A/N: As promised here is the next chapter. :) I think (hope) once you arrive to the end, you will be happy ….

And now...


XXII

.

The conclusion of the final act gave Christine pause. She failed to understand why the contrived message of a comedic operetta should bother her so…but it did.

Once the mass exodus of theatre-goers vacated the building, she and Erik left Box 5 and took the stairs that led downward. Bringing up her quiet introspection, he questioned if she did not enjoy the show.

"Oh no, I did," she was quick to assure him, her fingers tingling where they rested against the sleeve of his proffered arm that she used as an assist, while lifting the gown's hem with her other hand to clear the stairs. "I have not laughed so much in ages. And though I realize the story isn't meant to be taken seriously, I cannot help but wonder…" She paused as they reached the landing and turned to descend the last flight of stairs. "The woodcutter and his wife were each tricked to appear on the chapel steps Christmas Eve night, the priest hoping to resolve their differences with that silly superstition, and they did reconcile, which was a pleasant enough ending, I suppose. But, well, it just seemed so… empty. And foolish."

She was no wise oracle on the subject, but surely love should never need to be forced if it truly existed. If only the threat of death brought about resolution – what kind of union was that?

"Foolish would be an apt word to describe tonight's entire operetta, though there are additional terms that apply, none of them complimentary. I shall soon need to speak to the managers on several matters."

"I'm sorry you didn't enjoy the performance, but I'm grateful you were here with me."

"Indeed." His eyes glowed softer as he gently slipped her gloved hand from his arm. "I will go and collect our things, my dear. I shall return shortly."

As he walked to the cloak room, Christine angrily noted the shocked stares toward his masked face, some curious, some appalled, and silently applauded his seeming unawareness. They had waited for the crowd to disperse and vacate the premises before leaving their box, but several couples still inhabited the foyer, and she despised their narrow-minded observation.

For his sake, once he returned to her side she also acted unaware. She sent him a bright smile as he settled her ermine cape around her shoulders, and she fastened the clasp. Then setting his top hat on his head, his cloak already in place, a gold-topped walking stick in his other gloved hand, he strode with her to the door. Christine walked with him proudly, pleased to have the Count as her companion. She had never seen him dressed for a night at the opera, and he cut a dashing figure.

She came to a sudden halt on the broad outside steps, surprised to see light flakes of white swirl down from a pale night sky.

"Oh," she breathed, squeezing his arm as she stared upward, her mood changed from determined to gleeful. "It's snowing! Do let us walk a while."

"If it is snow you want, you will receive an abundance of it in Berwickshire in the coming months."

"But it's the first snow of the season – that makes it special, you see."

Erik looked with curious awe at his intriguing bride, her face aglow with childlike wonder. At times, like now, he could see traces of his Lotte and pondered yet again what bizarre twist of fate had brought her back into his life.

He did not see a disadvantage in granting her simple request. Under his vigilant watch, no harm would come to her from the dark alleyways or high rooftops they passed, and later, once she slept, he would track down his foul prey and ensure that no harm would come to her ever again…

Once they took the stairs downward, Erik instructed the coachman to follow and stiffened only slightly when Christine again took hold of his arm as they promenaded along the wide paved street illumined with golden lamplight.

Tilting her face to the sky a second time, she opened her mouth delicately, almost tentatively sticking her tongue into the air. He drew a sharp hiss of breath at the sight of that little pink tongue curling upward to seek out white specks of melting ice, and something painful clutched his immobile heart to hear her triumphant giggle.

She gave him an abashed grin, her delight in no way lessened by his subdued expression.

"Catching the first snowflakes on your tongue will bring good fortune throughout the winter months, or so Meg and I believed as children. Try it," she challenged.

"I have no desire to taste icy bits of bland fluff."

Her smile grew wider. "Perhaps if they were whisky-flavored?" she teased.

"Should I wish to imbibe, I would seek out more palatable amounts instead of minuscule droppings."

"Oh, well then," she dismissed, her good mood intact despite his stubbornness to engage in a silly bit of fun. "About that ending…"

He chuckled at that, the low rumble of it felt to her toes. Intrigued to hear him laugh, it came so seldom, she desired to know its source.

"You found the end amusing?"

Her hand holding to his arm gently throbbed with sensation as he clapped his other gloved hand over hers. "As a child, you would often probe me with questions after I told a story, facets of which escaped your young mind. You were quite restless and dissatisfied until you gained the knowledge you sought. You have not changed in that regard."

