A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) Glad you guys enjoyed the chase and their escape and the small look into Erik's past with Nicolae… and now…


XXV

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They arrived to the last ferry near sunset the following day, the boy having stayed on the train, indeed, never having left the dark, enclosed cubicle. At Christine's clear puzzlement of such a peculiar arrangement, Erik unbent enough to explain that Archer had a task to perform for him, needed much rest, and would be arriving at the castle at a later date.

When Christine asked how he had come to meet the lad, Erik gave an ambiguous response involving a chance encounter in an alley, where he learned Archer was without family. Having found the need to acquire more servants for the castle, Erik offered the boy work there.

It seemed feasible. Odd, yes, but no more bizarre than this entire journey had been.

Thankfully, the water was not rough, the skies not stormy, and Christine weathered the ferry crossing well. She still did not like being so close to deep water – on top of it – with no more than a flimsy rail and a layer of planking to separate her from falling to its unseen depths, but she congratulated herself that she did not outwardly display any fear of the dark waves. Her true fear lay with Erik's well-being and the mysterious adversary who sought to destroy him.

Once on a train again, Christine barely slept but did not believe Erik slept at all. Each time she woke on the sofa she had chosen for a bed (she had no desire to be closed up in the dark behind mahogany doors), she spotted him sitting near, keeping watch…watching her. To waken and find his somber golden eyes on her unnerved Christine, only in that he clearly was more troubled than he disclosed. She attempted to persuade him to let her be his confidante, but he quietly refused to speak of such matters, telling her she mustn't worry herself over them.

He was undeniably weary, even ill, a new slump to his shoulders she had never before seen, and not once did he pick up his violin to play. She practically begged him to sleep, to no avail. Often she would catch his hands tremble when he turned the page of a book or lifted a glass to lips that had achieved an alarming bluish tinge toward the end of their journey. He never looked as if he received much sun, what skin he allowed her to see the pale color of parchment, but the portion beneath the full mask now appeared almost grey. Though with the one gas lamp dimly lit behind him and his shadow of a beard, it made it difficult to discern true color. He only pecked at meals a porter brought when, close to tears, she pleaded with him to eat, but Erik waved aside the rest of her concerns, assuring her that he had managed far worse and would seek the respite needed once they reached the castle.

At times she caught him distantly stare beneath her chin, at her throat. As soon as he became aware of her notice he looked back to the book he seemed always to hold. And she wondered if during those occasions he recalled their evening at the opera, from the moment he slipped the precious jewels around her neck…and all that came afterward. For her, the seemingly endless journey, when not doused in anxious thought and brutal imagining was tempered with pleasant memories of that entire night.

She helped to fill the bleak hours with writing to Meg and Madame Giry, both letters which she gave to a porter to send upon their arrival to the station. One long carriage ride later, and they were home, at last, at Castle Dragan.

Home

What had given Christine a sense of disquiet two weeks ago now filled her with a measure of contentment, to regard Erik's home as her own. She felt his powerful relief as they passed through the iron-studded castle doors and for the first time in days also began to relax.

Once inside the foyer, Erik called out for his manservant. A short time later, Gregor appeared, a stout young woman with black braids and light grey eyes following, and behind her, a tall young man with dark hair and a faint mustache. Both appeared to be near Christine's age, possibly older. Upon seeing the Count, the girl curtsied and the boy bowed to him.

"It is an honor to serve you, Master," the young man said.

"Anton," he acknowledged. "Mihaela. This is my wife, the mistress of Castle Dragan. You will serve her and attend to what needs she may have. Gregor, I require immediate assistance." He turned to Christine. "I must attend to personal matters, my dear. I will join you later this evening."

"Please rest."

"I will."

He lifted her hand and kissed it, much as he did on the day they were wed, but this time a message seemed to pass between them. One that excluded all others in the room, touching her heart with its tenderness, and she smiled and nodded.

Once Erik disappeared up the stairs and into the shadows of the fortress, with both of his menservants following, the girl, Mihaela approached Christine. "You must be famished after your long journey, my lady. We did not expect you for another week. I haven't yet had a chance to go to the village and fill the larder, but I could make you a soup of vegetables, if you would care for it?"

"Yes, please, that sounds lovely. Later. I think what I would prefer at this moment, however, is to lie down for an hour." Or perhaps five. The journey had been wearisome, what sleep she managed on the train more exhausting than reviving.

