Hello friends. Here is the next chapter of Lessons. I understand some of you are antsy for some drama? Here you go… and I worked in a shout-out to Leroux at the end. I hope you all like it.

Chapter 48. August 1887.

Some days later, Erik was standing in one corner of the parlour with his violin on his right shoulder late at night, playing a light song. His spirits were too high, just then, to work on the dark themes of the Inferno.

It had been a good day. The weather was pleasant, and by now a satisfying amount of work had been accomplished on the new house. Erik had been surprised, and his vanity flattered, at how easily he had fallen back into the role of master builder. The deference that his hired workmen showed him, and their obvious admiration of his designs and knowledge, were doing wonders for his pride. But best of all had been the moment when it was time to go home for the evening, and, as he watched the workers gathering their lunch pails and making remarks about needing to get home so that their wives would not be annoyed at dinner getting cold, Erik had realised that he now had the same consideration. He had a wife too! No longer would he stay at the worksite till late at night, continuing to work because he had nothing better to do. No longer would he finally return to lonely accommodations where he had no one but himself for company. He thought of Christine, of her beauty and her sweetness, and went home filled with joy.

Now he finished his song, and laid the violin aside. He did not feel like staying up late tonight; no, going upstairs and falling asleep with his arms around Christine was much more attractive. Turning the gaslights out as he left the room, Erik went noiselessly upstairs – he had located and memorized all boards which creaked as soon as they moved in – and into the bedroom. He had just reached up to take off his cravat when he heard a noise outside.

O-O-O

Christine woke out of a sound sleep for no apparent reason, and, looking around, she saw Erik standing just to the side of the bedroom window, his back pressed against the wall. His head was cocked to one side, and he appeared to be completely focused on…what? Enough light was filtering in from the city's diffuse night-time glow that she could see that his every muscle was tensed. She shifted in the bed, and immediately his head whipped in her direction. He held a finger fiercely to his lips.

She froze. What was going on? But Erik's focus was once again entirely on something else, and she watched in growing fear until he slid away from the wall and, moving as silently and intently as a panther, glided toward the bedroom door. His manner was so horrifyingly predatory that she panicked further, and held out a hand. He turned on her, and, even though he was on the other side of the room, she heard his voice whisper in her ear as if he were standing right next to her.

"Do not make a sound. We have an intruder. He is just coming through the back door now. I am going down to attend to him."

Christine shot to a sitting position, and even in the dark she could tell that this had angered him. As quietly as possible, she hissed, "What are you going to do?"

"Whatever is necessary. Keep quiet."

"Erik!" This was nearly impossible to discuss in a whisper. "Don't kill anyone!"

That had been the wrong thing to say. His eyes flashed furiously in the darkness, and he retorted, slashing one arm through the air for emphasis, "Woman, I am your husband! Don't you dare charge me with your protection and then dictate to me how I shall do it!"

"Erik, I won't be married to a murderer!"

"You already are, you little idiot!"

He came to the side of the bed, full of rage, and she grabbed his hand. "Erik, that was before. This is now. You promised you would change. Now do it!"

"Christine, you do not understand these things at all, and I do! We have no idea who or what is down there. Let me do what needs to be done!"

"You don't need to kill a burglar. Restrain him and call the police."

"The police will not be willing to do anything for me. They never have, in any country I've been in."

"Erik, if you kill someone now, after everything that has happened between us – I'll leave you."

He jerked, shocked. She hated to say this, but she had to.

"I'll leave, and you will never see me again."

He glared vengefully at her, and she tried to keep herself from shrinking back under the onslaught of those terrifying yellow eyes. "Fine," he spat. "Fine. I promise you I will not kill whoever this is. Happy now?" She nodded mutely, and he took her other hand and slapped something hard and cold into it.

"Take this, then. If anyone comes in here, defend yourself with it. But I order you not to leave this room until I come back."

"And what if you need help?"

