

xXx

"I am so grateful you agreed to come, Lotte. I think you'll find the village much changed from when you last saw it."

Christine sighed at his persistent choice of a childish nickname, at her eventual surrender to Raoul's invitation, at the whole wretched world in general.

She still did not understand what she'd done to warrant the Count's bizarre change in attitude toward her. One moment he rebuffed her, the next he rebuked her, and then without warning, he set her soul ablaze…

He was but a man, a man who made her senses smolder with no more than a look or the whisper of his touch. But he seemed to prefer the role of Ghost, clearly considering his mask not enough of a barrier behind which to hide. Disappearing and reappearing at will, leaving her shaken and nonplussed and altogether at a loss.

Never had she received a kiss of such desire…

And never had she desired a kiss more passionately.

Her heart soared then fell when just as violently as his kiss had come, he fiercely rejected and left her adrift once more, without understanding his reason. Again standing alone.

Nor had her great uncle wasted a moment's time to inform her of his meeting with the Count cel Tradat, enlightening Christine as to his reason for being there. In as few curt words as possible, the Count had told the earl he entertained no interest in Christine and possessed no wish to form a union of marriage, after which he abruptly made his excuses and left.

To hear such words had wounded, more deeply than she'd thought possible, but better she know his feelings now.

His frequent disregard of her own feelings unsettled her, but she would not play the fool and seek him out again. She would confront each day with what it would give, and in time, she would forget about the irascible Count. At least, that's what she told herself and what she desperately hoped would happen.

Three days had elapsed since their brief, explosive encounter, and Christine was eager to leave the foreboding halls of Montmarte, if only for one evening. Lucy had been quiet and unreceptive to conversation, often sitting in a chair and staring out the window while holding one of her dolls close. At least the girl appeared to heed Christine's warning to stay indoors at night, for which Christine knew relief, often peeking into the bedchamber to see her younger cousin fast asleep before finding refuge in her own bed. Nor had the earl bothered Christine with the demand to meet any more potential and unwanted suitors, thank God for that. In fact, her uncle had not bothered her at all, save to tell her of his brief meeting with the Count.

Determined to focus only on the present, Christine set her sights out the small window of the carriage.

The village had drastically altered from the night of Samhain. That decadent celebration had taken place on its outskirts and not within the main region, so if Raoul had not told her so, Christine could not be sure it was the same habitation. Now it resembled a normal shire with narrow dirt roads and wooden buildings painted various shades of dusky greys and greens, most of them three stories in height and topped with tile roofs, though she noticed a few of the smaller buildings were thatched. Townsfolk wandered the streets, as did the occasional livestock, usually under supervision of their handlers. The distant forest surrounded three sides, a glimmer of pale silver on the horizon suggesting the North Sea.

Raoul took her into a building with a sign proclaiming it to be The Hogshead Pub.

"The ambience leaves much to be desired, but the food is surprisingly palatable," he said as he opened the door for her to precede him.

Loud and boisterous could well describe the patrons of the establishment, mostly male villagers who sat at a long bar and at small tables clustered throughout. The few women Christine spotted wore dirty aprons beneath their full bosoms displayed to the point of immodesty – clearly the barmaids. The lighting was dim, with candles anchored high along the walls and lamps hanging from the infrequent hook.

Raoul shouldered his way toward a table at the back, one arm around Christine in a protective measure. Most of the patrons were immersed each in their own private conversation, but there were a few men who sent leering stares Christine's way.

It was nothing to which Christine was unaccustomed, the areas to dine at the Opera House full of bawdy cast and crew members, some of them now and then far into their cups. So when Raoul apologized and suggested perhaps he shouldn't have brought her to such an establishment, Christine smiled and reassured him.

A barmaid approached to take their order, nearly sitting in Raoul's lap as close as she stood to him. Her cousin had some trouble lifting his eyes from her cleavage, but Christine could hardly blame him since the brassy young woman practically pushed her bosom in his face when she brought their order to the table and bent low to set down two mugs of ale.

The brash barmaid winked at him in parting, and Christine rolled her eyes a little, tucking into her platter of braised potatoes and peppery sausage with gusto. Being absent from Montmarte had improved her appetite, though certainly nothing was wrong with the food at the manor. But it was difficult to enjoy the cuisine when it so often felt as if a stone had settled inside her stomach, with regard to all she must endure there.

"I apologize for that."

