A/N: And finally, another chapter. :) This is a long one, hopefully to make up for the delay…

And now…


Chapter XXXI

.

The nearly full orb of a pallid moon lay concealed beyond thick clouds as the Count took position behind plump, snow-laden boughs of a shielding evergreen, one of many that fronted the old manor house near the road directly outside of Paris. Only once, long minutes ago, a horse-drawn carriage rumbled past, no other sign of life apparent. The myriad of tall windows of two homes that stood in the distance remained dark, the hour late...

Excellent. There was no one near to interfere or to observe.

From behind a curtain backlit by strong flame of what he presumed a chandelier, two silhouettes faced one another in evident discourse. The Count watched for a time, the cold certainly no stranger to him, and wondered how much longer he must lie in wait, though in truth he was in no hurry to return to the castle after all that transpired …

Time.

Was it to become his enemy once more?

Despite his desire to forget, his mind replayed the earlier confrontation with Christine.

He had responded to her withdrawal in sardonic ire, but truthfully, how could he expect his pure and innocent bride ever to come to terms with the horrendous knowledge she had unveiled this night? Clearly she no longer wished him near. Perhaps he should remain in Paris. Archer could fend for himself for a season, and with Gregor and Anton to lend aid, he would not starve. Erik had made it impeccably clear to the boy that he not take sustenance from anyone in the village, not with the perdition Nicolae inflicted and the rampant fear he had spawned.

And it was for this reason Erik somberly realized he could not distance himself from Berwickshire for even one night. His continued absence would do nothing to mitigate the ever-present danger, especially for his wife. No matter that she wanted little to do with him at the moment, perhaps for all time to come, he had no choice…

And now he must summon the patience to wait for hers.

Time

Why should the solitary passage of seconds into minutes into hours alter one's initial perception of events? Would such a deed not serve to make matters worse if she was to dwell on all that brought them to such morose consideration in the first place?

He had required no time to acknowledge his deep feelings for Christine, even after having learned she was a slayer. That had not changed the depth of what he felt for her. He had put distance between them, yes, in a futile effort to protect his curious bride from discovery, but the deep emotion contained within his soul never once wavered. But then, he was darkness seeking even a glimmer of light. He could not expect an angel, who dwelled in the sun, forever to embrace the infinite shadows and all that came with them.

Earlier she had professed her love for him; did she now rescind that vow? Did she now regard him as an Angel of Death?

Reminded of his present course, he wryly considered - was that not what he was? Though to call himself any manner of angel was surely a sacrilege…

From inside the manor, the muffled sound of a man's angered shout came to his attention. Erik's lips thinned to hear a woman's soft, startled scream. His hand clenched into a fist at his side to see a blur of shadows and hear the thuds and slaps of what sounded like a beating.

The brute.

The Count held back, aware that if he intervened the situation could only get worse. No matter, after this night the aggrieved woman need never again fear. He narrowed his eyes in contempt and waited. Minutes later, his patience was rewarded.

The door opened, admitting a portly man in a dark overcoat into the night. He slapped the crown of his hat twice and settled it on his head. Behind him a young woman in somber dress stood trembling, her cheek bruised, her lip bleeding.

"Let that serve as a warning, Marisol. Next time have my dinner prepared precisely when I inform you that I wish to dine," he threw the directive over his shoulder as he walked down the short stoop of stairs. "I will not tolerate such a gross lack of punctuality."

"When will you return?" the girl asked, a tremor in her voice.

"That is no concern of yours – I will return when I return. You would be best served to manage the affairs of the household, as a wife should, and not interfere in my own."

The longer the Count observed, the more disgusted he became. His crimes unpunished and profuse, especially to the weak and underprivileged, this fiend deserved the worst of what he could give and Erik anticipated taking on the role of executioner.

The door closed, shutting the woman safely inside. Several more unwary steps of the bully, passing a short distance from where the hunter stood in shadow, and the lasso flew through the air, catching its prey around his thick throat. The marquis's hands went up to the constraining rope as he stumbled a step back, almost knocking into Erik as he sped around to confront him. The man's eyes bugged to see his attacker and witness his unnatural speed.

"Who - are - you?" he croaked the words over the tightness of the rope.

"I am the end of your days," Erik responded, his soft-spoken words bearing a dark, cruel edge, "and the beginning of your worst nightmare…" With that, he whipped off his mask with his free hand and brought his twisted face close, doing nothing to prevent the protrusion of his fangs.

The man garbled a terrified cry, his eyes bugging wider, before they flickered and rolled back into his head. One of his hands raced from fruitlessly pulling at the rope to clutch his chest as his body gave a harsh spasm then slumped forward against Erik.

Bloody hell! Had the fool already perished? He detected no heartbeat...

