þat euer was

LUX PERPETUA:
Part Four
"þat euer was..." Jewel Faulkner
jfaulkne@brynmawr.edu
http://www.student.brynmawr.edu/students/jfaulkne

        Intro: Yes. Wacky symbol in the title. It's called a "thorn" and is pronounced "th"--it's Old English (ie, when English sounded a whole lot more like German than English, because those pesky Normans from France hadn't invaded England yet.)
        But anyway. This is for all y'all out there who hate-mailed me because I created a character named Erik Vogel. Yes, many of you out there absolutely *hated* the guy, and where more than overjoyed when he met his end. Sheesh. And people accuse *me* of being mean to my characters. ;) So, get ready for a surprise...mainly, to see that maybe he wasn't *such* a bad guy after all, aside from Oberon's noxious little spell (although looking back over this, he still comes off as an idiot. Oh, well...) ...hee hee hee, I love alternate universes...
        And despite that preface, I feel like this is easily the strongest of "Lux perpetua."
        And if y'all are all royally confused, just wait.
        Oh, yeah--a warning, this is kinda jerking in spots--part of it was started long ago--a year ago, actually--but I left it in the dust and started on other things after losing steam. Then I came back to this so I could finish the blasted thing, and found myself both moving stuff around like mad and writing in a wacked-out style that's unlike my old way of writing in its focus. As well as, well, some of what I wrote. You'll see. This is the first--and main--story in which I sexualized Christine (oh, calm down, you sicko perverts) outside of "Gli enigmi" and an upcoming series I won't name because I'm still trying to decide between titles. In a step back, though, my next series, "Miserere Mei Deus," despite its subject matter (y'all will see soon enough, and I truly *hate* to give things away!) isn't as good in the mildly-sexualized focus. Why? I wrote "Donde lieta usci" and "Good-bye, Love" way *before* this one. Oops. Eh, well. "Never is a Promise", the third and final, is already the strongest of the Miserere trilogy, in all of its first-person glory (yup, y'all heard me right--first-person), and it's only about a third done.
        <g>...Oh, and never listen to Alanis Morissette when writing; weird things happen, especially when the CD player is programmed to only play two (radically different) songs over and over and over again...

On the legal tip: Christine, Belinda, Erik, Erika Belinda, Hope, and Christian are mine. This conceptualization of Hecate and Thoth is mine. Mark Adams belongs to Scott Iskow. Athens is Ryan Stout's. And everyone else is Buena Vistas's.

*** *** *** ***

That euer was thralle, now ys he fre,
þat euer was smalle, now gret is she
[He who was in bondage is now free,
She who was once humble is now great]
-Medieval English carol, "Nowel: Owt of ?our slepe aryse"