The girl followed her up the two sets of wide stairs that led to her room. "I shall need to put fresh linens on the bed, mistress. I laundered them yesterday, but it won't take a moment."

"Yes, alright."

However, once Christine stood inside the room at the far end of the corridor where she previously slept, a different idea came to mind.

"Mihaela, do you know where the Count's bedchamber is?"

"Yes, mistress. I have already changed the linens there."

"I see… Will you take me to it?"

Christine could not fault the girl for her wide-eyed, curious astonishment. After all, what wife did not know where her husband slept?

"As you wish," the girl said, ducking her head in a quick nod and leading the way.

She followed Mihaela down the lengthy corridor and to the opposite staircase that led to another wing of yet another endless corridor that bore high walls of torch-lit stone. At its end, the maidservant halted at a tall, closed door.

"This is the Master's bedchamber."

Christine glanced at the carved oak door, tempted to make her presence known. After all that had transpired between them, a visit to ensure his comfort might not be unwelcome and all that she felt confident to undertake. There were still so many uncertainties, so much she did not know about Erik and his life here. Such things would be learned in time, surely, now that they had come to a close understanding...

No one stirred inside, not that she could hear. Perhaps he already lay sleeping. She hesitated, having no wish to disturb him, possibly wake him with her clumsy entrance. Besides which, a potential visit was not the reason she had walked such a great distance, from wing to wing, when she, too, was bone weary.

To stay at the opposite end of the castle held no appeal, not after Paris, and with that reminder, she walked over to the room next to his, pushing wide the door that stood ajar and noting it contained a four-poster bed.

It was enough.

"Please put fresh linens on the bed in here, Mihaela. I would like to make this my room."

Mihaela beamed a smile of approval and nodded, hurrying to obey.

He had told Christine she could have any chamber in the castle as her own, and though this wasn't her first choice, it was the best selection for this time. Since their magical night together, he was not as aloof and treated her with more tenderness, despite his fatigued state or perhaps because of it. But she felt uncertain that he would appreciate her unannounced invasion into his private bedchamber; nor was she sure she was ready for such a bold and brazen move as to make his room her own.

xXx

After a refreshing nap, Christine bathed in the chamber to which Mihaela showed her upon request. It was wonderful to soak in steaming lavender-scented water of the claw-footed tub there, the experience melting days' worth of tension from her body. She only wished she had fresh clothing to change into afterward.

She shook her head in wry amusement at the irony that once again she was left with only whatever bodice and skirt she arrived to the castle in, with no idea when her trunks of clothing should arrive from Paris. It seemed as if she must go to Montmarte to collect her things after all! Yet this time, she had the advantage; she was now Erik's wife, the Countess cel Tradat and as such held a power over her great uncle that she never once dreamed to possess. If they should cross paths, he would not dare treat her with his trademark cruelty or even speak an unkind word. And she would like to visit with her cousin again, even if Lucy wasn't exactly a sparking conversationalist, that is if she deigned to speak to Christine at all...

The girl concerned her. If Christine felt any remorse for leaving the manor, it was in abandoning Lucy to the questionable care of her father and to servants who ridiculed her behavior. Of course, her cousin managed well enough before Christine's arrival to Berwickshire. Yet the night in the maze still troubled her thoughts..

Once downstairs, she indulged in a bowl of hot soup with freshly baked bread, finding the cuisine, even a dish so simple, much improved. She sat at the long table alone, not expecting Erik any time soon, and was surprised when the glow from the corridor's torch abruptly disappeared across the surface of the table. She looked up to see his tall silhouette fill the doorway.

"Christine," he greeted, and just the velvety brush of her name from his lips felt like a caress to her soul. "Once you have finished with your supper, I would like a word with you."

"I am finished now," she said, setting down her gold-plated spoon and pushing the remainder away, eager to see him after the long hours apart and not wishing to postpone time spent together.

"Then come." He waited for her to join him at the door.

He appeared hale and strong, again standing tall with no sign of former weakness, his inherent power a subtle force that emanated from his trim frame. She smiled wide in her relief to see him so improved, and his lips twisted in a slight smile in return.

Leading her past the throne room and the massive stairway, he entered a room a short distance beyond that, one she had not yet seen.

Of long length and great height, this chamber possessed a heavy wooden table twice the size of a bed, half of which held stacks of papers and books. The other half contained what looked like a miniature village, with colored clay sculpted to depict lakes and mountains and forest. She stared in intrigue, before lifting her gaze to the towering bookcases along two walls packed with bindings of leather covers and large tomes, the tallest shelves accessible by a rolling ladder against each wall. A hearth of black marble stood beyond the table, half the size of the enormous one in the throne room. Above that, a much more elaborate coat of arms crafted in gold and bronze with red and black stone bore the three-headed dragon entwined in roses and held a place of esteem on the wall.