"Oh, Raoul, stop." Christine shook her head, not bothered in the slightest. "It's not like anything I haven't seen before. I grew up in the theatre, if you recall, and every corner I turned…" Despite her bold words, she blushed. "Well, there was very little privacy, and many did not care to use what modest amount was made available." It wasn't uncommon to glimpse a couple in various stages of ardent embrace in the shadows of a corridor, and some of the more shameless thespians and crew did not even trouble themselves with seeking out the shadows.

She frowned as she thought again of that breathless night with the Count in her bedchamber, what she once supposed all a dream...and the ardent kiss they had shared outdoors birthed a plethora of rousing feelings that would be best to ignore, to forget...

Blast! Why could she not stop thinking about him?

"Christine, I did not encourage her advances."

"No matter," she assured, grateful for conversation to divert her rebellious thoughts. "There is no reason you can't have a little fun."

"Christine!"

At his scandalized shock, she felt a bit ill at ease. She was still an innocent in all the ways that mattered, but her ears had nightly burned with the frequent accounts of the brazen chorus girls who enjoyed sharing their exploits with the other dancers who dwelt within the dormitories, Christine in their number.

"It really doesn't bother you at all, does it?" Raoul sounded and looked quite dejected.

"I don't wish for my presence to be a disadvantage to your social amusements."

"Good God – you make me sound like some ne'er-do-well out to fraternize with all the ladies!"

She laughed and took a sip of ale. "Hardly that, Raoul. You're still the sweet, charming young Vicomte who fetched my scarf from the sea. I simply don't want to get in the way of any plans you might wish to make."

He covered her hand lying on the table with his. "You are never in the way, Christine. Don't you know that?"

The intent look in his eyes and the firm pressure of his hand on hers gave Christine a modicum of discomfort. She slipped her fingers free of his.

Thankfully a second barmaid took that moment to approach, Madame Floozy nowhere in sight. Dressed as suggestively as the other woman, she nevertheless did not flaunt her ample wares in Raoul's face. This woman was younger with reddish-brown hair and a worried expression on her lightly freckled face. Her green eyes were anxious.

"You are the Vicomte de Chagny?" she half whispered, half spoke in a mild brogue.

He looked at her in some confusion. "I am."

"Lily told me you're the one what looks for information about the murders. I'm Minette…Rowan is – was – my man." Her eyes grew moist with tears which she blinked away, swiping her fingertips beneath her lashes. "He was killed nigh unto a month ago – drained of blood 'til his skin was a sickly grey, his throat nearly torn out – just like them others, and not a drop on the ground 'neath where he lay." She sniffled and searched for a kerchief which she withdrew from inside her corset to dab at her eyes. "There's a woman what lives on the other side of the forest near where Rowan was found. I think she kens what happened."

"Why do you suspect she was involved?"

"Not involved, mind you – just knows things, of spirits and such. She sees them things that are peculiar and reads the cards..."

Her eyes lifted beyond them, and Christine noticed the sour look the stout man behind the bar gave Minette. Quickly the girl collected Raoul's empty tankard.

"I canna speak of this now. I must get back to work. Charlie, that's the owner, don't like us talkin' to customers 'less it brings him coin." She hesitated, and Raoul took the bait, fishing a few shillings from his drawstring pouch and handing the coins to the girl. She snatched them up, tucking them deep in her cleavage. "Take the beaten path by the old pond a-ways into the forest. She lives in a small cottage. Name's Dora. And please, mister, find the vile monster who done that to my poor Rowan…" The girl hurried away.

The thought of food no longer appealing, Christine stared daggers at Raoul. He caught her glare.

"I swear to you, I didn't plan this. I had no idea she would seek me out."

His expression was in earnest, and she found it difficult to doubt him. Still, the evening was ruined with such grisly talk of the killings.

"Promise that you'll take me back to Montmarte before going on your quest to see Dora."

She had no desire to become part of his little witch hunt, as well he knew.

"Of course, but as long as we're on the subject…"

She tensed, curling her fingers in her skirts, and set down her fork.

"I think we should change the subject."

He sighed. "There is just one matter…"

Of course. There always was. Wishing she could ignore him, Christine took a long swallow of ale.

"What do you know of the Count cel Tradat?"

She set her mug down with a slight bang and stared, hoping she had heard wrong.

"Pardon?"

Wishing to elude all thoughts of the irascible man who haunted her mind day and night, those were the last words she expected to hear from her cousin.

"Why do you ask such a question?"

"There was a witness at one of the slayings. A boy. He said the beast had the form of a man, was rather tall, and wore a cloak and a hat…"

Christine stared at him in incredulous disbelief. "And so naturally you suspect the Count? You believe he's the only man to own such items? Oh, Raoul please." She gave a scornful laugh. "If it was a boy as the witness, any man would seem tall and surely there are many tall men wandering about the district."