*** *** *** ***

Friday:
        The wind blew and she felt no fear. Fear had gnawed at her heart long before this point. But now, it was gone, gone as if it had never existed. She knew only three things, and those three things were all that were important.
        One was the fey before her.
        Another was that the fey before her endangered her family.
        The third was the feel of the sais in her hands.
        "So you are the little mortal-immortal who would try to stop me?" Hecate's voice was gravel on gravel, iced trees in the December wind.
        "You will not pass by me, Hecate." she said, her head raised, the wind blowing at her back, making her dark hair blow before her. Her eyes glinted and the sais glinted. "You aren't going to touch my family."
        Christine knew three things, and she cared only for one fact.
        Hecate would not pass. *** *** *** ***         Mark held the Phoenix Gate a minute, staring numbly at it. He vaguely knew how to use it. Just vaguely. Think of the place and time he wanted to be, and then say the words "break down walls of space and time" in Latin. Seemed easy enough...but he was wary.
        Part of him knew he should go home. He had no idea why the hell he was even debating this.
        Yes he did.
        Her name was Christine.
        He shook his head. Why the hell was he risking his neck for her? Really. Why was he? Altruism be damned; he was sick and tired of lying to himself about things. He wanted to help her. Was he trying to kill his guilt? Redeem himself? Or did he genuinely not want to see her further hurt?
        Or maybe it was all of them...?
        "Oh, fuck it." he said, shaking his head. "What does it matter why I do anything?" he said, making a face. "The 'why's never matter in the end...its all about what you do.
        "And why the *hell* am I talking to myself?" *** *** *** ***         "My argument is not with you, little halfling." Hecate said, her face grey, her colorless eyes greying. "You have nothing to do with what your sister and daughter have done. I will let you live."
        "Leave them, Hecate."
        "Your sister and her child will die. The child of the traitor will die. You will not stop me. There is only *one* who can stop me."
        Christine's eyes burned. A strange smile touched her lips. "Only one of us will live here, tonight, witch." She raised her sai, and it caught the moonlight, reflecting and refracting the silver light of the moon. The sai, she knew, was not pure iron. It was also mixed with the silver, the moon metal. Pure iron alone would not do, even though it was for iron that the fey were weak. Silver also had its properties, and the two metals together, the cold iron and the cold silver, had magical properties that she had enhanced through the magicks that Thoth had been unable to teach her; the woman's magicks. She had forged these weapons herself in the heights of her rages--how much had the metals absorbed and purified, into these things made to kill fey? "Only one. And I have no intention of dying."
        "Nor I, little halfling. But if I die..." Hecate smiled, then. It was disturbing because the smile, oddly, was sweet and softened her face, changing her for a split second into something pretty. "Then my revenge on ones far more deserving than the revenge I hold against your sister will begin."
        Christine faltered for a moment, then narrowed her dark eyes. "Leave, Hecate. Leave and never bother my family again. Or die."
        Hecate smiled. "Die? We shall see, little one. We shall see." *** *** *** ***         Mark knew better than to appear where Christine was. He knew full well his appearance would do nothing but distract her--he knew what happened when you fight, and how something small could destroy your focus--and if she was distracted for even a second, it could be over. No, he wouldn't try to interfere in the fight.
        But...there was something else he could do. He had to accept that when Christine said she was going to lose, it was in all likelihood possible. So what could he do? Simple. He could keep her family safe. She was doing her best--he had to do the same.
        He remembered, vaguely, what her sister looked like--he had seen her in the surveillance video of all those years ago. And he remembered the pictures of her that had been in Christine's dressing room. Still...the face was blurry in his mind. But it had to be enough.
        "Diflagrate muri tempi et intervalia." *** *** *** ***         A cold smile twisted Hecate's face. "Little halfling, don't even toy with me." she said. She sneered. "Even if you win, you will lose eventually."
        "Go to hell." Christine hissed, her eyes glowing and the Feather of Ma'at beginning to glow faintly.
        Hecate laughed again. "I already have, little warrior. I already have. Hell has no fear for me. You, I do not fear."
        "Perhaps you should." Christine said, the moonlight glittering off of the sai and reflected out of her brown eyes.
        "I fear none, little weapon. Not even the one I should fear. And you, little gi...you have the Feather!" Hecate blurted out, for once seeming surprised.
        Christine never took her eyes away from the immortal. "Yeah. I was trained by Thoth, Hecate. I am not some vaguely trained little mortal who thinks they can stand against you."
        "So you are a Ma'at. Not *the* Ma'at, but Ma'at. Are you of the Seven?"
        "What the *hell* are you talking about?" Christine hissed. Was Hecate trying to just confuse her?
        "Leave here, little Ma'at. Leave me and I shall let *you* live."
        "Frappe-moi donc, ou laissez-moi passez!" Christine sang under her breath, her eyes narrowing. [Hit me then, or let me pass.] "Over my dead body, Hecate."
        The fey's eyes had widened almost imperceptibly when she had heard the woman sing. So...so her own prophecy had come to pass. At the hands of the Angel of Music and the Princess of Death...
        So be it, then.
        But she *would* have her revenge. *** *** *** ***         "Who are you?!!?" Belinda yelled suddenly. She had jumped to her feet when she had seen the flash of fire and light, jumping instantly in front of the children, spreading her wings protectively the second she realized that that was *not* Christine. It took her almost a full minute to realize..."Motherfucking goddamn son of a *bitch* Hunter!"
        She flung herself at him, teeth bared and her hands curled into claws. Mark had just enough time to think, "Oh shit" before she'd reached him. His body reacted before his brain could, instinctively protecting him from her. He could see the children--they looked to be about six or something, damned if he could tell--and they were watching him with wide eyes, clinging to each other and obviously terrified. He wondered how long it would be before one of them started crying--and if one did, he *knew* the other would start up.
        "For God's sake, Belinda, Hecate is coming! I'm here with Christine; how the hell *else* would I know where you were!" he finally managed to yell...gasp...out. This after Christine's incredibly tall, incredibly pretty, and incredibly *strong* sister gave him a hard punch in the ribs...in his *half-healed* ribs. Damn, it hurt. Belinda drew back slightly, but not before grabbing him and lifting him in the air so he was eye-level with her.
        "How the hell did you get a Phoenix Gate?" Belinda hissed, shaking him slightly. Oh, yeah, she remembered *this* joker. Mark Adams, Hunter extraordinaire. "Give me a reason, just one, to believe you. And not dismember you for kicks anyway."
        "Just listen to me! I don't know how much time we have here. Hecate's coming. Christine is trying to head her off. I came to move you all."
        "He-Hecate?!!?" Belinda said, paling and dropping him. The terror on her face frightened him. If Belinda Maza was that afraid... "I knew she would eventually find us...but I won't let her hurt my son." she hissed, her eyes glowing faintly, shocking Mark. He wasn't used to it. "And Christine doesn't know you're here, does she?"
        "Wh-what? N-no." he said, blinking. "But I wasn't sure if you'd believe me if I said this was my idea." How in the *world*...?
        "Ordinarily, I wouldn't. Ordinarily, your spine would be external right now. And I'm a telepath, that's how. Thank your lucky stars for that, 'cause otherwise I'd rip out your fucking Hunter *spleen*."
        He looked over at the two children. The girl--Hope--was openly staring at him. She had the biggest, darkest blue eyes he had ever seen in his life--they bordered on violet, they were so dark blue. She didn't look much like Christine, aside from the shape of her eyes and her mouth. She even had freckles--a few but dark brown, just over her nose, and he figured those would fade as she got older. She really was a pretty little girl. She peered over at him, openly curious and openly afraid. But she suddenly shifted her focus. The boy was shaking, staring from him to his mother.
        Something about the boy--Christian--reminded him of Christine. He looked like his mother--he could tell that in ten years the kid was going to be a heartbreaker and a half--but there was something about him that he couldn't put his finger on that reminded him of Christine. It wasn't just the obvious physical resemblances--dark hair, dark slanting eyes, dark skin, full lips, slight body build--it was something else. After a moment, he *did* put his finger on it--he was as high-strung as she was. His dark black eyes were wide and frightened, looking overwhelmed. And that was what had made him think of Christine and had gotten Hope's attention; Hope had instantly refocused herself entirely on Christian, putting her head on his shoulder and whispering to him under her breath, getting his attention. Christian blinked, seeming suddenly to come out of an overwhelmed stupor, shaking his head slightly. He hugged Hope then, putting his head on top of hers and closing his eyes for a moment, seeming to settle. After that, Hope turned her attention back to Mark, wide-eyed and curious, neither saying a word, just watching him with wide eyes. Mark stared back, trying to understand what he had just seen between Hope and Christian. Christian even more reminded him of Christine--fragile in some way. But he didn't try to cover his fragility. That, he guessed, was where Hope came in. In some way, it bothered him--it struck him as symbiotic bordering on parasitic...but then, who was the parasite?
        "They're only children, Hunter. And how the hell did you end up having jackshit to do with 'Tine?"
        "Hunh? Oh...Thoth arranged it. She...she had to forgive me. We're...still working on it. But Hecate's appearance sort of got in the middle of that. Christine gave me the Gate and told me to go home. But I...listen, I don't know how much time there is."
        Belinda's eyes shut. She was shaking. "Jesus...we gotta get outta here before she comes." Belinda whispered, going over to Christian and Hope, gathering them in her arms. She hugged them tightly. Her hands were shaking.
        "Let's go." Mark said, coming over to them. He glanced over at the entrance to the cave. I'm doing my best, Christine...you just do the same. *** *** *** ***         Christine roared, hurling herself straight at the faerie, ignoring the fact that she was half-blinded by the blood in her eyes, ignoring her pain, ignoring her weariness. This was her last stand, her last pass, and she knew it. If she didn't stop Hecate now... She had been off to the side, and now she attacked, sais in hand, right up to the fey, then she felt something in her shift. The feather glowed bright as a supernova and Christine pressed, on ignoring it. The protection from magic was the Feather's job just then. This had been going on for too long and she was tired, so tired. But she just had to...
        The sais slid into Hecate's body and Christine slammed her hands together. She could feel the jarring of the sais hitting each other through Hecate's body--one sai through her chest, one through her back, the sais banging together within the fey. Hecate screamed and there was a bright, blinding flash that sent Christine flying backwards.
        Hecate howled. "The Twilight! The Twilight will now come! Yea, the Seven will come!" She had come seeking revenge, but now she knew that she had come for a different purpose--she had come to begin the fulfillment of her own prophecy--she never had a chance of harming those children, because what they were was greater than her revenge could be. She was a pawn as much as they were, though. As much as all of them. She began to laugh, and the sound frightened Christine.
        "Ahh, little angel," Hecate said, smiling with her mouth full of blood, staining her teeth. "You've no idea, do you? No idea at all...you've killed me, and my death was one that not even the Gods could do...little angel, little Destroyer...yea, the Seven shall come! My revenge will be sweet, *Lord* Oberon, even if I won't see it!" she laughed. She coughed and the blood flew from her mouth like spittle, her wild grey eyes settling on Christine suddenly, one iron silver sai still sticking from the center of her chest, the other from the center of her back. "But I can *not* let this go...I can not kill you...but...I can not...allow this to go unpunished...can I, little Angel?"
        Christine began to back away. She knew Hecate was dying. She had know it when the sais had slid into the fey's chest and when the Feather of Ma'at had glowed like a supernova when she had slid in the sais.
        "Annassa kato...! " Hecate began, her eyes flaming, her grey hair flying around her face and the blood streaming from her colorless lips.
        The Greek chant frightened her. She translated instantly but still felt fear. It was an invocation of some sort. To Artemis, to the moon, to an *aspect* of Hecatae. The goddess of the Moon. There was much that she had learned from Thoth, about the fey. Christine was afraid. Hecate's magicks were such that all of the fey feared her, even Thoth, whom the fey also feared. She heard, though was unable to move, Hecate's invocation to Artemis to invest her powers within the silver as she would in the iron. And then...and then, not believing what her own eyes were telling her, saw a blinding light, a flash from the moon as Hecate wrapped her hands around the sais, one in front and one behind, ripping them from her chest. The winds, the whirlwind, around Hecate sent Christine flying back, into the ground, and she watched the death-invocation of the Hecatae. For she was the Hecatae now, the three in one, and she spoke in the three voices of Artemis Demeter Hecate, in a triple voice that Christine could not understand and feared. The sais shone in the moonlight, the silver gleaming and the iron shining. And the blood in the moonlight was dark, glittering red on the sais.
        "Ia! Ia! Ia!" the Hecatae yelled, throwing up her arms, the sais in the moonlight, blinding light from the moon and roots from the earth circling the dying fay as she spun in the opposite direction. She threw the sais at Christine, the sais landing at her feet. "Ia! Ia! Ia!" Hecate suddenly yelled, the voices of the Hecatae gone and now simply one. Then her eyes rolled back and she, silent as death, fell to the ground and the light blinked out of existence as if it had never existed. *** *** *** ***         "Christine!"
        She looked up suddenly, her face still bloodlessly pale, her hands still shaking. "M-*Mark*?" She stared at him dumbly. Then: "What the *hell* are you *doing* here?"
        "Getting your family as far away from here as I could." he said flatly.
        She looked at him in shock. "How did you...?"
        He tapped the Phoenix Gate. "I admit I don't know how it works, exactly. I just thought about your sister, since I know what she looks like, and thought about your nephew and granddaughter. And *boom*, I'm there."
        "Be-Belinda must've been...been fit to be t-tied." she whispered.
        "That's putting it rather mildly." he said, feeling the bruise over his ribs that was just beginning to form. He hadn't even thought about the fact that Christine's sister would likely still want his head on a stick. He had moved them to one week in the future; knowing that this way, they would catch up to them naturally without having to use the damned thing again--he had never been comfortable with magic. He still remembered the way that Christine's granddaughter, Hope, had stared at him with wide eyes, a little afraid, but still fascinated by the strange man who had appeared out of no where, talking about her grandmother. Then he had left to return to find Christine.
        "Are you all right?"
        "No." Christine said shakily. "I...I killed her. I'm not dead. I *killed* her. I *killed* Hecate...the Hecatae." she whispered, her voice full of stunned disbelief. "She is dead, isn't she? Isn't she?" she said, her voice taking on a strange desperation. Mark walked over to the fey and bent down, carefully, and put two fingers over the pulse point on Hecate's neck.
        "Yeah. She's not breathing. She doesn't have a...holy God!" he suddenly swore. Hecate's body disintegrated into dust, scattering in the wind, gone when he lifted his fingers from her neck. He scrambled backwards, startled.
        Christine stood then, shaking. Still disoriented, she bent down to pick up her sais.
        "No, Christine, don't!" he yelled suddenly.
        Her hands had already closed over the sais and there was a flash of silver light. Christine jerked and gasped, then, sais still clamped in her hands, fell to the ground. *** *** *** ***         She dreamed. In the darkness of her death-sleep, she heard a voice. A whispered song, almost there but so faint she couldn't be sure if it was real or just her imagination. But the voice grew louder, slowly...