He moved toward one end of the table and picked up a black velvet pouch from atop a stack of books, turning to hand it to her.

"For you, my dear."

"Another gift?" she said with some surprise. "Erik, you must stop giving me things."

"I will do as I please when it comes to awarding you what little luxuries this world has to offer. However, when you see what the pouch contains, you might not be so enthused."

Pulling her brows together at his odd words and grave tone, Christine opened the drawstring and withdrew a thick silver chain from which hung a most unusual piece of craftsmanship. A notched silver coin approximately two inches in circumference had been embedded into a flat oval stone of dark green and red a little larger than a hen's egg. She looked up at him, the confusion apparent in her eyes.

"It is from my country, a protective medallion that has been in my family for generations. It will keep you safe." At her raised brows of doubt, he went on, "The stone is heliotrope, also known as the bloodstone; it is used for protection, as is the coin it surrounds."

She blinked in astonishment then looked down at what she held. "The man on the coin, he doesn't look like a saint…"

A saint. Little wonder that his pure, gentle bride would immediately draw such a conclusion, being a denizen of light that she was. Yet the fiend on that particular medallion was far removed from any such holy designation, and Erik worked to keep his voice calm and controlled.

"He was known as Vlad III and lived in the fifteenth century. He held great power and many feared him."

And well they should, since he had begun the scourge that Erik was forever plagued with. The son of Vlad Dracul had been a ruthless tyrant even before a gypsy witch forever cursed him in vengeance for his bloodshed against her kin. Should any of his kind with ill intent see the mystical medallion, they would understand its meaning and the threat behind it. Christine would be safe. Nicolae might think himself above their ancient laws, but the silver alone would repel a vampyre's bite. The added protection of the stone and the coin would safeguard her, even against the old ones…

Like himself.

The struggle not to bite her on the night they made their marriage real still haunted him – it should not have been as difficult as it was, not after the control he learned through the ages. Erik had not fed when he had lain with her, it was true, but on past occasions had endured longer than three days without feeling the visceral need rise up. No, there had been no true hunger – it was the sweet aroma and her rich taste that had stirred the beast inside. He had already been consumed with passion, nearly driven to the edge beyond reason.

And yet, he had held back and protected her from himself, no matter that he ached for her in body, soul, and blood...

The true danger lay outside these doors, not within them.

"I would have you wear this," he said, making the grim decision. "As long as you do, it will protect you from harm."

"I never took you for the superstitious sort," she said curiously, and he heard a trace of apprehension in her tone.

He waved a hand in feigned carelessness. "We all have our idiosyncrasies. You know I am a magician and rely on various forms of magic. Is it so strange that I would ask this of you?'

"So, it's magical then?"

"It is a protective amulet, yes." With the added inducement of a witch's spell. Again, something he did not tell her, thinking she might then reject it.

She refrained from giving an answer, her expression uncertain as she looked at the medallion.

"I am aware it is ugly; it is unfortunate that things of this nature rarely are created for beauty. But I ask that you accommodate me in this matter, Christine." Patience was never his strong suit when he demanded obedience thinly veiled as a choice, and his persuasion grew more intense. "Three things I insisted of you before we were wed, one being that you would obey me, to take my word as final. Will you do this? Will you honor my wishes?"

"Must I wear it at all times?" she asked in clear reluctance. "Even to bed?"

He drew in a breath sharply through his nose, knowing he should say yes...though he did wish for complete intimacy with her again, if she would allow it. Knowing also that his true struggle had come only at the scent of her blood. Until the moment she lost her innocence, he had been successful in exerting control. He felt assured in that.

"No." His word came as a soft rasp, "You need not wear it then."

She smiled in surrender and extended her palm with the medallion inside it.

"Put it on me."

He drew back slightly, not enough for her to notice. When changing into fresh attire upon his return, he had removed his leather gloves. Not only did they shield the intense cold that returned to his flesh days ago, within the hour of leaving her naked embrace, but they also protected him from such incidents, like the inadvertent brush of silver. He stared hard at the thick chain dangling innocuously from her soft fingers that would sear deeply into his flesh, tendon and bone.