She nodded fondly, recalling how absorbed she had been in his stories of far-off lands, real and imagined. Even when she had not understood all of what he told her, she had loved to hear his dulcet voice spinning tales so vivid as to capture her fascination. He had painted pictures with words in her mind, bringing phoenixes and dragons and nightingales to life.

"But do you not agree?" she insisted. "If the couple felt true love for each other, superstition should not have been the driving force to bring it into existence."

"A wise assessment, my dear. Superstition acts adversely, creating division. However, the woodcutter and his wife feared that the grim reaper was fast closing in. When faced with imminent death, a person will say or do anything in the attempt to avoid it."

"Even pretend love?"

"Is life little more than a pretense?"

Christine mulled over his dry words, and a pensive silence settled between them. She wished she could glimpse his face, to catch at least a glimmer of his thoughts, but he walked on her left, between her and the street where the carriages slowly rumbled past, and she could see only the expressionless curve of white porcelain.

His was a strange and unsettling viewpoint to have, but then, he had masqueraded as her angel for nearly two seasons and wore a covering over his face every day of his life. She supposed that to him, disguise was a necessary existence. And yet, she could not help but wish he would allow her entrance into those shadowed areas where he still hid. Secrets he held, he had said as much, but she hoped one day soon he would overlook that part of their agreement and share them with her. She was his wife

In name only, the ponderous words echoed dully in her mind, finishing the wretched statement she wished also to forget.

The hotel rose into view as they rounded the corner, and Christine noted in surprise they had walked the entire distance. She had been so absorbed in thought she had not needed the carriage that trailed behind.

Once they entered their suite, Erik lit the lamp near the door and discarded hat, stick, and gloves to a small table. He then twirled his cape from around his shoulders with nonchalant grace to land upon the sofa, his movements as mesmerizing as a dark ballet and rendering her a little breathless as they often did.

He approached the table of decanters and poured himself a drink then turned to regard her as she slid her cape from her shoulders and laid it next to his.

"Would you care for a brandy before you retire?"

"A small one," she agreed, the evening air having sent a biting chill through her bones, the silk against her arms cold and slightly damp from the snow. She removed her intricate wedding ring so as to peel off her long gloves and place them next to her cape, then slipped the ring back onto her bare finger, admiring it a moment before moving to join him.

He poured a dram of the rich golden liquid into a second glass and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed in the exchange, and she felt a jolt of something powerful rush through her blood. He, too, must have been affected as fast as he drew his hand back to his side.

"I apologize for the chill. My gloves -"

"No, it's alright -"

A peculiar awkwardness rose between them, laced with a pronounced tension that wafted like tendrils of unseen smoke around where they stood, now that they were absent from the audience and other city-dwellers and truly alone in their private rooms. It became difficult to breathe as she stared at the exposed part of his face, and when his eyes of flame lifted and latched onto her, she found herself wishing to express a dozen things she dare not say…

"Would you mind if I played?" he asked, striding across the room and taking a long swig of his brandy before she could give an answer.

"Please do." She was grateful for the brief reprieve, able to breathe again without his penetrant stare delving into her soul.

"Any preference of instrument?"

He was a virtuoso of both. If she chose the violin, he would stand at a distance or perhaps wander the room as he performed, and that would surely help to ease this turmoil of unexpressed feeling that had once again so swiftly come over her. Whereas he must sit and stay in place to play the piano…on a bench that could hold two.

"The piano, I think."

At the soft catch in her voice, he sent her a mildly suspicious glance, but moved toward the grand instrument and flipped his coat tails upward to take a seat. Soon melodies beautiful and alluring poured from his fingertips in a sonata she did not recognize.

She stared at his broad back and shoulders that slowly rocked from side to side as he became caught up in the music...and watched his arms spread wide to embrace distant octaves while his skilled hands caressed keys with an adoration she was almost jealous to behold.

Noting the amount of space left on the long bench and that he was not precisely centered, she upended the contents of her glass to a throat suddenly dry and drank every bit of her brandy for courage.

The moment she slid onto the smooth bench, inadvertently bumping against him, his closed eyes sprang open, his hands wrenching from the high keys where they had wandered. He snapped his head around to glare.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"I want to watch you play."

"Can you not do so from a distance?"

She refused to allow his clipped response to injure her feelings.

"I cannot see well from over there and am too weary to remain standing."

"If you are weary, then you should go to bed."

Before she could refuse his suggestion that sounded more like a command, he slid off the bench and stood to his feet.