Erik quickly replaced his mask and, in a violent whirlwind, breached the distance as only his kind could, in an instant bringing his prey beyond the cold storage chamber where Gregor waited and ripping the corded rope from around the marquis's throat. To replenish energy after using his vampyric ability, the Count sank his fangs deep into his victim's neck, taking enough until he again felt the unholy power throb through him, then pushed the corpse indifferently to the floor.

"You will need to act quickly while the blood is still warm," the Count instructed.

"He is dead then?" Gregor picked up the mass of tubing that was used to siphon blood into a waiting barrel.

An abrupt nod, then, "Once the deed is done, make the arrangements." He thought about the battered woman left behind and frowned. "Add twenty thousand francs to the sum. Give the usual explanation in the letter, but wait one full week after the marquis's disappearance to thwart suspicion."

"As you wish, my lord."

Erik hesitated, not wishing to utter the words, but they came regardless.

"The Countess…?"

"She has not left her chambers."

He gave a curt nod in acknowledgement.

Of course she would not stray from her room; it was the middle of the night. Even if she could find no slumber, he doubted Christine would leave the safety of her bedchamber, despite that he had so caustically shown her that locks were useless against him. He felt a sliver of remorse at the manner in which he last addressed her. After centuries of learning to live with absolute rejection and fear, he should have handled her nervous retreat better, no matter that her slight injured him far more deeply than he had a right to feel.

He studied his manservant, aware from his taut expression that Gregor wished to speak but refrained.

"I assume Anton told you of the confrontation in the woods and that Christine has been made aware of the truth."

"Yes, my lord. Might I presume that she will be leaving the castle soon?"

Erik frowned, weary of Gregor's undeserved hostility toward his bride, which would be ten times worse had the man known she was a slayer. The Count understood that it derived from a deep loyalty to him and the cel Tradat name, but Gregor's attitude did not fail to ignite his frustration.

"If she is willing to stay, she will stay. And if she does make that choice, she will be treated with all the courtesy and respect due my Countess. Is that understood, Gregor?"

He bowed his head deeply in submission. "Clearly, my lord."

"Splendid. I will leave you to your task. There is somewhere I need to be."

x

Within moments of speaking to his manservant, the Count slipped into an upper window of Montmarte. Having received an invitation to the ball weeks ago, nothing prevented his return this night. Though the corridor was empty and dark, it took him only a moment to find her. Unguarded. Unprotected.

She lay motionless, swallowed within the thick down covering of a four-poster bed. Her eyes were closed, and he wondered if perhaps the sedative had not yet dissipated, though several hours had elapsed since he had been informed of Lucy's dire situation.

Her breathing did not come prolonged and steady, her heartbeats slightly erratic, which led him to realize that she was awake. In the moment he arrived to that conclusion, she abruptly sat up.

"Master, is that you? Have you come for me?"

He scowled at the title she used for the bastard scoundrel but kept his voice calm.

"It is I, Lucy. We met within the maze two years ago, in the springtime of the year."

She inhaled an audible breath of surprise.

"I remember…but – where have you been?" She squinted into the night-veiled room in an attempt to see him where he stood near the door he had just softly closed. "I have missed your songs and stories."

"I am here now."

"And will you remain hidden from me?" she broached the plea, her voice quivering with undisguised longing and nervousness. "May I see you at last?"

To ascertain the depth of what he must know and commence with what he would demand of her, it was imperative to draw close and look into her eyes. Which meant that he must surrender to her wish and make himself known, not only with his voice but through her sight.

"This once, I will allow it."

Another audible gasp – clearly she did not expect him to relent as many times as she had asked it of him in the past. Unbridled curiosity was an inherent trait in the Van Helsing line; Christine behaved with the same fervent need to know. But first he must prepare the girl so that she would not scream. The last thing he needed was for that impudent boy to interfere and come running to her unnecessary rescue.

"Do not be frightened, my dear. As you are mortal, I must keep a mask over my face to conceal my enchanted features. It is dangerous for humankind to stare upon the countenance of one of the dark Fae, such as I…"

He did not like to persist in the masquerade of deluding this poor young woman, just as he had come to feel remorse for deceiving his little Lotte into the blasphemy of believing him to be an angel. But the realm of fantasy was all Lucy's childlike mind could comprehend, due to Nicolae's foul manipulation well over a decade ago.

"My master allows me to see his face," she contradicted softly.

Again, he grimaced. "Your master and I are nothing alike."

"Yet you are both from the land of Elysium, where I, too, will go. He told me so."

At her quietly eager tone, expressing interest in the immortality she could not begin to conceive – especially with what it would seize from her – he slowly covered the distance toward the bed. Once his tall figure caught in the silver beam of the moon cutting a swathe across the floor, her eyes widened and she lifted her head to follow his approach. Her gaze fastened with awe upon his full black mask.