        "Che gelinda manina,
        Se la lasci riscaldar.
        Cercar che giova?
        Al buio non si trova.
        Ma per fortuna è una notte di luna,
        e qui la luna l'abbiamo vicina.
        Aspetti, signorina,
        le dirò con due parole
        chi son, che faccio e come vivo.
        Vuole? "
        [Your tiny hand is frozen,
        Here, let me warm it.
        You're still looking?
        We won't find it in the dark.
        But luckily, there's a moonlit night
        And up here the moonlight rests.
        Wait a bit, miss.
        And I'll tell you with two words
        Who I am, what I do and how I live.
        You want to hear it?]

Christine looked around, her eyes wide. "E-Erik?"
There was no answer, just the voice singing again, slowly growing closer and closer. She pushed her hair out of her face, straining to discover where in the darkness the sound was coming from. She began to walk, following the voice. She walked, out of the darkness and into an old looking city. She could hear his voice, coming from a building. She quickly went inside and up the stairs, following the voice, almost powerless not to.

        "Chi son? Sono un poeta.
        Che cosa faccio? Scrivo.
        E come vivo? Vivo!
        In povertà mia lieta
        scialo da gran signore
        rime ed inni d'amore.
        Per sogni, per chimere
        e per castelli in aria
        l'anima ho milionaria"
        [Who am I? I'm a poet.
        And what do I do? I write.
        And how do I live? I live!...
        In my cheerful poverty,
        I'm a grand lord,
        In poems and rhymes of love.
        In dreams, in chimeras,
        And in castles in the air,
        My soul is a millionaire]

She came into the frigid attic then. Erik looked at her and smiled, holding out his hand and smiling at her.

        "Talor dal mio forziere
        ruban tutti i gioielli
        due ladri: gli occhi belli.
        V'entrar con voi pur ora
        ed i miei sogni usati
        e i bei sogni miei
        tosto son dileguati.
        Ma il furto non m'accora,
        poichè vi ha preso stanza
        la dolce speranza!
        Or che mi conoscete,
        parlate voi. Chi siete?
        Via piaccia dir?"
        [But my grand fortune
        Has been stolen
        By two thieves: beautiful eyes.
        They came in with you just now
        And my sweetest dreams
        And my beautiful dreams
        Have been stolen away.
        But this theft doesn't bother me
        Because it's been replaced by
        Sweet hope!
        Now that you know me,
        You speak. Who are you?
        Won't you tell me of yourself?]

"Sì. Mi chiamano Mimì. Ma il mio nome è...Lucia. [Yes. They call me Mimì. But my name is...Lucia.]" she sang quietly, no more able not to sing back than she had been the first time she had met him. "La storia mia è breve... [My story is a short one..]" she sang, walking over to him. She felt the rustle of skirts, and briefly looked down to see that she was dressed in early 1800's dress, but not surprised by that. She was Mimì, after all...and he was Rodolfo...
"Ma...quando ciel è sgelo, il primo sole è mio! Il primo sole del'aprile è mio! Il primo sole è mio..."