That made him even angrier, and he seized her by the shoulders and hissed into her face, "Do not even think of trying to come and 'help' me! I do not need to worry about your safety right now. Do not set foot out of this room until I return. If you disobey me I'll…I'll…"

"I can't stay up here and wait when something might be happening to you!"

He lunged at her, thrusting one hand into his coat. She had barely a moment to register the perfume-soaked handkerchief when it was shoved against her nose, the sensation of the cold fingers wrapped around her neck, and then she fell back onto the mattress, insensible.

O-O-O

When Christine woke up, it took her a moment to remember what had caused her to be lying sideways across the bed, instead of in it in the usual fashion, and with a dagger resting inches away from her opened hand. As she was gathering her wits, the bedroom door opened and Erik came in.

She remembered all in a rush, and was too appalled to speak. There was blood on his hand and a wild, reckless air about him; danger seemed to pulse all around him like a cloud. She had not seen him thus since before their marriage, and had hoped never to do so again.

He was also glaring at her yet again, and before she could say anything he spat, "I did not kill him. Are you happy?"

"You – " She moistened her dry lips. "Erik…please…"

But she didn't even know what she was begging him for, and he wasn't having any, regardless.

"Get dressed, because we are leaving." He rapped the order out like a gunshot. "I'll not stay here like a sitting duck when someone who clearly wishes me – us – harm is free to try doing it. I hope you are pleased, wife."

"What did you do to me?" she whispered.

"Always thinking of your own concerns first," he jeered. "A fine wife you are. Well, Erik thinks of both you and himself, as one should when married, and that is why we are fleeing this house. Erik will protect you even though you obviously do not care what happens to him."

His tone cut deep, and tears came swiftly to her eyes. Swiping at them, she moaned, "Why won't you answer my question?"

"There are various Oriental drugs which, when used, result in certain effects. That one causes the subject to become unconscious for a time but with no lasting ill consequences to the health."

"Why didn't you just use your voice then – " She was gathering breath to tell him just how fast she would leave him if he did so, when he interrupted her, saying caustically, "I intend to discover who that man was and what he wanted. If he was nothing but a garden-variety burglar who thought he saw an opportunity, I shall leave matters as they are. If not…"

His words held a world of dreadful intent, and she drew back.

"Regretting your choice of husbands?" His tone was taunting as he raised a hand theatrically, and her attention was caught by the blood on his shirt cuff. She launched herself off the bed, grabbing at his arm. But he sidestepped her in a flash, and she missed and almost lost her balance.

"Why is there blood on your sleeve?! What did you do?"

"It is my blood, Christine, not that it would matter to you!" he snarled, picking up a handkerchief out of the box of them on the top of the dresser and blotting his hand.

"What happened?"

"He threw a knife at me. I moved in time and it barely grazed me, but cut a small blood vessel. This is nothing of importance. But my thanks for your wifely sympathy."

"Erik – " She turned and snatched at him again, but he dodged her once more, in a grim mockery of a dance. It was as though electricity surrounded him, shocking her when she reached out, and she finally retreated.

He tossed the handkerchief aside. "You have fifteen minutes to dress, and that is too much as it is. I have no idea whether our burglar was acting alone or not. Perhaps now you will agree that I was right to be concerned about that man who was watching our house, hmmm? Get dressed, I say, or by God I'll drag you out of here without a thing on but your night-dress." He took two steps to the closet, and withdrew two small valises. Opening one, he picked up the dagger he had given her and put it in. She glimpsed some of her own underthings inside the valise.

"Erik, what… what is that?"

"Spare clothing for both of us, which I put aside recently against just such an event as has now occurred." He opened one of his drawers, and withdrew a stack of folded franc notes, which he put into his breast pocket.

Christine drew herself up. "Erik, tell me what happened right now." Something in her voice must have communicated to him that he needed to answer her, and he glanced up with a slightly surprised look. Then he replied coldly, "I frightened him a good bit, that is all. I do believe I made him think I was a fiend from Hell – not much of a stretch, won't you agree, my dear? Judging by the way he ran out of here after I finished with him he thought Cerberus himself was snapping at his heels." The viciousness previously in his voice had changed to the biting sarcasm he was so good at, and which hurt more than his anger did.