"You were at the ball," she said in surprise. "You danced with my cousin. I watched from between rails of the upper banister."

He gave a slow nod of affirmation, unsurprised that she had kept herself hidden away, like a child curiously surveying the activities of her elders.

"Listen well, Lucy, your master is a danger to you. You must never invite him into your bedchamber."

She frowned and averted her eyes to the blanket covering her legs. He took a swift step forward, coming to the edge of the bed.

"Tell me you have not already done so."

"No...he plays games with me inside the maze," she said, as if defending him.

"Games?"

She nodded.

"What kind of games?"

"Games that feel strange and sometimes painful, but nice, too, as if I'm floating in the clouds."

He drew close enough to stare into her dark-shadowed eyes. Faint blue rings circled the fragile skin above her cheeks.

"I like to play games as well. Do you remember the songs I would sing and the stories I used to tell?"

A flicker of a smile lifted her near bloodless lips and she nodded. "Will you sing for me again?"

"Perhaps…but first, I will show you an act of magic. Would you like that?"

She briskly nodded, and he flicked his gloved hand before her face, bringing a flame to dance upon his fingers. She recoiled, squeezing her eyes shut, her shoulder blades slamming against the padded headboard.

"No- it hurts! Take it away!"

With another brush of his fingers he extinguished the flame, frowning at the outward evidence that the alteration had begun. This area of the room was covered in the silver moon's glow, not in the thick darkness that would cause such a negative reaction to the sudden light he'd given.

"Does anything else hurt, my dear?"

Slowly she opened her eyes, then nodded and pressed a hand below her ribs against the lacy bed gown. "Here."

He inhaled briskly through his nose and posed the next question while carefully watching her reaction. "Would you like me to ring for your maid to bring some tea and raspberry scones? You could have a tea party with your dolls."

The Count mentioned what he remembered to be her favorite activity and her preferred luncheon.

Her delighted smile faltered. "That sounds lovely, though Papa would never allow me to have a tea party this time of night when I should be sleeping. Maybe we could have one tomorrow?"

Her desire to partake of mortal food was encouraging. A few more pointed questions and he became assured that Lucy had not been fully turned, the obsessive desire for blood not yet apparent. Nicolae was most definitely using the young woman for his corporeal pleasure and feeding off of her with frequency, never giving her body a chance to recover before their next hellish encounter. The Count bore witness to her lethargic movements and pallid flesh, which nearly blended together with her fair hair, along with the slight blue tinge to her lips and nails. Another feeding and she may well perish. Perhaps that was the fiend's plan all along and he had no intention of granting her eternity through vamyprism.

"Listen to me, Lucy, and look into my eyes…"

The Count lowered himself down to her level so that her blue eyes looked directly into his hypnotic gaze. Distantly she nodded.

"You must never allow your master into this house. Never extend to him the invitation. You will remain in bed for the remainder of the week and sleep. Eat all meals that the maid brings. You must rest and recover your strength."

Her light brows drew inward slightly as if she might refuse, and for a moment he worried that she was too far immersed under Nicolae's iron control to be compelled by the usual methods, but then she nodded.

"I must rest," she parroted, "and recover my strength."

"Good girl." He smiled. "Now lay down your head and I will sing you to sweet slumber inside a world of gentle dreams."

"Like Elysium?"

"No, my dear. Much better than Elysium, because it is a land for the living. Not the dead."

"Does it hurt to die?"

Her innocent question brought to mind that abysmal moment, centuries ago.

"You should not dwell on such a bleak concept. You have many years left ahead of you. Now, lie back down…"

Like an obedient child, she again reclined on the mattress, resting her head upon the pillow. She reached her hand out toward a doll sitting in the nearby rocking chair and he brought it to her. He then pulled the counterpane over her, up to her neck, tucking her in as he once did for Daria.

Taking a seat at the foot of the bed, the Count quietly crooned to her a lullaby, the same he had sung to Christine as Lotte. Once assured that Lucy slept, he made quick work of ringing for her maid. After she entered the room, he stepped close, into her sight, cutting off her shocked little cry with a gloved hand to her mouth and his immediate manipulation. Grimly he ordered that Lucy was never to be left alone and that she or some other trusted member of the household remain in the room with the girl at all times. As an added precaution, he ordered that one of the earl's men keep post outside her door for the remainder of the week, to guard her.

"Once I leave, you are to forget that I was here," he concluded.

"Forget," the girl parroted hypnotically.

The Count nodded with satisfaction then, with one last glance toward the childlike young woman slumbering in her bed and hugging her doll close, he left the chamber and silently exited through the window he entered, a shadow dropping and blending into the night.