*** *** *** ***         "Christine...please, *please*, wake up...*please*!" Mark said, shaking her. Nothing.
        He felt a leaden hand on his shoulder. He looked up and gasped. "What in the...?"
        Thoth cocked his head. "You know who I am, I gather?"
        Mark swallowed. "T-Thoth."
        The bird-headed god nodded. Mark tried to resume normal bodily functions, like *breathing*. There was something about this Thoth...he was by no means frightened of the fey, but...but...
        "C-can you help her?"
        Thoth shook his head and took Christine's hand. "Not directly...I can not break Hecate's spell. Christine must break it herself."
        "What is it?"
        "A sleep spell. Since Hecate knew she could not...would not kill Christine, she had to find another way to punish her."
        "Why wouldn't she kill...?" he began. Christine had been terrified of Hecate killing her, and absolutely certain that that would be the end result. Was Christine that wrong about her abilities? He highly doubted *that*, after seeing the bit that he had seen.
        Thoth simply continued to speak. "So Christine will sleep. Until she manages to rouse herself. And she must want to. But...but the dreams she will have now that she slumbers...she will not want to wake." Thoth said sorrowfully.
        "You mean she'll...?"
        "Never awaken again. Unless she wishes to. I can not break the spell." Thoth shook his head. "She must." *** *** *** ***         She stopped singing when the aria ended. She bit her lip. Jesus, it had been so long...this was a dream, wasn't it?
        He hugged her tightly, her head against his chest. Then let her go, and slowly lit a match in the darkened room, then lit the candle that was clutched in her hands. She had no idea where it had come from, but oh, well. She was Mimì, after all, and she had come to Rodolfo to...to get him to light her candle. She was a...an opera singe...no, no, I'm a seamstress. I sew silks and satins, and for myself, I embroider flowers...and I came her to get a light for my candle, and then I dropped my key. And then...
       "No, Christine." a voice said gently. A voice *spoke*. There was no music in the voice, no music behind it.
        "Chi sei?" she sang, whirling to see the strange man. "Mi chiamano Mimì."
        "Christine." The strange man said...Mark?...said firmly. The name had come to her. But there was no...was this Marcello? One of Rodolfo's roommates? Yes, it must be...but he was supposed to be at the Café Momus, Rodolfo had said. Why was he...? "You'll lose yourself here, if you don't watch it. This place isn't real, no matter how much it feels like it is. He's not Rodolfo and you're not Mimì. You're Christine. *Christine*."
        The man was familiar... so familiar...and the name "Christine", somehow felt... "Ye...yes..." she said shakily, trying to clear her head. She was not Mimì...she was... "I'm Christine! Christine...Daaé..." *** *** *** ***         "So there's nothing we can do? Nothing?" Mark said, feeling desperate. "Come on, there must be *something*!"
        Thoth frowned. "She is an empath. If you try to reach her--let her know that you want her to return--she may be able to. I trained her well...part of her must know that what is happening is not real. She may just need impetus to fight. Look." Thoth said, pointing to Christine. She had frowned suddenly, and murmured aloud.
        "Ye...yes...I'm...Christine! Christine...Daaé..."
        Mark frowned. "Daaé? That's the name of the character from Phantom of the Opera."
        "Yes. She's fighting it. For a moment, she almost...but then she got swallowed up. But she must wake up soon--the longer the spell lasts, the harder it is to defeat because that world becomes more real than this one."
        "Christine..." Mark said, picking up her hand. "Come on. You have to wake up. You're too damned bitchy to go down like this!" *** *** *** ***         "I've heard, him, Raoul!" she said, smiling. "The Angel of Music! I have heard him for real! Father sent him to me!"
        "Christine...this is ludicrous!" Mar...Raoul said, taking her hand. "The Angel of Music isn't real!"
        "Yes, he is, and I have heard him!"
        "Christine, this is all a dream! You must wake up!"
        "I won't listen to you any more! I must do as the Angel tells me. You must leave!" she said, standing up and tilting her chin.
        "Christine, listen to me! This is all a..." She pushed him out of the door and slammed it. Her eyes widened.
        "The Angel!" she whispered. She could here him singing to her... Enraptured, she went to the mirror, where he sang to her. She walked to the mirror and through it when it opened for her...
        Raoul burst into the room and ran after her, through the mirror before it closed. "Christine!"
        Where had she gone? Where?
        "I will lead you."
        "Nadir." Raoul said, seeing the bird-headed man. He followed. *** *** *** ***         Christine listened, enraptured, to the Angel. She could listen to him forever. "Erik..."
        "We will sing." he said, lifting her to her feet and taking her hand in his. "From Carmen, I believe...Michaela's aria from act three. Begin."
        She obeyed implicitly. "J'ai dit que ri..."
        "Christine!"
        The Angel whirled furious. "Who dares to...you! Insolent fool, you dare!"
        "Christine! Christine for the love of God, wake up!" Raoul screamed.
        She looked at him blankly. "Raoul...how did you?"
        "I'm not Raoul! That's not the Phantom, and you're not Christine Daaé! Your name is Christine Maza! Wake up!" *** *** *** ***         Christine stirred again, mumbling under her breath.
        "She's fighting it." Thoth whispered. "I knew she was a strong one...she won't go down easily. She's broken harder spells before."
        Mark looked at him and frowned. "What?"
        "The Puck had put a spell on her once...untrained though she was, she broke it. Her mind...her *will*...is stronger stuff than one would guess." The fey fixed his gaze on Mark. "Eventually, she would have broken free of your hold on her, all those years ago.
        "Be thankful you let her go, Mark Adams. She is stronger than any of the programming put into her, she had to be...though it'll always be a hard fight for her. And as for you...had she broken free on her own when you had taken control of her...I daresay you'd have ended up dead in a most unpleasant and painful manner.."
        "I know. Believe me, I know... Is it her sais?" he suddenly asked. "She fell into this when she touched them. Maybe..."
        "If you touch the sai you will fall into the same spell. While you are strong of will, little mortal, you would never be able to waken from it. And I can not touch them. There is both iron and the moon-metal within it. Those sais are deadly to me and my kind. Especially now, enhanced by the death magic of the Hecatae." Thoth made a strange sound. "Those simple sais are the most deadly of weapons, now...and if Christine wakes and breaks the spell, the magicks infused in them will be her at her command."
        Mark suddenly felt very cold. *** *** *** ***         "...Up! Open the door up so we can hear him scream!" Mark yelled, sneering at Christine.
        "What do you want? I don't know anything! Must I lie?" Christine said, glaring at Ma...Scarpia. The Baron Scarpia, the chief of police. And she was Chr...Floria. Floria Tosca! And the man screaming was Eri...Mario! Her lover, Mario Cavaradossi!
        "I want the truth!" Scarpia roared in her face.
        "I defy you!" Mario yelled in the face of the torture that Scarpia had ordered.
        "Harder! Harder!"
        "I defy you!"
        "What do you want from me?" Tosca said, breathing hard, feeling the satin of her gown tight against her.
        "The truth!" he roared.
        "I don't know where Angelotti is!"
        "Angelotti? Bah!" Scarpia yelled. "Wake up, you fool! This is no opera! Stop playing the diva!"
        "What are...for the love of God, stop torturing him!" she yelled. "I'll beg at your feet if I must!"
        "The truth!" he roared.
        "I don't know what..."
        "Christine!"
        "I'm not Christine...my name is Floria! Floria Tosca!"
        "You lie!"
        "I do not! Please, stop torturing him! I'll tell you where Angelotti is!"
        "I don't care about Angelotti! I want the truth, or I'll have Erik killed!"
        "Erik...but that's Mario..."
        "No, it's not! He's Erik, I'm Mark, and you're Christine! And I won't stop this until you end it with the truth! You know what I want!"
        "Do you want money? I'll pay you, whatever price you ask, but stop this insanity! I'm not...I'm Floria...But, but..."
        "The truth! If you want this to end, you have to wake up! Tell the truth! Who are you?!!?"
        "I'm...I'm...Chri..."
        "I defy you!" Erik yelled again. "Floria, tell him nothing!"
        "The truth! Who are you!" Scar...Mar...S...Mark screamed, grabbing her in his arms.
        Her eyes widened her and jaw dropped. "I'm...I'm..."
        "I defy you!"
        "Your name!"
        "I...I'm...I'm..." *** *** *** ***         "...Christine...!" she mumbled in her sleep. For a split second her eyes flew open, then slammed shut again.
        "Christine! Christine! Wake up!" Mark yelled, shaking her. God, she had been so close...she had to wake up, she had to! "Christine, please, wake...!" *** *** *** ***         "...UP!" Erika Belinda said, grinning her seven-year-old head off. "Wake up, Mommy!"
        Christine laughed and opened her eyes. "I am awake, silly!" she said, opening her arms to her daughter.
        "Daddy! Daddy! Wake up, too!" the girl said, hurling herself at her father.
        Erik groaned exaggeratedly and rubbed his eyes. "You're up awfully early..."
        "Don't you know what today is?" the girl said excitedly, bouncing on her father.
        "Of course I do. It's Friday."
        "And...?"
        "Oh, Erik, don't tease the girl!" Christine said, chuckling.
        Erik grinned and got out of bed, tossing his daughter into the air. "How could I forget today? Hmm? Happy birthday!"
        "OK, OK, enough, guys...sweetie, you go get dressed, OK?"
        "Yes, Mommy." the girl said, grinning. Erik put her down and the girl started to scamper out.
        "Oh, Belinda!" Christine said, calling her daughter. The girl turned. Christine dug under the bed and pulled out a box. "Here...you can open this now."
        The child's eyes lit up. "Yay!" she said, and got to work. "Oh, Mommy, it's so pretty!" she said, holding up the dress.
        "You can wear it today. After breakfast, OK?"
        Erika Belinda's face lit up. "Can we have chocolate chip Belgian waffles for breakfast? *Puh-leeeeeeeease*? Daddy, please? Will you make them for me?"
        Erik snorted exaggeratedly. "She wants me to make her waffles. What, just because it's your birthday, you think you'll get everything?" he said, swinging her up on his shoulders. His daughter clutched his hair and giggled.
        "Thank you, Daddy!"
        Christine watched them go, a smile on her face. She sighed and stretched. She could hear Erik singing to the girl as he took her to the kitchen. Her smile widened. That was Belinda's favorite song. La donna è mobile. She supposed part of why the girl liked it so much was because her father tossed her in the air when he sang parts of it. She could hear him doing the runs at the end of the aria, and Belinda giggling as he shook and tossed her in time.
        She got up and stretched. She took a quick glimpse out of the window and clamped down on a scream.
        *Him*...it was the Hunter!
        She began shaking, then closed her eyes and shook her head. No...there was no one there when she opened her eyes. It was all just her imagination. She sat down on her bed and hugged herself tightly. It had been almost eight years, now, and she still was afraid of him...but he would never bother her again. He was gone.
        She squared her shoulders and went to the bathroom to splash some water on her face. This was her daughter's big day, and she was not going to let memories of some bastard get in the way. *** *** *** ***         "Why?"
        "Why what?"
        "Why...why are you even here? Why...why do you care so much about this woman? What made you so interested her to begin with?" Mark finally said, staring at Thoth.