"Goodnight, Christine." With those words, he strode with purpose to the window, grasping one wrist held behind him, and looked down through the pane as if he awaited important company.

Taken aback by his abrupt dismissal to what had been such a pleasant evening, she struggled not to take offense, though was hard-pressed not to feel the stab of his rejection. She supposed she should be grateful that of late he had amended his obdurate nature to include some form of salutation, even if it was no more than a form of farewell.

Shakily, she stood to her feet. "Goodnight, Erik," she replied to his stiff back and hurriedly retreated to her bedchamber.

x

Cursing the tears that had risen, Christine whisked them away with impatient fingers and turned up the lamp, catching her reflection in the dressing table mirror. It was her first time to see the ruby and diamond necklace against her skin, and she gasped at the full effect, certainly chosen with care to so beautifully complement her features and the cut and color of the gown. So often he gave more than compulsory attention to ensure her comfort and happiness…

It made no sense.

Why would he behave with such tender regard if he had no wish for her to become more than an in-name only wife? Why at times, since they were wed, did he treat her with more than simple courtesy and in the next breath cast her aside? Why would he care at all to recognize the anniversary of her birth the day after it had passed?

Did he care…?

On occasion, he seemed genuinely to welcome her presence, and Christine delighted in those congenial moments, soaking up his approval like a flower that needed rain to thrive. But absent of those times, the majority of the time, she felt he would rather she did not exist.

With a sigh, she toed off her heeled slippers then carefully removed the exquisite gems and laid them on the dressing table, having nowhere else to put them. She had left the box they came in at the opera…

And another thing had escaped her knowledge until this moment.

Her eyes widened at the awareness then flicked to the closed door in nervous deliberation. He might become even more upset; in his present dour mood, he would likely refuse …

Yet what choice did she have but to make the attempt?

Girding her shoulders with what besieged courage she could muster, she opened the door and again approached. At her first step, he turned and watched her walk the distance to where he still stood glowering by the window.

"What do you want, Christine?" he said in clear irritation.

A great many things, but one matter precluded all else at the moment.

"My gown. I need your help… to unfasten it."

His eyes widened with shock at the brazen remark she barely managed to utter.

"A maid helped with the buttons," she explained when he made no response or move toward her. "There are so many I cannot reach."

"Do you wish me to ring for a maid?"

"No."

Before he could curtly question her further, she turned her back to him a second time that night and waited apprehensively… waited for what seemed a small eternity…waited until she thought she might collapse from standing so stiffly erect and slight of breath…

To ring for a maid this late in the evening would be an embarrassment when her husband was readily available to accomplish the task. Besides which…she did not want to.

The first touch came so feather-light Christine wasn't sure she hadn't imagined it until she felt the slight give of material high between her shoulder blades as the first of many tiny buttons that trailed down her spine was softly popped. She raised her palm to hold the bodice in place as more buttons followed, the gap ever-widening as he progressed, slow and steady...

She had thought he might make rapid work of them to be done with her, and again felt the air saturate with a warm headiness that made it difficult to think, especially to breathe. The soft brush of a cold knuckle as he unfastened the last of the buttons at her lower back, beneath her corset, had her quiver and clutch her bodice more tightly to her bosom as she felt the downward drag of the heavy material.

Before he could move away, she made one last plea, the rasp of her voice barely recognizable. "The ties too. If you would loosen them. I can manage the rest."

This time there was only a slight hesitation before she felt the tugs at her back and the halves of boning expand, so that her breathing could come unrestricted …

That is, if she could breathe.

Or move.

She found she could not, and to her intense awareness, neither did he.

The sudden brush of his fingers against her shoulder blade near the corset's edge caused her lashes to flutter, her eyes falling shut in want.

Oh, to feel his touch again

As if he heard her silent appeal, his chill fingertips lifted to tickle along one side of the base of her neck and the slope of her shoulder to its curve. Her heart pulsed in her ears when he moved in, closer still, until she could feel his heated breath at her nape. He spread his touch so that the flats of his fingers of both hands ran a slow course against her skin and the bits of fluff and lace that composed the straps of sleeve, bringing both downward to rest above each elbow.

"I am not the angel, Christine," he whispered against her neck, near her ear, causing her heart to beat wildly.

"What?" She struggled through the haze he created to understand.

"I am far removed from the celestial creature your mind has painted me to be." Suddenly, and with a swiftness that made her gasp, he took firm hold of her upper arms and spun her around to face him, grabbing hold again and giving her a little shake as pins tumbled and a thick lock of hair fell to bounce against her shoulder. "You would do well to remember that!"