The implication made was preposterous – what it seemed he was saying – and she leaned closer so as not to be overheard and lumped in with his fantastical idiocy.

"Tell me you do not actually believe that the Count is your legendary beast of the night?"

"You've spent time in his company, which I'm told is a rarity for him. He is secretive, prefers not to mingle with others. Surely he might have told you something that could help?"

She didn't know whether to laugh in mildly amused contempt at his outlandish ideas or cry in frustration that no matter how hard she tried not to think of the man, he found a way to appear in her mind or in what should be pleasant conversation. She settled for a different comfort, one with which she wasn't familiar and took up her tankard, downing the rest of her ale in several rapid swallows, noting Raoul's shock as she did. She had never been raised a genteel lady, far from it, and was infinitely tired of both he and their great uncle trying to pound her into a slot that didn't fit her repertoire of life. She was a budding singer and a passable dancer and she wanted nothing to do with the nobility or their foolish pasttimes!

With no napkin provided for their meal, she settled for wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and glared at him. The quick refreshment helped to relax her bones, and she inhaled a steadying breath.

"As I have told you countless times, I have no desire to involve myself in your little horror games."

"They're hardly games, Christine –"

"BUT - I will give you one sound reason why your insane hypothesis doesn't hold true for the Count," she continued as if he'd never spoken. "You said that your foul creatures cannot exist by the light of day – is that correct?"

"Vampires burn to ash if the sunlight hits them," he agreed. "It's written in the journals."

Christine rolled her eyes at that, but went on with her defense of their masked neighbor. "Well, then, there's your proof. He came to visit Montmarte a few days ago, or did Uncle not tell you? I, myself, ran across his path. He was coming from the manor and it was just going on sunset, what sun there was – but it was definitely daylight."

Raoul's expression deflated, as if he was actually disappointed.

"Are you quite certain?"

The early evening sky had been overcast, but she recalled how the luminescent gray light brought out pale glimmers in the Count's eyes that seemed composed of all shades of gold.

"Yes, of course, I am. I was there." As it always did when she thought of their last meeting, his heated kiss rose up to dominate her thoughts. Disgusted by this supper that was supposed to help her temporarily forget all those troubles left behind, she scooted back in her chair and stood. "I'd like to go home, please. I feel a headache coming on…"

"Christine, I didn't mean to upset you. I wish to help the unfortunate victims, yes, and to prevent further killings. But this night was supposed to be a conciliation dinner for last week, when we went riding. I hate it when you're angry with me."

She sighed at his boyish admission, his noble intentions hardly appeasing her scant endurance with the sole topic of which he was so fervent, but she had no wish to argue further. She'd not been lying when she said her temples had begun to pound.

"Stay," he cajoled, his blue eyes pleading. "Finish your supper. We will return to Montmarte immediately afterward, I promise. Please, Christine…" He reached out to touch her hand.

She hesitated, then sank back to her chair. "Maybe another mug of ale."

The brew was bitter, she preferred a sweet vintage of wine, but the ale did help ease the tension and another tankard might help relieve the ache in her head.

He looked uncertain by her request, but motioned a barmaid over and ordered another round.

A quarter hour later according to Raoul's pocket watch, they were again on the forest road leading out of the village. The skies had darkened considerably with the approach of nightfall. Christine did not miss Raoul's nervous glances to the window in the past few minutes.

"Is anything wrong?" she asked after his fourth glance toward the dark trees.

"I'm not certain…"

No sooner were his words uttered than the carriage came to a sudden halt and one of the horses gave a loud whinny.

"What the devil…" Raoul moved his hand to open the door, hesitated, and glanced at Christine. "Stay here."

Still he waited, seeming to come to a decision, and pulled back the edge of his cloak and frock coat. Sewn into the lining were thick bands of leather that held three weapons in place. A dagger, a stake, and a mallet. He grabbed one at random, handing the dagger over to her by the handle.

She inhaled in exasperation. "Raoul, really –"

"Just take the damn thing!"

At his uncharacteristically curt order, she blinked in astonishment and took the ivory hilt.

"You know how to use it if need be," he said, his voice a shade softer. "But no matter what you hear, stay inside the carriage."

Before she could respond, he slipped outside and closed the door firmly behind him.

Christine clutched the dagger in both hands on her lap, almost as a prayer, with the blade directed outward. Her anxious gaze went to the window and the misty darkness beyond…

And a distant pair of eyes that glowed red in the night.

xXx


A/N: And so, let the games begin… ;-)