        Thoth was silent for a long moment. "Fate." he said softly.
        "Fate?" Mark said, frowning. "Fate? We make our own fate."
        "You believe so, little mortal?" he said gently.
        "It's true."
        Thoth said nothing. "Know this, if nothing else. Some things happen for a reason. Around certain people, the world realigns itself. These people are not born but made."
        "Are you...are you saying that...is Christine...I mean...is she...?"
        Thoth said nothing to the rest of Mark's unasked question. "There are more things in Heaven and Earth than you could ever understand, Mark Adams. Things such as even I do not understand. I only know how events must be aligned."
        "What are you saying?"
        "I am here because I must be. I involved myself in her life because I had to. I am the Watcher; I am the Scribe."
        "Of who?" Mark asked.
        Thoth did not answer. *** *** *** ***         "Your face is all scratchy, Daddy!" Belinda said, giggling.
        Erik chuckled. "Well, I haven't shaved yet." he said, rubbing his chin.
        "Can I watch you shave?"
        "After breakfast."
        "Yay!"
        "I wonder where your mother is..." Erik began.
        Christine chuckled. "I'm here. I just had to throw on a robe. And how's my birthday girl?"
        "Hungry. Daddy, are those almost done yet?"
        Erik rolled his eyes. "Well, you certainly do take after your aunt, kiddo."
        "Ha, ha." Christine said, swatting him with a dishrag.
        "Oh, deny it." Erik said, chuckling.
        "Dad-dddddyy!"
        "They're coming, they're coming! Hold your horses!" Erik said, sticking his tongue out at his only child.
        Belinda giggled. "Daddy's silly!"
        "What do you want to drink, Linny?" Christine asked, opening the door to the refrigerator.
        "Root beer!"
        "Ugh." Christine said, making a face. "Birthday or no, you know the rules. No soda for breakfast."
        "But Mommy..."
        "Belinda, n...oh!" Christine said with a gasp. She went pale. No...no, it couldn't be him, not...
        "'Tine? Christine! Christine, hon, what's wrong?" Erik said, rushing over to where Christine was staring out the window.
        "I thought...for a minute I..." she began, then shook her head. "It was nothing."
        "What did you see?"
        She cast a glance at Belinda, then whispered, "I know this is insane, but for a second, I thought I saw the Hunter out there!"
        Erik went on guard. "What?"
        "It wasn't, though. It couldn't have been." she whispered, her eyes still on her daughter. "It was my imagination, I'm sure of it."
        "All right." Erik said, giving his wife a hug. "But if you think you see him again..."
        A dangerous look shone in Christine's eyes for a moment. "If I see him again...well, he won't be around for long." she said, her jaw tightening. *** *** *** ***         "So what are we doing today?" Erik said, watching with amusement as Belinda stuffed her face on chocolate chip Belgian waffles. She had covered the thing with so much butter that Christine had felt her arteries clogging just *looking* at it...and then Belinda had slathered it with sweetened strawberries and powdered sugar.
        Belinda looked at her mother with interest. "Yeah, what are we doing? We are going to the zoo, right?"
        Christine nodded. "Yup. First, after we're all dressed, your father and I have rehearsal today. It's for a few hours...do you want to come or to go stay at the Eyrie until it's over?"
        Belinda frowned, thinking. "You're doing Tosca, right, Mommy?"
        "Yup."
        "What act?"
        Erik laughed. "A critic already, are we?"
        "Well, the first act is *boring*! Except for the "Te deum" with the canons, and that's at the end!"
        "Well, you're in luck, because we're running through the second act today."
        "Cool!" Belinda said, clapping. "I'm coming with you and Daddy!"
        "OK. While we're there, during our break, we'll go out for lunch, and hit the zoo as soon as we're done. After the zoo, we'll head over to the Eyrie to see how much loot you rack up from the Xanatoses."
        "And can we go to Sparta, too?"
        "Greedy little thing, aren't you?" Erik said with a chuckle. "Sure."
        A grin lit the little girl's face. *** *** *** ***         "Isn't there anything we can do? Anything?" Mark asked, looking up at Thoth.
        The fey sighed. "I will search and see what I can find...but I don't know if anything will turn up. All I can say is to wait...and to hope." Thoth looked at him. "I can not stay for long. I came simply to verify Hecate's death. She is dead." Thoth said, looking away. Strange, this feeling. Hecate, the goddess of the crossroads, was dead. And how fitting that she die when she did, her death itself being a crossroads. Hecate was dead, and Thoth would miss her in a strange way. He was alone now in many ways. Very alone. He and Hecate had been enemies for millennium--she the goddess of obfuscation, he the god of clarity. One was a contrast to the other. His contrast was gone now. But he could not blame Christine for this--she had only been doing her duty. Her...fate.
        It has begun, Thoth. he heard the three voices say. Truly, it has begun.
        He looked at Mark. Almost. "Adams...I must leave. I will see if there is a spell somewhere. But she must not be left. She must be guarded. Will you watch over her?"
        The man nodded, eyes wide. There was something about the way that the fey said that send chills down his spine.
        "She must be watched *constantly*. There are many who would try to kill her, now...who would have the power to do so. You would be unable to protect her from them, but you would be able to reach me. And I must warn you that if you agree to..."
        "I already said that I wo..."
        "But you should know that..."
        "I agreed to do it and I *meant* it!"
        "Very well." Thoth said suddenly, glaring at the man. He flapped his wings and was airborne. Light flooded out of his wings, blinding Mark and settling on him.
        "What the....!"
        "I do not know how long Hecate's spell will last. It could be only moments...it could be millennium. You will be here until she wakes. You are bound to her, Adams. There is nothing in your world now that is not her. You will not need to eat, or to sleep, or to drink, until she has wakened. You will not leave her side until she has awakened. Be it ten minutes or ten centuries."
        Thoth flew off suddenly, leaving Mark, wide-eyed and slack jawed, staring into the empty sky. *** *** *** ***         "My little princess!" Erik said, sweeping his daughter up into his arms. "You look gorgeous!"
        Belinda giggled. "Thank you, Daddy."
        "You're absolutely going to take everyone's breath away at the Met." he said, giving her a hug. He started to toss her in the air, but Christine shot him a look.
        "Don't you dare toss that child into the air!" she said, hands on her hips. "Do you know how long it took me to get her hair done? I won't have you messing it up before we even leave the house!"
        Erik rolled his eyes with a smile and Belinda giggled. He put her down and knelt by her side. From his pocket, he pulled out a small box.
        "Here, honey. This was my great-aunt Therese's." he said, handing her the small box. Belinda's eyes widened and she opened the box carefully.
        "Oooohh...thank you, Daddy!" she said, touching the gold necklace hesitantly.
        Christine frowned slightly. "Erik, do you think she's...?"
        He nodded. "She'll take good care of it...won't you, Lin?"
        The girl nodded, her eyes wide as saucers. "Yes, Daddy." Erik fastened the necklace around his daughter's neck, and she fingered it delicately. Then she threw her arms around her father's neck. "Thank you!"
        Erik hugged her back. Christine smiled, then glanced at her watch. "C'mon guys, we have to go or we'll be late." *** *** *** ***         "Oh, isn't she a little angel?!!?"
        Belinda was basking in all of the attention she got. Christine and Erik smiled at each other--this was her day and the girl was obviously loving it. Half the women in the chorus were cooing over her. Belinda primly took a seat in the middle of the house, after extricating herself from the chorus, and then from the conductor, who had started fussing over her when she had called him "Maestro." Erik and Christine had snorted over that one, seeing the girl immediately ingratiate herself with the crusty old European.
        In the middle of the rehearsal, Christine frowned at the baritone singing Scarpia. All of a sudden, she suddenly had the weird feeling that she had done this before. He yelled, "Più forte, più forte!"--Harder, harder!--and she heard Erik scream out "Ti sgelo!"--I defy you!--and the weird feeling intensified--for a split second, the baritone had looked like the Hunter! Ahh, well, she thought, shrugging it off. She should be used to weird things by now...and here was her entrance.
        "Ah, non so nulla, ah! Dovrei mentir?" [Ah, I know nothing! Must I lie?] *** *** *** ***         Mark watched Christine sleep. He sighed. She slept peacefully, a faint smile on her face. She looked so relaxed...
        He sighed again, shaking his head.
        And he watched. *** *** *** ***         Christine had the strangest feeling all day of being watched. It was slowly driving her insane, but she wasn't going to show it. God, she thought, what's wrong with me? The Hunter's gone. He's not here. He's not bothering me! Am I finally losing my mind?
        "Christine?"
        "Hunh...?" Christine said, suddenly looking up. She looked over at Erik, who was cradling Belinda.
        "Are you OK?" Erik asked, frowning slightly. "You were staring off into space and frowning."
        "Oh?" she said, plastering on a smile. "I'm sorry. I was just...distracted." she said, smiling again. She looked over at Belinda, who was yawning. "Honey, do you feel up to heading over to the Eyrie now, or do you want to take a nap first?"
        The little girl rubbed her eyes. "I wanna go visit Uncle Owen."
        Erik made a face. Belinda couldn't see it, but Christine did. She shot Erik a disapproving look. He just shrugged.
        "What?"
        Christine glared at him. "You know, you could at least *try*..."
        "I'll be civil, you know that. I'm *always* civil."
        She shook her head. "I swear the two of y..."
        "Christine? Christine, what's wrong?" Erik said, his eyes narrowing. Christine had cut off mid-sentence and was staring into space.
        "Stay here!" she hissed, and took off on a run. The Hunter...
        She ran to where she had seen him. Dammit, where was...there. She took off after him, her chest heaving. Damn it, there were too many people... "Where are you? Goddamn it, you coward! Stop hiding!" she screamed. People started edging away. Realizing that she was drawing a crowd and frustrated because he had vanished, Christine sighed and went back to her family. *** *** *** ***         "Christine...Christine, can you hear me? Can part of you hear me?" Mark said, feeling helpless. Thoth had gone, so it was just him and Christine. The sun was going to rise soon. It was strange...he wasn't tired. He wasn't hungry. He wasn't thirsty.
        What in the hell had Thoth done to him? *** *** *** ***         "Daddy, sing me a song." Belinda said, smiling up at her father. She looked ready to fall asleep at any minute, but was fighting it tooth and nail.
        "Honey, it's late." he said, glancing over at Christine, who was putting the girl's laundry in her hamper. "It's nearly ten o'clock."
        "Please, Daddy. *Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease*!"
        Christine hid a smile and began mentally counting down when she saw the girl begin to give Erik her Bambi-eyes. Five...four...three...two...one...
        "All right, all right!" he said, shaking her head. He glanced at Christine and smiled, holding out his hand. She gave him a puzzled smiled and went over to her daughter's bed and the chair by the bed where her husband was sitting. She sat down on the floor by his feet when he indicated her to.
        "OK, Belinda. One song, and I choose it." he said. The girl nodded, smiling a huge grin and trying to hide how sleepy she was.