He had done all he could to ensure Lucy's safety. He only hoped it was enough.

xXx

Would she ever feel the sweet calm of safety again?

Shortly after her quietly furious and brooding husband disappeared in a veritable puff of smoke, Christine wiped the remnants of tears from her eyes and wearily picked herself up from the floor.

Needing to focus on anything other than the wildly unbelievable and incredibly emotional evening thus far experienced, she picked up her mother's journal from where she'd dropped it and padded to the bed. She took a moment to settle herself comfortably against the pillows before tentatively opening the cover, uncertain what she would find but knowing the time had come to learn her mother's perspective of such things. What was written within described only the past, not the present from which Christine wished a temporary escape.

Taking a deep breath to stabilize her thoughts, she untied the twine wrapped around the book and opened it, surprised to find a note folded and firmly wedged within the crease of the first pages.

Opening the piece of fine parchment, she read:

My dearest Christine,

If you are reading this journal, I have passed from this life into the next. Now that you have come of age, doubtless you will be persuaded by the Van Helsings to join in the timeless battle to which generations of our family have been called, the details of which are outlined in this book. Within our branch of the family, you are the only surviving member to bear the mark of the slayer, which means you are gifted with exclusive skills, inherent to your nature, which will become evident once you reach the age of maturity. For most, I am told, it is the commencement of the eighteenth year.

I watch you play outdoors as I write this, attempting to catch a butterfly on your finger, frustrated as it flutters beyond your grasp. Oh, my sweet and gentle daughter, there is so much I long to share with you! I wish I could have seen you grow into the wonderful woman I know you have become. A letter is so impersonal; there is much I want to share that brims inside my heart but limited space that pen on paper will allow.

Although we do not bear the mark, my sister and I made the choice to join the fight years before each of us was wed, because we both strongly felt it a direction we must take, as none of our generation or the former fought in the ever-present battle of good against evil. Your father learned my secret and joined us, though he is not a Van Helsing. Your grandmother bore the mark but was a gentle soul with no appetite for violence, wishing only to raise her family in peace, as did her sister, your great aunt. The fight is not for everyone.

That said, I leave you with these final words, my darling daughter: Whatever your choice, whether to accept this calling or refuse it, I implore you remain true to your heart. This too is your father's hope for you and what would give us the most satisfaction, because only then will you know true fulfillment and lasting happiness. That is our wish for you, above and beyond any desire for you to take up this heavy mantle that requires such a high price, involving every bit of what you have to give, including a continual sacrifice of time you would wish to spend with loved ones. You must choose your path and disallow anyone from forcing you to take sides. Only then, will you know true peace...

Christine whisked the tears from her eyes with her fingertips. Still, they fell and she wearily gave them leave, surrendering to their quiet descent. She did not weep for sadness, though the ache to lose her parents had only mellowed with time and sharpened upon reading the letter. Rather it was a wave of utter relief that rent her emotions – for only then did she realize how great her burden had been, especially the fear of disappointing her sainted parents if they now watched from above…

True, her parents would likely be horrified to realize the entirety of Christine's situation, but her relief remained absolute to know they did not expect her to follow in their footsteps. Contrary to what Raoul had led her to believe…

Nothing had changed with regard to her feelings for Erik, though the discovery of the truth completely altered every perception of these last weeks with him. She could now see from a different viewpoint former words spoken and acts both omitted and committed, like a stream of candlelight shining into a dark corner that cast mysterious, shadowed forms into their true appearance…

Though she had yet to discern the content of these new shapes, which still bore a mystery…

She laid the journal aside for another night's reading, having learned all she needed to know for now. To better understand her mother's reasoning and her mission, she would read what was within the pages, but for herself Christine has already decided -

She could not join forces with those of her lineage whose sole purpose was to destroy her husband, who sought his blood

Just as he sought theirs. Quite literally.

Her newly-found confidence shaken at the reminder, Christine removed her gown and slipped into bed. Each creak or step in the outside corridor had her startle to throw a glance toward the door…dreading…hoping the knob would turn…waiting for the door to slowly swing open…both disappointed and relieved when it never did. Uncertain what the coming days would bring but knowing she had no wish to leave him.

Of one thing she was certain – he was not the monster that the journals painted him to be and what Raoul believed he was.

Erik, for all his faults, was more often than not considerate of her feelings and always protective of her well-being. Ever since she was a child at the Opera House and relied on the instruction of an unseen angel.

Still, for all that, she experienced a measure of disquiet when he drew near that surely came with ignorance, fed by what she hoped were lies from the ancient journal she had read on their journey to Paris. Surely it had been only one man's perception of misinformation he'd been given or himself had presumed falsely. Had any slayer existed who sought to learn the truth? If she could learn what made Erik this way, learn more of his past history, she hoped to dispel any lingering hesitance on her part.