If he ordered her not to wear the medallion inside the castle, after he had just made such an issue over yielding to his demand, his slayer wife might become suspicious and inundate him with her ceaseless questions. Even if she had not yet fully come into her power or was aware of it, she might sense something amiss.

"There is no need. The chain is long; you need not unfasten the clasp. You have only to slip it over your head."

She looked at him a little oddly but did as directed. The bloodstone settled against her bodice, between the valley of her breasts.

"Thank you, Erik, for your care of my welfare..."

She stepped forward and immediately he felt the mystical power of the medallion in the mild surge of weakness that swept over him. After seven days of such helplessness, it was all he could do to remain immobile and not recoil as she laid her hand gently against his mask. The closer she came, the stronger the force that repelled him grew. Much as the cross did, which did not kill or maim, but also made the darkness of which he consisted weaken.

She pressed her lips against his jaw, and he closed his eyes, deeming such a sacrifice for the token of her affection worthy.

"Will you tell me more about this danger we face?" she asked once she pulled away.

"There is little more to say other than what I have already told you. But know this - you are safe at the castle. Nothing can hurt you here, Christine. Nothing will. Only when you leave its boundaries must you exercise caution and wear the medallion. If you prefer not to wear it within the castle walls, you need not do so." He could not resist adding the last, hoping she would agree.

She nodded, and he stepped away from her and the medallion's destructive power, walking around his desk and putting his attention to the missives there…

x

Christine watched him go, his mind clearly having traveled to some distant plateau where she was unwelcome. Not wishing to end their evening together just yet and sensing he was about to dismiss her, she hurriedly posed another subject.

"I was astonished to arrive and find new servants had been hired. Mihaela is a good cook, judging from what little I have tasted of her skill. I feel quite certain you will no longer find a need to take your meals in the village."

He gave her a tepid smile. "I am pleased that you approve the addition to staff."

"And curious when you found the time," she said lightly, approaching the table. "Since we left for Paris the very next morning, after having had that conversation."

"And what have I said about curiosity?" he commented just as casually with a slight cautionary edge, but he yielded to her wish to know. "Before leaving, I asked Gregor to make arrangements for his niece and nephew to join our staff."

"Gregor is their uncle?"

"You sound surprised."

"They are just so…different." Mihaela was sunny, often smiling, with a bright disposition, and Gregor was so forbidding and dour.

"Gregor can be vexing," he said, as if reading her thoughts, "but he and his family have been loyal to the cel Tradat name for generations. You will not find any more willing to serve."

"So Mihaela and Anton are siblings," she mused. "I assume they come from your homeland? All of you bear the same accent."

He studied her a moment in indecision, then walked alongside the table to the diorama of the scenic landscape crafted in clay, wood, and stone. She followed him from the opposite side. Great attention to detail had been given to the artistic exhibit, from the careful crafting of each forest tree down to the realistic crest of waves atop a large blue field of clay.

"Despicat în Umbre," he said, waving a hand along the replica of mountain, land and water. "In your tongue, it means, 'Cleft in Shadows'.

"Cleft in Shadows," she repeated in fascination, reaching to touch with an inquisitive fingertip the tiny carved castle of smooth stone with turrets and spires situated atop a mountain. Before Christine could make contact, she recognized her audacity and moved her hand back down to her side.

She opened her mouth to apologize, but he shook his head to forestall her. "Your gentle touch could do no harm."

A wave of warmth flushed her face and she smiled. "Does such a castle really exist so high in the clouds?"

"You see clouds?" he asked in amusement. "I did not craft any."

"Well, there must be clouds, mustn't there? I imagine you can see all the land from up so high."

"You can."

She looked up from the miniature fortress with interest. "Have you been there?"

"My dear, it is my home."

"Your home," she breathed. Of course it was. How could she have believed otherwise?

"Perhaps one day I shall take you there and you may look out of its turret windows to see the landscape and the clouds that on occasion touch its walls."

"Oh, yes please. I should like that. I should like very much to see the country in which you were born, and to learn more about you."

She sensed the immediate barrier of distance he erected though he did not move or look away from her. "It is late, my dear, and I must deal with some correspondence before I retire. You should go upstairs and rest after our long journey. We will resume with your lessons tomorrow evening."

Feeling summarily dismissed, though the manner in which he delivered his words was not unkind, Christine studied him a moment. "Alright then. Goodnight, Erik." Her tone came softer. "I am glad to see that you have recovered."

He inclined his head in a nod, his eyes gentle. "Goodnight, Christine."