"Frightened him…" Christine took a deep breath, then another, clenching and reclenching her fists. The iron grip of her fear slackened a little, but then she thought of something else.

"Erik…did you harm him physically at all?"

"I used the Punjab lasso on him, Christine."

She gasped.

"Oh, do not look so horror-struck. I already told you, I did not kill him. Merely terrified him in an attempt to make sure he never wanted to come near me again. I left a bruise on his throat, but that is all. It may have been enough. Being unable to draw breath is one of the most primitively fear-provoking experiences possible, and therefore highly effective."

He did not seem to be her husband at all anymore, but instead the Phantom of the Opera once more, stalking abroad at night, dark and dangerous. The cruelty that was rushing to the surface in him chilled her, and her hands and feet felt alternately numb and tingling as she wondered which was the true Erik, then; the man he had, till tonight, been slowly turning into, or this tall terrifying stranger with blood on his hands and in his soul as well?

A jumble of images cascaded through Christine's mind, tumbling and crashing over each other, of the laughter and embraces she had shared with this man. She rushed out of the open door and into the next room she found, which was Erik's workroom.

She sat in there for a few minutes, listening to Erik moving swiftly about in the other room, and fuming at him. But she heard him opening her drawers as well as his own, and guessed that he was packing something else for her. He was obviously completely intent on vacating the house until he could assure himself that they were not in any danger, and all because of those shadowy horrors in his past that he wanted to keep her ignorant of, or so it seemed. She did not know for certain, and did not care. Sitting there surrounded by his tools and half-finished projects, Christine stared blankly at the warped boards of the floor as her heart pounded with revulsion and a growing anger, and all the while knowing that her fifteen minutes were running out.

Under other circumstances she probably could not have done it. Most likely the anger, rather than her early fear, made her think of it; that, and the recklessness that comes with knowing one has only a few moments in which to act. But with the goad of his actions at her back, she rose and went back into the bedroom with a merciless intent in her heart, as the clock chimed midnight.

"How could you do that? You are a monster." That word again.

Erik, bent over and fastening the clasps of one of the suitcases, shot abruptly upright and brought a fist crashing down onto the nearest piece of furniture. When he spoke, it was through clenched teeth, and while his voice remained calm she could hear the wrath in it, fiercely throttled back but fighting ferociously to be unleashed. She was treading on very thin ice.

"Monster I may be. I have certainly been told that often enough by enough people that there may in fact be something in it. But Christine, whether you like it or not I am also your husband. It is my duty to protect you. I shall determine what must be done when you are in danger, and not you!"

"If you torture every petty criminal you come across, someday you'll pick the wrong person and be arrested, and I shall be left alone and without protection at all."

"Torture?" He loomed over her, sneering into her face. "That was not torture. Erik knows what torture is, and that – " – he pointed a finger toward downstairs – "That was not torture!"

"It certainly sounds like it to me."

"Stupid girl, you have no idea what you're talking about." There was a tremble in his voice, and his thin hands were flexing ominously, in the way they always did when he was tried nearly beyond bearing. Christine knew she was pushing him too far when he was in this mood. But bringing him to heel on this subject was the most important thing in the world. A small part of her recognized that he was struggling, likely harder than he ever had, to keep his temper under control, but it wasn't big enough to sway the rest of her mind. She must try harder, and shove him over the edge.

"Torture, she says," he muttered, half turning away from her. "Christine knows nothing of torture. Erik knows. Erik knows all about it. That – that was nothing, that little bit of – Erik had to. He had to, you see, because you made him!"

"I – "

"You said there must be no killing. You care more for a complete stranger who tried to rob you than you do for Erik!"

"I do not! But I won't have my husband hurting people."

"People have hurt Erik! People have shown no consideration for him, so why should he care what happens to them?" His voice was rising, his body tight with tension.