He was her husband – she had married him.

And had she never done so, had they never met, no doubt upon discovering that horrific tales of fantasy were undeniably valid, she would have been as intolerant as the rest of her kin.

But the fact remained: she had met him – had known him since her childhood, when she was a small, frightened orphan. He had carved a place into her heart long ago. And, in becoming his wife, she now knew him in the deepest sense of the word….

It was in this conflicting vein of emotion that Christine greeted the new dawn, having slept when exhaustion at last overtook her, but only for a short time. Her heart raced with both apprehension and eagerness at the prospect of encountering her dark bridegroom. Yet upon visiting the chambers he frequented, she found them distressingly empty.

Not seeing any sign of life, she continued down the corridor that led to the utility chambers, the fragrant aroma in the air bringing her to a large kitchen, where Mihaela busily chopped vegetables with a cleaver. She brightened upon seeing Christine.

"My lady! I have only to make the stuffed cabbage, and your Christmas feast will be complete."

Christine looked with disbelief at the wide array of dishes spread out upon the table, where she assumed the servants ate their meals, with what appeared to be sausages, cheeses, and rolls being the predominant ingredients. There was barely room for the dish the girl was currently preparing. When Christine asked for a special dinner, she'd had no idea that Mihaela would create enough to feed a small army!

The situation being what it was Christine felt uncertain she could manage more than a sampling of the supper and, upon recalling his absence at the majority of meals, doubted Erik would be all that interested to partake. Given what she now knew about him, he preferred a different kind of sustenance...

She repressed a little shudder, her hand instinctively lifting to clasp her neck, and forced her traitorous mind to the present circumstances.

"You have done a remarkable job, Mihaela, I never expected this much! However, there is no earthly way we could manage all this and not have it spoil."

"There is the cold storage chamber."

"Cold storage chamber?"

Mihaela fidgeted, looking suddenly uncomfortable, and turned back to her chopping. "It keeps food from perishing."

The girl clearly felt she had said what she shouldn't, and Christine wondered if she knew the truth about Erik. She did not believe the girl to be one of his kind, nor any of her family. Though of course she could not ask without betraying her husband's ghastly secret...

"Have you seen the Count today?" she posed the question matter-of-factly, a deception to her racing heart.

"No, Madame, he has not returned."

"Not returned," Christine parroted in uneasy surprise. "Since last night?"

"He left early this morning, while you were sleeping."

"I see."

Christine wondered if this was to be a routine revisited. Before Paris, she had known his business kept him away until late in the evening. He had told her as much. Now that she better understood the verity of his statement and the nature of such business – that he was a leader of his kind, for mercy's sake – she wondered, too, what such a position entailed.

She would soon drive herself mad with questions that only he could answer and concentrated on the banquet at hand. Even with the servants to share, there was much too much. On the heels of that conclusion, a wonderful idea came to mind.

"Mihaela, please put aside a portion for us, and find baskets or boxes for the remainder."

"My lady?" the girl asked in confusion.

"The Yuletide, especially, is a time to share with those who are less fortunate, and I aim to do precisely that."

x

An hour later, Christine sat in the minister's cozy parlor with the housemaid who refreshed her tea. The minister was out on a call, and Christine had spent the last twenty minutes visiting with the older woman, who proved quite the fount of knowledge with regard to all who lived in the village.

"I cannot tell you how thankful we are for your sweet gesture, my lady. You can be assured that all the victims of the recent tragedies will receive a share of the food you have so kindly provided today. And what unique dishes - they look positively marvelous! You say your maid is from Romania…?"

Christine smiled and nodded, sipping her tea. Mama Valerius had headed benevolence committees and donated to charities all through the year and especially to the unfortunate at Christmastide. It seemed only fitting to continue with such a worthy tradition. It also helped to assuage Christine's guilt, in part, since her husband was indirectly responsible for the loss of lives in the district…or had he been the one responsible?

Her smile slipped as she recalled the frightful scene she had witnessed in the forest. She had been so concerned over Lucy's dilemma she had not thought to question Erik about the man he killed…

One of many, surely.

"Are you feeling well, my lady?" the housekeeper broke off her gossip of the grocer's wife to question. "Your face has gone positively white!"

"Yes," Christine struggled for calm. "I'm only feeling a bit out of sorts. I found myself unable to sleep more than a few hours last night. The wind and other strange sounds…" She gave the feeble excuse that was only partly true.

"Oh, you poor dear. Well, if this blizzard blows in, as surely my bones tell me it will, the wind will be howling all the night long."

Christine cast an anxious glance toward the window, grateful to note that while the sky was overcast, the weather was as clear as when she arrived.