His eyes were living flame, his shoulders so broad, his chest rising and falling as his breath came in short, soft pants with his heated declaration. Thin strands of his hair had fallen loose of his queue and hung about his masked face. He was altogether frightening to behold. Mystifying and beguiling…a dark force she should not push too far...and yet she knew no fear.

Oddly entranced, she could not conjure the desire to break away from him, even though she should. He wore a mask to conceal, but the white porcelain failed to disguise the hunger in his stare, and it kept her fixed in place.

"I have long known you were a man, Erik, before we met at the festival. I called you Angel in my recollections, because I knew no other name for you. And now, you are my husband -"

"I am not the angel," he repeated firmly as though she'd not spoken, dropping his hands away from her and back down to his sides, clenching and unclenching them. "But angel or devil, I made you a promise."

"A promise I never asked for."

Bold words for as uncertain as she felt, as shy and as nervous, but by the sudden flare of shock in his flame-bright eyes, she pushed even further.

"You promised never to ask anything of me I wouldn't wish to give."

"You cannot want this," he said resolutely.

"Will you now decide for me what I do or don't want?" She lifted her chin. "I know my own mind, Erik. I don't need my decisions made for me."

She lifted her free hand to press against the flawless part of his features, from temple to jaw, his skin as cold here as the rest of him. He flinched at the contact, immediately lifting a wary hand to encircle her wrist, but did not push her away. And she gathered a new rush of confidence from that knowledge.

"You told me once that there exists between us a strong pull, fathomless you called it. And you were right. It has never waned, growing stronger with each day that passes into the next."

"You were to forget that night." His soft, tight words came almost as an accusation.

"How can I, when it has become a part of my every dream, my very existence? I don't know what this is between us…but I wish to find out."

She moved her fingertips gently against the pallid stretch of skin across temple and cheekbone, eager to touch this part of him that had always been concealed beneath his fuller masks.

"Christine," he said on a groan that seemed ripped from him. "You think you know what you invite into your embrace, but you cannot even begin to imagine the horror. I would not wish that upon you. Once it is realized, it can never be undone. Nothing can be the same."

"You told me of your face, of the deformity you hide beneath the mask, and I am still here, standing before you now," she contradicted in soft assurance.

"Yes, yes, you have proven your courage many times over. But I am no more than a monster in the truest sense of the word, a wild beast, Christine, and that will never alter."

At his harsh and impatient words spoken with such underlying sadness, she shook her head, bemused that he should have such a low opinion of himself.

"You have taken such excellent care of me and helped me every time I needed it, even when you had no desire to. You are not a monster, nor are you a beast."

"You cannot know that. You have no idea - "

"If you would let me see, to reassure you -"

"No." His word cut her off sharply.

"Alright," she said on a sigh. "I won't press the matter, but it changes nothing of how I feel toward you."

Thankfully he did not ask her to elaborate; she was uncertain she could shape the confusion of her feelings into words. She knew only that she wanted to be close to him and to have him want to be close to her, to be a true wife, and to the devil with in-name only

Yet just as her physical appearance had unraveled, her dress open wide and falling down around her save for the hand she kept fiercely pressed to her bodice, with a few locks of her hair tumbled in disarray from fallen pins, her burst of newfound confidence also began to disintegrate under his unending glare.

"But perhaps I presumed incorrectly," she said, little above a whisper, "and you truly don't want me as you once did." His face blurred from the sudden wretched tears that swam to her eyes, and she drew her arm back, pulling her hand from his face and snapping her wrist from his grasp. She had tried; she had failed. "I-I never thought – I'm sorry –" She staggered back, with the intent to whirl around and escape to her bedchamber.

She got no further as with a growl and swiftness that had her reeling, he stepped forward and grabbed her hard about the waist, hauling her close. Planting a hand to the back of her skull, he brought his lips down to collide mercilessly with hers.

The sting of impact swiftly faded as a strong wave of heat rushed up to electrify her blood, and his mouth began to pleasure hers into a restless, hungered captivity - in punishment, in passion - she wasn't sure which and sensed it was both and hoped to endure it forever. Pins rained from her hair at the firm urging of his hand and her locks fell in a thick waterfall down her back. With his lips never straying from hers, his urgent tongue traced the seam of her lips. She brought her own tongue forward to meet with his. In that instant he wrenched away, his hands at her waist and his eyes still closed as if to summon some inner force of strength.