"You told me you would change!" she said cuttingly. "If I married you, you would change, and you haven't! You only said that to ensnare me, you lied to me – "

His willpower broke at last, and she could almost see the final, fatal shattering. Furiously he shouted, "You dare tell Erik he lied to you, after what you told the Vicomte on the roof of the Opera! Did you know I was there, and do it on purpose to hurt Erik?"

"No, but I wish I had! I want to hurt you, as you have hurt me. I won't forgive you this – "

"You can damned well forgive Erik for anything if he can forgive you for those words on the roof, Christine!"

"Stop interrupting me!" Christine screamed. She rushed at him, striking out, and he reacted so fast he startled her badly, even though she had been trying to provoke him into doing exactly what he now did. In a flash he had his hands around her throat.

It was almost certainly a self-defensive reflex, and his grip wasn't tight enough to stop her breath. But it accomplished her objective. All at once, she went limp, bringing all her theatrical training to bear, and slid out of his suddenly slackened grasp, to the floor, where she lay with her head bent awkwardly to one side, holding her breath.

Her eyes were also open, the better to stare vaguely with them, and so she saw the expression on his unmasked face. A horrific and inhuman wail that was like nothing she'd ever heard from a man burst from him, as his own legs gave out under him and he collapsed next to her. The sound of it brought remorse hard on the heels of the crazed desire to control his violent impulses at all costs, which had made her play this trick, and she sat bolt upright and said, "Erik, it's all right!"

If her feigned death at his hands had shocked him to the bone, her abrupt resurrection nearly gave him a heart attack. He froze in place, one hand stretched despairingly toward her and his face quite blank. Little shudders and tremors began to run over his body, as if his muscles were galvanized to action but did not know what to do, and when she touched him, he cried out again.

"Erik! Erik, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! I wanted to – I didn't mean – " She no longer knew what she had or hadn't meant, but Erik fell the rest of the way onto the floor and seized great handfuls of her nightgown. All at once he was sobbing violently, the entire length of his body shaking as he twisted the fabric about and buried his face in it.

Christine could no longer remember what reaction she'd been expecting out of him, but this one caused tears to burst from her own eyes now, and she leaned down to wrap her arms around him.

"Erik, oh my Erik, please forgive me!"

But he scrambled instantly away the moment she touched him, and huddled in a corner of the room, quivering and weeping as he wrung his hands before his own eyes in a ghastly paroxysm of emotion. It was awful to look at him, and even more so to be unable to comfort him or apologize as she sat cringing and mortified on the floor. Why had she ever thought this was a good idea? And what on earth should she do now?

Before she could think of anything, Erik abruptly stopped crying, gasped for breath, and mopped his face on his sleeve. He rose to his feet, uncharacteristically clumsily, and, also uncharacteristically, stammered when he spoke.

"You – you…we…m – must leave. Now. We have stayed here to-too long already. I have packed some…things for you. Please…please get dressed qui-quickly. I will…wait downstairs."

He seized the valises and rushed out of the room. His footsteps, unusually loud, clattered down the stairs.

Christine jumped up, tears rolling down her cheeks, and dressed as swiftly as she could, throwing on a printed cotton polonaise that would be sturdy and twisting her hair into a utilitarian knot, which she jammed pins into while running down the stairs. The hat she had worn that morning was sitting on the hall tree, long hat-pins still stabbed into its white straw brim, and she put it on. Erik was standing at the door, life-like masked and looking more forbidding than ever. He opened the door for her without a word, and, once out on the street, strode along purposefully, carrying the luggage. When a cab drew up, he flagged it down, but did not help his wife into it, and tersely gave the driver the Persian's address. The atmosphere inside the cab was too strained for Christine to feel comfortable asking him why, or what they were going to do when they arrived. The sky was pitch dark; it was the middle of the night.

At the tall cream-coloured limestone apartment building on the Rue de Rivoli, Erik led her round the side of the building, and then set the valises down and said quietly, "Wait here." Then he pulled off his gloves, reached out a hand, and gripped the drainpipe.

O-O-O