It had helped somewhat to talk to someone about normal, every-day occurrences. She had been faithful to her husband and not revealed his secret, of course, but that in itself was a burden, with how terrible and dark his secret was, much of what she still did not fully understand, and she felt a sudden, urgent need to return to the castle. Nervous to meet with him again, yes, at the same time almost desperate to confront him and learn more…

What she did not understand, that gave her fear. Perhaps if she learned all of what lay behind his…condition – and its cause, she could rid herself of these wretched feelings and not give a little anxious jump every time he drew near.

These thoughts were predominant in her mind once she made her farewells and returned to the castle – again, to find it empty of its master.

With a disappointed sigh, she exited the library, her last room to search of those where she might find him, and came across the path of Erik's manservant. The old man quietly scowled, curtly nodded as if in an effort to be polite, and made as if to continue on his way. The wealth of frustration that had steadily built with each vile revelation thus far experienced prompted her to boldly address the issue -

"Gregor, it is clear that you dislike me. What I don't understand is why? What have I ever done to offend you?"

"It is not my place to say, my lady."

His clipped words only incited her need to know the truth.

"I give you permission to speak. I'll not hold it against you. Nor shall I tell the Count, no matter what you should have to say to me."

"Very well, if you insist." He drew himself up and looked down his hooked nose at her. "You do not belong here, Madame."

She drew her brows together. "I am his wife. Of course I belong."

"A marriage of sacrifice, to save you from your great uncle's plans. Since you came to Berwickshire, the master continually puts himself in danger, forsaking his duties, all to safeguard you."

His low words felt like arrows piercing her soul, but she shook her head in puzzlement. "What danger? What does he do?" On the heels of that thought, came the knowledge. "You speak of Nicolae?"

"In part." He seemed about to say more then pressed his lips together in a straight line. "I have said too much. He would not be pleased."

"You know the truth about him, don't you?"

As soon as she uttered the words, she realized how foolish they were. Gregor had served Erik for many years and was fiercely loyal to his master. Of course he knew; one could not abide in the same dwelling and keep such a secret for long.

He drew himself up as if she had insulted him. "For generations, my family has served under the family of cel Tradat and shall go on serving our master."

She did not pose the question of why, but he read it in her eyes.

"Perhaps, if you have to ask, you should return to Paris, my lady. Unless and until you can accept all of what he is, you are only a burden to him. Now, if I may return to my duties?"

Struck by his blunt words but recalling she had demanded them of him, Christine gave a distant nod, barely aware as he walked away.

"Wait –" she turned to look at him. "What other dangers?"

He seemed again as if he might curb a reply before he spoke. "Since you have come to Berwickshire, he has ventured out in the nights, to rid the village of those who would harm you. Keep that in mind, should you ever consider revealing his secret to those who could harm him."

"I would never…"

He inclined his head in the brusque snap of a nod, cutting her off. "I earnestly hope that is true, my lady. Make no mistake, I will do all within my power to protect my master."

Having no words, Christine watched in disbelief as he lumbered away, realizing as he turned the corner, she had forgotten once again to ask the present location of her husband. Rather than call out a second time and subject herself to more of Gregor's hostile tongue, she took refuge in her room, finding some solace in her mother's journal, though each page she turned with qualms of what she might find.

Within the slim book, much like her ancestor's journal, were detailed the activities involved in capturing and confronting the 'Dark Ones,' as her mother called them. Yet though her mother was bound by oath to protect humanity, unlike her ancestor's journal, her mother's soul was laid bare as she questioned with the desire to understand, and later she wrote of her surprise to note that the Dark Ones had feelings and emotions, not unlike the living. They could love; they could hate. And they cared for those close to them…

Christine understood well the verity of those words, from her relationship with Erik. He certainly could express love and did indeed have feelings, ones she had inadvertently injured with her plea for distance.

A distance she was fast coming to regret.

A glance outdoors showed her that darkness had begun to envelop the land, and a light snow was falling. Not a blizzard as the priest's housekeeper had foretold, and Christine approached the window to watch the thick, downy flakes, reminded of the day.

How long she stood there lost in thought, she had no idea, but when the faint, distant strains of music teased her ears, immediately she exited her bedchamber and followed the anticipated sound downstairs.

x

He sat erect at the grand piano, and she watched the gentle sway of his upper body as he moved from side to side, soon completing the lovely piece, the bell-like chords softly chiming in the upper octaves synonymous with the gaiety of the season. Only then did Christine approach, moving to her place at the side of the piano. His burning gaze followed her as she came into his view, and he waited.

"Happy Christmas," she offered, attempting nonchalance though her voice came a bit strained.

The Count said nothing, gave no response whatsoever. Only waited.