        "Recondita armonia
        di belleze diverse!"
        [What strange harmony
        of these diverse beauties!]

Christine chuckled. Erik winked at her and then at their daughter.

        "È bruna Floria
        L'ardente amante mia,
        [Floria is dark,
        She, my ardent love;]

He sang that line to Christine, smiling at her and gently touching her cheek.

        "E te, beltade ignota,
        Cinta di chiome biande
        Tu azzuro hai l'occhio;
        [And you, mysterious beauty,
        Long flowing blond tresses
        And azure blue for eyes;]

He winked at Belinda, ruffling the girl's hair to make her giggle.

        "Tosca ha l'occhio nero!
        L'arte nel suo mistero
        Le diverse belleze insiem confonde
        Ma nel ritrar costei,
        Il mio solo pensiero,
        Ah! il mio solo pensier, sei tu,
        Tosca, sei tu!"
        [Tosca has jet black ones!
        Art, with its mystery,
        Has combined these diverse beauties
        But although I paint one,
        My only thought,
        Ah, my only thought is of you,
        Tosca, is of you!]

He was looking at Christine by the time he was done, taking her hand. She rested her head against his knee, looking at their daughter. Belinda had drifted off to sleep before Erik had finished. Christine got up slowly and Erik followed. Quietly, they tiptoed from the girl's bedroom and turned out the light as they left.

*** *** *** ***         Christine sighed and sat down, smiling as she rubbed her tired feet. "I've never seen her look happier." she said, unbraiding her hair from the ponytail she had put it in earlier. Erik looked at her and smiled.
        "She was all but glowing all day. She's out like a light, though."
        "She was exhausted. It was quite a day for her. Can you hand me my hair brush?"
        "Sure." he said, picking it up. He walked over to her and instead of handing it to her, began brushing her hair. She smiled and relaxed.
        "I'm proud of you, Erik. You and Owen were actually...relatively...civil to one another today. Who knows, maybe one day, the two of you will actually *like* each other. ...Then again, maybe not." she said, rolling her eyes at the look on Erik's face.
        "I tried. So did he. We were both on our best behaviour." Erik said, still making a face.
        "Well, I really appreciate it."
        "Hey, it was Lin's birthday."
        Christine chuckled. "She's such a Daddy's girl. And she's got you completely wrapped around her little finger."
        "I know, I know. I try to be firm with that kid, but she flashes those big blues up at me and..."
        "Recondita armonia?" she said.
        "It seemed to fit." he said, chuckling.
        "It did." she said. Erik put the brush down and began rubbing her shoulders. She smiled and looked at him, her eyes saying everything. "It did." *** *** *** ***         He watched. *** *** *** *** Saturday:

        She woke up slowly the next morning, stretching. The sunrise was pretty--amazingly so. She didn't think she had ever seen colors quite that vibrant in her life. She wrapped a sheet around herself as she quietly got out of bed, not wanting to wake Erik up--her internal clock was still set around the rise and fall of the sun, only now in a reverse order--she usually woke up when the sun rose and fell asleep not long after sunset. Erik, far from not being a morning person, usually didn't wake up until 7 or 7:30, and that was hours away. Although, she thought with a faint smile, it was likely he'd sleep later this morning, after last night...
        She chuckled faintly to herself then went to take a shower. Life seemed pretty good, she thought. Settled. Stable. She liked that. A life like hers made it easy for her past to seem like it was just a phantom memory--not real, just a haze in her mind that it was easy to not think about. Why think about nightmares when you life was so...good?
        And it was good, she had to admit. Everything was so stable...she had a husband, a child, a career, and a future--hell, she was even starting to think about maybe having another child, everything was so stable. Her life was almost like a dream...
        She frowned suddenly. "Almost." she whispered aloud in the spray of the shower. She *had* seen the Hunter. She was sure of it. She shivered in spite of herself, wrapping her arms around her. She closed her eyes, trying to head off the shaking she felt coming on. It was of no use. She simply couldn't forget--ever--what he had done to her. One instant, she had been in the opera house, dressing for the third act during intermission of "Don Giovanni" and running over in her mind how she was going to act Donna Anna's next recitative, when she had felt *someone* in her room. After that, it was all a nightmare. It had been so easy back then to let her past fade away into a nightmare forgotten in the light of day; but no, he brought them all back by using an aspect of the subconscious programming she'd been given in the labs. Being reduced to nothing more than a weapon, forced to act against her will...having her own will subverted and unable to stop herself from doing things she didn't want to do--and all because of *him*--it was a mental invasion very much on par with rape, and she knew full well that she had gone through some of the same emotional traumas--Elisa had told her that, even when she was in denial of all of it, Elisa sometimes all but screaming at Christine to talk to someone--*anyone*--about it. But how could she? So she'd dealt with all of it as best as she could. She still hurt, sometimes, remembering how helpless she had felt and how *angry*, at him and at herself for not having been able to stop him. She had been in denial for a long time, trying to pretend it hadn't happened and ignoring it, pretending that she was just *fine* and why was everyone making such a big fuss? Then it all came slamming back in on her after Belinda had been born--that was when she had time to slow down and everything hit her, and she was messed up anyway because her hormones were insane. She'd been a wreck. A complete and total wreck. But she'd eventually gotten better.
        It had been eight years, now. Eight years. But that didn't mean it was easier when the memories came back. It just meant that the memories came with less frequency. But they still came. And when they came, they came in waves, washing over her, making her feel the same helplessness and anger and shame all over again. Even when he had let her go, it had been at his will. He could have held her indefinitely if he had wanted--he'd only let her go because he had willed it. And he'd been able to get away with it--what could she do? She couldn't report him to the police, even though Elisa had wanted her to--how would they be able to explain *everything*--subconscious programming, spawning in cloning tanks, magic? It was far more likely she'd end up in the booby hatch. And she couldn't go after him herself. It had ended when he'd *wanted* it to end, and he had left untouched.
        She was glad it was so early in the morning. There was no one around to hear her crying. She hated him. She hated him more than...the only one she hated more was Rosenkrantz, and even then...she wondered. Rosenkrantz...she had been a child. He had been her 'father'. For better or worse, and had been far more of a father-figure than anyone else, even Owen. She had tried so hard to always please him, and when she failed, she'd felt it was her fault because if she had just tried a little harder, if she had just done everything a little better, then he wouldn't have hurt her.
        But the Hunter...he had come out of nowhere. He had hurt her for no reason other than his own motives and because he had *wanted* to. Or felt he had to. Whatever. He had hurt her far more than Rosenkrantz had ever been able to. Rosenkrantz had only been able to hurt her body and destroy her esteem--the Hunter had hurt her. Her own mind had always been safe. Always. Even at the worst beatings and tortures, she had always been able to retreat to her mind when things became too difficult. But the Hunter had taken that from her.
        And now he was back.
        And she was so frightened.
        And angry. Oh, God, was she angry.
        She suddenly snarled through the tears; through her fear. So he was back. She would kill him this time. If she killed him, the nightmares would stop. The terror would stop. The guilt and shame she felt for letting him hurt her would stop.
        If she killed him, it would all stop...right? Wouldn't it?
        Please?