"Christine…" His voice came husky on a moan, almost sharp, but no less beautiful. When he opened his eyes again the fire in them scorched her. "Not want you? If only that were true! Then this would be made so simple…"

He stepped back, pulling his hands from her waist, and shook his head as if to stall unwanted thoughts or perhaps argue with them as long as he held silent. Suddenly he sobered, drawing himself up to stand even taller.

The change in his manner unnerved her, but she waited for what more he would say.

"You truly wish for this?" His voice came dark and soft as velvet.

"Yes," she whispered, any further deliberation unnecessary.

"Then listen well. If we continue along this course, you must abide by my terms. I cannot have it any other way. If you choose not to agree, then we will say goodnight now."

She slowly blinked, trying to find reason in a mind still adrift with the sensations he aroused. His proposal of marriage had been much the same in his demands laid out for her, but he had thus far shown himself to be a man worthy of her trust. Though the mystery of unspoken terms made her a bit apprehensive, as did the conjugal secrets of what would transpire, the desire to have him continue to its conclusion what he'd begun that long ago night in her bedchamber, what he again started this night, made her softly nod in response.

"I agree."

"Do not be so quick to speak," he insisted quietly. "You have not yet heard my terms."

She did not need to, she had already decided long before this moment, but she urged, "Go on then."

He stared breathless seconds then broke eye contact, focusing on some mysterious object to her left. He seemed to be at war with himself, as if he weighed whether or not to continue with this bizarre conversation. She had never seen him so undecided; he always seemed so sure.

"You are not to question either condition. If you have reservations and do not agree, let that be the end of it."

"Fine," she said a bit unsteadily.

His golden eyes swung to her, pinning her where she stood. "At no time are you to make any attempt to remove my mask."

Given what she knew about his sensitivity to the subject and his reason for wearing one, this first stipulation did not surprise her.

"May I touch it?" she asked softly.

He seemed taken aback by her request. "You would wish to?"

"If I cannot touch your face there, then yes."

He looked at her curiously. "I will allow it, but no more than that."

"I agree."

He gave a swift nod and again grew hesitant then blew out a resigned breath and shook his head.

"This fails to matter. You will not agree to my final condition."

"You are so sure?"

"It goes against your very nature."

She shuddered at the implication of wickedness, but wished to prove him wrong. "Try me."

"Very well. I require absolute darkness. Not even the glow of a candle or the moon for light. In this I will not relent."

His quiet and unexpected words shot fear like an arrow down to the pit of her soul. Her eyes widened at the thought of being unable to see in a chamber black as pitch, her hand tightly fisting the velvet of the gown she held to her. At her anxious reaction he frowned.

"I would never harm you, you have my word. But the only way that I can lie with you is to do so in the manner I have presented. There can be no other option."

"I - I understand."

"Do you, Christine?" He approached her slowly and brushed his knuckles lightly against her flushed cheek. "Do you really? And do you agree?"

She feared absolute darkness more than she did the idea of ghosts and vampyres, but the darkness was real. To think of enclosing herself in its tomb made her weak with dread – the terror going back to a time she could not remember...

It had always been there.

At night, even to this day, she had some form of light to reassure. If there was no flame, no candle, no lamp, then she cracked the curtain to allow the moon's pale glow to soothe away the unknown terrors and allow her to sleep.

Why he should make such a wretched demand of her, as a stipulation to their union, she could not comprehend. She did not think he wished for darkness as a form of intimidation, not as gentle as he was with her now, and grew certain his denial of light must have to do with his scars. Perhaps there were more than the hidden ones on his face.

She could refuse his final condition and allow this timeless dread to triumph and that would be the end of it.

But she would forever wonder what might have been...

As if to tempt such thought, this evening's memory of their moment together in the forgotten corridor eased into her mind, of his hands upon her in that small space of never-ending darkness, of his body so close, his steadfast reassurance and the comfort of his voice to calm her...

She stepped forward from the brink of childhood lost to enter with him into a moment that, as a woman, she chose not to fear.

"Yes, Erik. I agree."

xXx


A/N: Mean authoress me, leaving it there – but there has to be a stopping point some time, right? 0-:) (- it's a halo, though I'm sure some of you think horns might be more appropriate right now. Maybe fangs…? ;-)) Okay, now for some good news – though I usually take turns with my stories, in posting chapters, every now and then I get on a roll with a tale and am eager to continue on for a bit. This is one of those times. ;-) – expect more of this story up soon…perhaps by next weekend. I will get back to the other tales I'm spinning soon, but for now, story-wise, this is my priority. (Am I forgiven? lol)