"I wish to apologize," she said with a sigh. His brows drew together in puzzlement, and she continued, "For the manner in which I behaved."

He held himself rigid for another few moments then exhaled a long, heavy breath, his broad shoulders relaxing.

"I can hardly blame you, my dear. When first I learned the truth of what I had become, I did not respond well and would have strangled my stepmother with my bare hands if given the chance."

She barely withheld a small shudder at the casual proclamation of such violence.

"Will you tell me? How it happened?"

The half mask he wore gave evidence of his slight flinch on the side uncovered. "Would you not prefer to sing carols by the fire? Is that not what you previously expressed an interest in doing during this time of year?"

"Perhaps later. At this moment, I wish to know more about you."

Had the situation not been so grave, to sing reverent and gay carols would have been her first request. But she desired, more than anything, to have the irksome gaps of ignorance filled, to fully understand as her mother once wished. At least Christine had been gifted with that chance, likely the only member of her bloodline to be given the opportunity...

He was not quick with his reply but at last motioned to the two chairs near the hearth. She took hers and, folding her hands on her lap, waited for what he would say.

Instead of taking the chair opposite, he paced to the hearth as he had done the night before. With his hand locked around his wrist behind him, his steady and restless gait of barely retained energy was one that she had come to associate with his frustration and proof that the topic was a difficult one.

"I told you the minutiae of my birth, how my father ordered my death and his spurned lover, unbeknownst to him, kept me hidden away. Hers was not an act of benevolence or in the least bit charitable." He let out a scornful laugh. "No, I was her tool of revenge against my father. In time, he wed her, but she and her brothers held resentment against him for the slur inflicted. There came a day when deadly conflicts arose within his household, cousin against cousin, brother against brother. Blade against blade…."

He stared up at the insignia of the three-headed dragon hanging above the hearth. "I was tricked, manipulated, turned against my will, and murdered."

Christine inhaled a shocked little gasp. "Murdered?"

He gave a brusque nod, still not looking at her.

"To become as I am, one must die."

Christine could barely conceive his words. He had died?! But she thought he was immortal! Did he not say he was immortal?

He pivoted to look at her then. As if he read the stunned question in her eyes, he continued -

"My mortality was put to death. A chalice of poisoned wine that contained also the seal to my dark fate, though I did not know at the time it contained either the nightshade to kill me or the tainted blood to bring me back. Later that same day I was cruelly revealed to my father, and as he stood, cornered, and in horrified shock to see that I had lived and understand my stepmother betrayed him, one of her brothers came from behind and took his life with a blade of silver. Chaos broke out. The monster inside me emerged when I, too, came under attack, until none were left standing. The woman responsible for everything lay dead in a pool of blood, along with her brothers, the men she had sided with against my father having turned on her. I stood there amidst the carnage, the only surviving member of my household – of all who fought there that day – and all due to the damnable curse."

"Then… you never wanted to become as you are?"

"To become more of a monster than appearances have made me?" he asked incredulously. "Most decidedly not! It is a twisted darkness, this life I have been forced to endure and to which I have had no choice but to adapt."

She opened her mouth to pose a question then closed it, in that moment realizing what she had almost uttered, aghast that such a thought had entered her mind…

He narrowed his eyes, intently watching her.

"You wonder why, if I am so opposed to what I have become, I have not simply ended my existence by my own hand?"

The flush of color that swam to her face proclaimed her guilt.

"It is not for lack of trying," he continued with a bitter half twist of a smile. "The beast within will not allow it – the moment the sun's destructive rays began to shimmer over the earth, I suddenly found myself indoors, without having made a conscious decision to move. The moment a blade of pure silver was directed to my heart by my hand, a barrier unseen to the eye blocked its progression and prevented further descent. The second time I tried, my hand was suddenly and rapidly forced away, once more against my will, the dagger flying across the room to hit the wall."

She felt horrified to know he had made the attempt, and more than once, but something he said brought confusion and she shook her head.

"Yet the sun doesn't harm you..."

"Will you know all my secrets?" he inquired of her somberly, causing her to avert her eyes to the fire with something akin to shame. "It weakens me. Let us leave it at that."

Frowning to know he did not trust her with the entirety of the truth, aware in light of the wretched set of circumstances he had every right to feel that way, given that they were supposed to be sworn enemies, Christine again caught his gaze and asked point blank, "Are you the one responsible for the many recent maulings in the region?"

"No."

He moved to pour two glasses of whisky from the decanter sitting nearby and crossed the room to hand her one. She had not asked for it but was grateful for its calming effect after what had become another evening of difficult revelations. This time she was careful not to take a great swallow but only a sip.

"What was done in turning simple villagers into a bestial army goes against our code," he said, moving a short distance away.

Christine's eyes went wide. Army? There was a code?