Halfway out of the chamber, she had a change of heart and turned to address him. "May I take a book with me?"

"If you like. You will find novels that might be of interest on the shelves to your left."

She moved in that direction and surveyed the possibilities: Mary Shelley's Frankenstein; or, The Modern PrometheusFantasmagoriana - anthology of stories of apparitions of spectres, revenants, phantoms, etc.; and beneath that, the lines – 'translated from the German by an amateur'...

She lifted her brow as she perused the title of the third book: The Vampyre: A Tale. by John William Polidori.

Oh, really. She scoffed a little chuckle beneath her breath as she pushed it back in its space. Apparently her husband enjoyed fantastical tales of horror as Meg did, to include them in his library.

"You might find something more to your taste to the right, on the third and fourth shelves," Erik's voice came to her, and looking over her shoulder, she saw that his eyes were fixed on her across the room.

Had he heard her disparaging chuckle from such a distance? He must have. He had the hearing of a bat and the eyes of an owl, and idly she wondered if those traits had come from living in a cave during his youth as he once told her.

She moved to the shelf suggested. One row of books by Alexandre Dumas seemed an author of which her husband must approve, to have so many of his novels. Feeling his eyes still watching her, as if waiting for her to leave, she selected a volume at random and turned.

"Well, goodnight then," she said again, for want of anything intelligent to add.

He nodded, and she left the chamber to take the stairs up to her new room, at the split level turning to the left staircase and not the right one as before. She hoped that Erik wouldn't mind her choice of a room next to his, but then, he had said any room that wasn't locked, and why should it matter either way …?

Inside her new bedchamber, Christine turned up the flame of a lamp near the bed and settled down to read. Too late, she realized this was the last book of a series. Disgruntled, but not wishing to take the long corridor and two flights of stairs back down to his library and fix her error, she proceeded with the tale.

Unaware how much time passed, but long after the chivalrous and smitten King Louis and Mademoiselle de la Valliere found refuge from the storm beneath a tree, Christine decided to cease with her dip into the literary world for the night and prepare for bed.

As she stripped down to her undergarments and took a seat before the dressing table, she found herself making favorable comparisons between Erik and the king of the novel, both who were unconcerned with what the world thought and continually broke rules of decorum, both who did his utmost to see that the woman under his care knew every consideration, even at the price of his own discomfort…

While she brushed out her hair, she studied the strange medallion against her chemise. It was a far cry from the beauty and elegance of the jewel-studded necklace he'd given her at the opera. With his insistence that she wear the amulet when away from the castle, clearly he believed the danger extended from Paris to Berwickshire and she was included in that threat. She wasn't sure how she felt about wearing something purported to be magical, or even if she believed in such things, despite that she had witnessed his demonstrations of such power...

But she had seen how important her decision was to Erik that she wear his medallion outside the castle, and for that reason alone would honor his request. Indoors, however, it didn't seem to matter to him...

For whatever reason, he considered Castle Dragan invulnerable against attack.

Slipping the chain over her head, Christine held the stone in one hand and studied it more closely. The man's face on the coin was harsh and strong with high cheekbones. He wore his hair and mustache long and had strange headgear that suggested a ruler. Letters, a few of which she could not decipher they were so faded, were inscribed along the rim: Vla…Drăcu… The dark green stone into which the coin had been cemented was just as bizarre, with spatters all over it. Crimson red, like blood...

Uneasy at the thought, she set the medallion on the dressing table and again picked up her hairbrush. She pulled the bristles along her scalp and through long curls, the strokes soothing, until her hair became a cloud of rippling waves, when suddenly the trio of candles near her elbow flickered. She paused, watching the flames bow to darkness before struggling upright again.

Once before she had seen candles do that, and her heart picked up a beat at the realization, at the certainty. She turned her head aside to look.

Erik stood on the threshold of her new bedchamber. He pushed the door in further and stepped inside. His gaze swept her head to stocking-toe, moving to scan her bare throat and collarbone before his golden eyes again lifted to hers and kept her within their mesmeric grasp. She inhaled a tremulous breath at the message they conveyed.

He held out one arm, extending his hand toward her. Without hesitation she rose from her chair and slowly covered the distance, lifting her hand to take hold of his. Drawing her to him, his other arm slipped around her back at the same time his mouth lowered to hers, and she lifted her hand to his nape to hold him there.

The flames madly danced and extinguished, the door softly closing of its own accord as darkness fell all around and wrapped them in its cold embrace.

xXx