"To engage in such flagrant carnage flirts with the danger of discovery – what no mortal must realize. That our kind exists."

"Is that why you never told me?"

"That, and your family lineage."

Christine frowned and again looked into the fire. She had not asked to be a slayer, never wanted it, never even knew such a role existed until Raoul enlightened her. Memory of their terrifying encounter in the woods came to mind, as well as Gregor's earlier words – and she suddenly snapped her gaze to Erik's and clenched her glass, asking the question, already certain of the answer.

"Weeks ago, the night our carriage was attacked in the forest - were you there?"

"I came upon the scene."

She recalled Raoul's puzzled words of how one of their kind had turned on them, something he had never before seen or believed possible.

"You saved us," she said softly.

His jaw clenched. "What I did, I did for you alone."

The softest of smiles lifted her lips before, unbidden, the image of her uncle's former driver and the brief glance she'd had of his bloody remains came horribly to mind.

Feeling suddenly confined to the chair, she set down her glass and quickly rose to move away, toward the fire. She held her palms out toward it, seemingly to seek warmth, and when at last she again turned to look at him noted the puzzled squint of his eyes as he observed her.

"The man last night," she began hesitantly. "The one you killed…"

"One of the newly turned of Nicolae's ragtag army. I came across him as he was attempting to make a meal out of Lucy's physician."

"Oh my," she whispered, feeling a second wave of appalled disbelief to recall what had happened to her poor cousin.

"These newly turned have not been given the necessary instruction, since Nicolae seeks only to destroy. They are feral in that respect and must be eliminated."

"I understand that," she said quietly, no less horrified. "And Lucy is caught in the middle."

"I spoke with her tonight."

Shocked to hear it, she gave him her full attention.

"She will stay indoors, to rest and recover, and will remain out of Nicolae's reach. I have done all I could to see to that. Rest assured, she is still mortal."

"Thank God," she whispered, briefly shutting her eyes. She gave a little nod. "And thank you."

He set down his glass and slowly approached. Her heart began to race as she stood, motionless, though when he lifted a hand to brush the backs of his fingers against her cheek in a whisper-soft stroke, she could not prevent herself from flinching, contrary to the image of calm she wished to portray.

Such sadness entered his eyes, it twisted her heart. He lowered his hand back to his side.

"I'm sorry," she managed, a slight tremor to her words.

He said nothing.

"It is just so very much to take in, beyond anything I could have imagined. You have had...centuries to grow accustomed to this; I have only just learned of it. And well, I simply need…"

She hesitated, loath to say it.

"Time," he supplied for her in quiet resignation.

"Yes," she whispered.

He gave a slow nod. "Then I will leave you in peace. I have matters to which I must attend. There is no rest for the wicked, as that trite saying goes."

Before he could leave, she reached out to him, though her hand did not make contact with his sleeve.

"Erik – wait."

He looked her way, his brow raised in question.

"Please don't go just yet. It's Christmas, and I hoped that perhaps we could spend it together."

She had never spent the cherished holiday without family or friends and the festive music that rang throughout the chambers; and at the theatre, there had been dancing. She did not wish to relinquish all manner of celebration!

"You would wish to spend the evening with me?" He seemed genuinely surprised by her request.

"Of course. You are my husband and a most excellent musician, and I thought, since we are here anyway," she waved a flippant hand about the instrument-laden room, "we might indulge in the tradition of singing carols as you earlier suggested. If you play, I will sing for you," she prodded, hoping the suggestion was an enticement and not an offer to be shunned. No matter his unending criticisms when they encountered one another in the maze weeks ago, and more recently, when he acted in the strict role of her teacher, he had since told her he took pleasure in her voice.

She hoped that they could somehow salvage what was left of the Yuletide and put troublesome matters behind them, if only for one evening.

Her eyes beseeched him, though she did not persist, and at last he gave a slight smile.

"I am not well versed in the celebration of the holiday, but I do know the songs performed at this time of year. I can postpone my business for one evening."

Her smile was jubilant, conveying her gratitude, and when he again slowly approached, putting a tentative hand to her elbow to steer her toward the grand instrument and her place in its curve, she did not startle or withdraw from his touch - even pressing gentle fingers to his icy cheek beneath the mask before he moved away to take his place at the piano.

It was a start, Christine reassured herself with another smile directed toward her dark Angel.

And by the light in his golden eyes when he regarded her, he was well pleased.

xXx


A/N: For the holidays, I chose to end this chapter on a peaceful note of accord, though tried to keep it realistic and hopefully believable and in-character with all that is going on in story… hope you enjoyed it! :) Get ready, because the next chapter will be quite the opposite – muwahaha - and one many of you guys have been waiting for ;-) - Merry Christmas to all!