*** *** *** ***         He wondered what she dreamed of. She was snarling in her sleep and before that, she had cried. In her sleep. Now she looked frightened, fragile, uncertain. What world was she in, he wondered--what did she see in her dreams? It was impossible to know, so he simply dried the tears on her face, frowning to himself. She dreamed and he watched, waiting, wondering when there would be a sign of some sort. She had dreamed for an entire day, now--twenty-four hours.
        Strange, how he knew this, and knew he had been by her side the entire time, but felt as if no time had passed. He was not hungry; he was not thirsty; he was not tired; he wasn't bored out of his skull. He would simply wait and watch. She would awaken. She would.
        She...had to. *** *** *** ***         "Christine? Are you all right?"
        "I-I'm fine, Erik." she yelled, swallowing thickly. He was up early. Quickly, she pulled herself together--she didn't want him to see her like this; this pathetic, sobbing wimp. She never wanted *anyone* to see her like this.
        She got out of the shower, hoping the heat from the shower would explain away her puffy and reddened eyes, her reddened face. She dried off quickly, shaking her head once or twice to clear it. This was her life. Not fear of the Hunter. Maybe she had seen him. But...well, she wouldn't worry until he did something. There was nothing she could do until then, anyway. She could only wait.
        She could only wait. *** *** *** ***         "Erik, you still can't act for shit." Christine said flatly.
       "Gee, thanks." he said just as flatly, glaring at her slightly before his face settled back into its normal impassive state.
        "Well, you can't." she said, hands on her hips. "For God's sake, Erik. You just stand there. You can't do that."
        "It's how I learned to sing!"
        "So what?" she snapped back. "That duet sucked. And you know it. Cavaradossi is supposed to be a fiery revolutionary. Not a lukewarm one. I can't carry the whole thing. It makes me look ridiculous!"
        He glared at her again, his eyes seeming to darken even though his face stayed just as frozen as ever.
        "I know what I'm talking about, Erik." she said, raising an eyebrow. "You act well with your voice. Just get your body to catch up, and you're golden."
        "You leave me to look after my acting." he finally said coldly.
        "It effects how I work, and I want to do my best! I have a reputation, too!" Christine threw up her hands. "Fine. *Fine*. I wash my hands of it." she said in annoyance, but not pushing it any further. She knew better. She and he both knew that she was the better actor and singer of the two. He was good--amazing, really, in his way. He had done solo recitals already that had gotten him far more critical acclaim than his work in any opera house--he had a definite stage presence and that came out when he was able to just stand there and sing, and his recordings had been called definitive because he *could* act so well with his voice. But the man had no facial expressions half the time and couldn't act for shit all of the time--and every single review of him said so. It irked at him because part of him *did* know he couldn't act--and part of him knew that she was so much better. He was only human and had the same problems and frailties as everyone else--he was jealous. She knew she had to tread lightly around it because it was easy for something like that to fester and come out in other ways. She thanked god for her empathy--she was always able to head off his jealousy and the way it could fester because of it. If she wasn't, she didn't doubt that their relationship would either have messily ended years ago or would soon come to such an end. Still, she felt like she was on a tightrope sometimes. But it could be worse--if him being, understandably, jealous of her was the main problem that ever popped up...
        "Let's just keep going." he finally said, his jaw clinched slightly.
        "No, let's not." she said. Time to disarm his mood. "You're pissed because I told you the truth. Well, I'm not going to sit here and lie. You've got potential. Just use it."
        "Christine, just drop it." he said.
        "Fine." she said, feeling her teeth clinch. She didn't feel like an argument right then, and this could quickly degenerate into one. Last time that had happened, he had yelled that it was impossible for him to compete with Little Miss Perfect and had stomped out, slamming the door--which he *never* did--behind him. It took a long time to rile up his anger, but when it did, it was explosive. So he'd slammed off and hadn't come back for several hours, scaring her silly. "You want to take it from the top of the second act?"
        "Yes." he said, his voice a monotone that would have put Owen to shame.
        "Fine. I'll give you five measures before your entrance."
        "Fine."
        She began playing the keyboard. She had the score memorized and simply played. A measure before his entrance, she stopped abruptly.
        "What is it now, Christine?"
        "Erik, I just want you to do well." she said, looking at him. "You know that."
        He sighed. "Christine, let's just keep going. We open tomorrow night."
        "I know that."
        "Then let's just finish running through this before we go in for the dress rehearsal."
        "All right." she said, sighing. Erik sighed himself after a moment.
        "I know, Christine. I know. It's just...it's hard sometimes, all right? I know I'm in your shadow. I know it. It hurts sometimes."
        She looked at her hands. She didn't really know what to say. She knew how he felt, but she still didn't know what to say. It was true, what he said. It had to hurt more because he was the one who had done so much to give her her start--putting his neck out when woman playing Donna Anna got sick and he managed to persuade the director to let Christine try it. He gave her a start and now he was riding her coattails--or he thought he was. It was partially true, but he was ignoring how well he did on his own.
        "So let's just keep going." he said, looking at the ceiling.
        "I'm sorry." she finally said.
        "It's not your fault you're better." he said. "So don't apologize for it."
        "I just want to help. You know that."
        "I know." His eyes were closed and he rubbed them. He felt like an ass. He was angry at himself. He hated feeling so jealous of her. It wasn't as if she was trying to be better than him. She simply was. He was good. Compared to her, he was not. That wasn't her fault. He supposed that what he *could* do was let her help him. She acted well. She did it all well. It wouldn't hurt to take a few pointers from her. Or to actually *try* when she did tell him something, instead of quietly fuming to himself and becoming obstinate. After all, she *did* have a point--he couldn't act for shit. And for her to say so that bluntly only proved that she'd gotten fed up with his blowing her advice off. "I know...so just tell me what to do, all right?" *** *** *** ***         Christine volunteered that day to go pick Belinda up from the Eyrie--she had a schedule that had started up *somehow* that she went over there on Saturday mornings and spent most of the day driving Alexander insane. Actually, he liked having her around, even though he'd never admit it--after all, he was eleven and wouldn't admit to liking having a seven year old following him around using her overactive imagination to get into all sorts of things. Today was Erik's day to pick her up, but he was working and on a roll, so she said that she would go instead. Besides, she needed to think.
        She hated driving in the city, so she took the subway. The subway was always an experience--it was one of those times when being an empath was hell. There were so many people. It was overwhelming and she tended to burn out quickly. But it wasn't far to the Eyrie by subway.
        She tried to stay within the special "bubble-world" that everyone in New York seemed to cultivate on the subway. Besides, she did have a lot on her mind. Erik. The fact that they were opening tomorrow night. She had the jitters as she always did. Oh, well. The subway suddenly seemed very crowded. There was someone standing directly in across from her. It was jarring for some reason and she couldn't place it. She looked up at him. And felt herself go pale.
        It was the Hunter. No mask, but she knew his face. She knew. He looked a lot older than she remembered--his wavy dark brown hair was touched with the beginnings of grey at the temples. But his eyes were the same--light brown that bordered on hazel.
        He was staring straight at her. She felt her hands shaking as they clinched the seat. Crowd. There was a crowd now; she couldn't do anything. She couldn't make him pay for what he had done. She couldn't scream; couldn't quiet the churning inside of her.
        She could only stare at him. Yes, he did look older, older than just the thirty she knew he had to be--he had only been twenty-two when he had kidnapped her. She hoped he'd had a hard life since then. He deserved it. He looked more solid than he had when he had been twenty-two--he'd probably still been growing. He was larger, more filled out, more menacing in her eyes.
        And he had been looking for her.
        He stared back at her. He had the same eyes, sharp and piercing, taking in everything quickly and assessing. There was intelligence behind his eyes, intelligence and determination. That was what had hurt a lot, all those years ago--he was so intelligent. He knew what he was doing. He'd known. He'd done it anyway.
        Her stop came. She jumped to her feet and hurried out of the cramped subway. She turned and saw him in the subway as he sped off, his eyes never leaving her. She saw him mouth the words, "Hello, Christine."
        She felt cold. *** *** *** ***         "Fox, I have a big favor to ask you."
        Fox looked up at Christine in surprise. "What is it?"
        "Can Belinda stay here for a while?" Christine asked, sitting down. She frowned, looking at her hands. "I...I want to make sure she's safe."
        "Christine, what is it?" the red-haired woman asked, frowning. "What's wrong?"
        Nervously, Christine raised her hand to her temple and began worrying her hair near the roots. God. She hadn't done that in years. Her hands were shaking as she did it.
        "I saw him again. The Hunter. On the subway coming over here."
        "Again? What do you mean by again?"
        The shaking got worse. "I saw him twice yesterday. Twice. I thought it was my imagination, but...but...oh, god, I saw him today. And it wasn't a fluke. It wasn't. He had been looking for me. I could tell. I could feel it." she said. "Oh, god. What if...I want my daughter safe. She will be here. I don't want to take her home. I don't want him to be able to get *near* her."
        "Oh my God, Christine. Have you told the gargoyles yet? Elisa?"
        She shook her head. "No. Not yet. I'm going to now. I though yesterday that maybe I was just cracking up. But not now."
        "She can stay here if it makes you feel better." Fox said, nodding. "David won't mind. I'll tell Owen. You, go tell the gargoyles. And...and warn Athens. They aren't safe, either. Why would he be after you again?"
        "I don't know. I...it feels like he thinks there's some sort of unfinished business between us or something."
        "You don't think he's going to try and *kill* you?"
        "No." She shook her head. "He would have tried already, not simply letting me get glimpses of him. Why would a Hunter warn his prey--unless that was part of the plan. No, it's something else. Something else..." she said, letting it trail off. Something hit her, an idea, and it frightened her. Yes. There was one thing that had been left unresolved. One thing. One big, glaring thing.
Now she shook. But only for a minute. Then she stopped, her spine straightened, her face seeming to freeze. She knew now.
        "Christine?"
        "Thanks, Fox. I know what he wants. I know. I don't know if he'll let anything stop him...I need Belinda here."
        "Christine, what is it? What do you think he wants?"
        "Doesn't matter." she said flatly. "Just something he needs to finish. I need to go now."
        "Are you going to warn the Gargoyles?" Fox asked, feeling frightened. There was something about the way Christine had so abruptly changed. It was as if a switch in her had been switched. The sudden coldness in the woman was almost unnatural.
        "He's not here for them. For any of them. He's here for me, Fox. Warn them if you want...but this doesn't concern any of them. This is between me and him. And both of us know it. He wants to do this on his own terms. I'll let him."
        "Christine...?" Fox began, eyes wide, her look one of shock.
        "This has been coming for years. We'll face each other this time. Like we started it. But I'm expecting him now.
        "I'm expecting it now."
        Fox was suddenly very afraid. *** *** *** ***         He watched. *** *** *** ***         She called Erik on the cell phone to let him know. She said she'd meet him at the opera house. He wanted her to come home--or at least stay with someone, but she said no. She also refused to tell him where she was going. She simply hung up and then flipped the phone off so no one could reach her. She could feel him watching her. She could. She could feel *him*. Where he was, she didn't know. Didn't care. She knew she was being watched and she knew it was by him.
        Let him watch. She went to Central Park and found a swing set. She sat and swung on one of the swings for a long time, staring out into space, her mind blank. She simply didn't want to think. So she swung. Her world suddenly felt palpably dark, confining, and she felt as if things were beginning to weigh in on her. The world felt dark and she felt as if she was in a dark state of mind.
        She had suspected that this was coming. That something like this had to happen. Things *had* been left unfinished. Yes, he had let her go. She knew why. Part of him thought holding her was wrong. And part of him was uncomfortable having her around. Both for what she represented and how she'd made him feel. She'd known. She had. He thought she should never had existed. He thought "her kind" were monsters. She was an abomination because she looked so human--never mind that she *was* now. Part of him was disgusted by what she represented.
        It only made it a hell of a lot worse that he was also attracted to her.
        She'd known.
        He'd remained...relatively...proper about all of it. She could be glad for that. He hadn't touched her. He knew better. He was only human, of course, the temptation had been there. He had been focused for so long on what he felt he'd had to do, that he'd excluded everything else out of his life. Suddenly, one of the "everything elses" had come up and he wasn't prepared to deal with it...wasn't able to deal with what he had wanted from her that was counter to what his focus told him. He couldn't lie to her about that, even though he could lie to himself. And he did that amazingly well.
        His morality saved her. He simply wouldn't go there, even though there were times when she *knew* he was closer than he admitted to himself. She'd been frightened of that. She hadn't known how deep his integrity ran against emotions, and naturally had erred on the side of expecting him to rape her. She'd gone on the defensive as best as she could have--there were times when he would let her speak her mind--wanting to know what the "monster" was thinking. She used her empathy to the best of her ability, choosing words she knew would sting the most and unseat him, ripping him off of his high horse of not wanting to do this, playing on his own disgust at what he was doing...and sometimes, dangerously, playing on the fact that he did want her and didn't have a clue how to handle it. She'd used words as her weapons and her only protection, and very often they would end with him ordering her to shut up. He'd never hit her, even though she knew he was close to it once or twice. He would leave when he got to that point--when she had driven him to that point. She had done it all on purpose. She had to play on the fact that he *didn't* want to do this and some part of him knew it was wrong. She played on that and on the emotions he tried *so* hard to pretend didn't exist and tried so hard to explain away. She'd known she was on a tightrope with this--if she pushed him too far she was likely to end up dead. Or worse. But she'd known she *had* to push him to the point of either realizing what he was doing was worse than he thought, or to the point of making him do something he wouldn't ordinarily so he would see that *he* was the one who was the 'monster'--or at the very least hate what all of this was turning him into. It was her only chance to get free and her only chance to save the people he would have her hurt.
        It was the most dangerous game of all that she'd been forced into playing by him. He'd been a boy playing at being a man, and those were the most dangerous and unstable...but also the easiest to effect.
        Now she knew he wasn't playing at being a man anymore. That was what had frightened her the most.
        She swung. *** *** *** ***         He watched. *** *** *** ***         "Christine, where have you *been*?!!?" Erik yelled the second she entered the Met.
        She shrugged off his hand on her shoulder. "Thinking."
        "You scared the living *daylights* out of me!"
        "Sorry." she said, brushing her hair out of her face. "But I'd needed to think. I'd needed to be alone."
        "Elisa called while you were out. Fox called her. She's worried. Elisa wants to see about getting a guard for you. At least until..."
        "No." Christine said, shaking her head. "I doubt he'd be so stupid as to come here again."
        Erik stared out her. "Christine, look, I know that you're upset by all of this. I don't think you're thinking straight. I think Elisa has the right idea."
        "I said no, Erik."
        "But..."
        "NO!"
        He startled. "All right. All right." he said, frowning. Regardless of what she said, it was out of her hands. He wasn't about to let anything happen to her. He had already talked to Elisa--they had decided that if Christine did precisely what she had just done, Elisa herself would guard her. Elisa and Matt both. She'd already spoken to Chavez. And Erik was prepared to go over Christine's head and go to the director of the Met Opera. Christine had already been kidnapped *once* at the opera house and none of them wanted it to happen again. The publicity alone would kill the Met. The first time they'd all managed to keep it quiet--barely. A second time? Besides, next season she was slated to be Turandot, and trying to find a replacement would be hell and a half. To put it coldly in terms the management would react to.
        "And if you think having Elisa and Matt guard me is going to work, you have an entirely different thing coming. I see hide or hair of them backstage at any point and I walk out of here." she said flatly.
        "Christine, you're insane!"
        "I've made up my mind, Erik. Call them and call it off. I will handle this on my own."
        "Like you did before?"
        Her gaze was frigid. "I will handle this, Erik."
        "You can't handle it."
        "Watch me." she hissed. *** *** *** ***         He watched. *** *** *** ***         After rehearsal--Erik had improved noticeable since the last dress rehearsal and the director of the production had a happy look she almost never had--Christine called the Eyrie to check on Belinda and to tell Fox she was all right and not to tell the gargoyles about this whole mess when they woke. Fox said she wouldn't, but Christine knew that Fox had never been one to keep her promises.
        She managed to get out before Erik did, and only just barely. Even though her costume looked more elaborate, his was more of a pain because of the knee-high boots that went with it and took him forever to change out of. So she was gone before he was, leaving her cell phone in her dressing room so no one would be able to reach her.
        She knew she was being stupid. She knew it. But she didn't care. He was coming after her anyway; the when didn't matter to her. He was coming and that was that.
        She was still frightened. And angry. But now she was resigned. When he showed up, she would kill him. That would be the end of it. She would kill him. And if he got her first--if he took her over before she could kill him--then so be it. He couldn't hold her forever. And if he did this again, she would never stop until she had found him and killed him. If he killed her first, then at least it would all be over. For better or for worse, this all had to end.
        She knew that she hadn't left him unscathed by all of this. Her words had been too pointed for that. She had echoed the silenced voices of his conscience. It wouldn't surprise her if his conscience stung him now using her voice. Good. If he haunted her dreaming, it was only fair that she haunted his waking.
        He was coming. He was watching. She still felt him.
        She could feel him. *** *** *** ***         He watched. *** *** *** *** Sunday:

        The first act of Tosca had ended, and amazingly well. The curtain call had gone on forever. She felt the high she always did from being onstage and feeling the applause. Erik had done amazingly--he was on a roll tonight. He was getting better acting, she thought to herself as she made her way through the insane hustle and bustle backstage to get to her costume room. She had to change for the next act, and it took forever to get out of the ridiculous *pink* gown for the first act into the dark red gown for the second and third act. She was still pissed about the pink. It seemed like no matter how often she screamed that she looked god-awful in pink, no, they refused to get another one. It was pink or yellow, and she put her foot down on yellow. Oh, well. At least the red looked good--it was the exact same color as the inside of her wings had been.
        "Sheila--get the zipper, 'kay? Thanks bunches." she said to one of the young women in the chorus she ran into, turning so the woman could unzip Christine's costume. It took a few minutes because the zipper was hidden so it couldn't be seen, then she scurried off. She avoided the people running around backstage and Rodriquez--the baritone singing Scarpia who had just taken a more than hefty swig of *something* alcoholic from the way his breath was smelling--pulling out hairpins as she did. As soon as she was backstage, she had the last pins holding the wig in place off. The dress was unzipped so she stepped out of it quickly, kicking off the matching shoes. She hurriedly hung the dress and then looked at the next costume.
            She had to admit, she liked this one. She always felt like a princess or something in it. It was meant to look like a fancy dress from the year 1800, and it did. A dark red satin with a fine silver inlaid pattern, empress-style darker red waistline, and a red velvet bottom the same shade as the bodice, with a silver pattern similar to fire on the bottom, raising to a triangle point at the front of the waistline. And to top it all off, matching velvet above the elbow gloves and velvet slippers. The silly wig even had a silver tiara. She sat on the floor in her underwear, yanking on the slippers first. After that, the dress, then the wig, then the gloves, then last the red satin stole. The Met went *all* out...
        Slippers on. She grabbed the dress and tugged it on, zipping it up the back. Wait. There was someone in here. She wasn't facing the door and she assumed she must've just missed it when the door opened--after all, she *was* in a hurry. Great timing--she hated trying to zip the costume herself. Still, she was going to chew the asshole out anyway--she thought everyone here *knew* better than to *ever* come into her dressing room without her permission, after what had happened.
        "Whoever you are, do me a favor and zip this damned dress up." she said, grabbing the wig off the stand and throwing it on her head, doing it by feel. The dress was zipped up by whoever was there, after a long pause. Whoever had zipped up her dress was larger than she was; it was probably Rodriquez. He was a sweetie, but an idiot sometimes, and he hadn't quite mastered the whole idea of "privacy." That would explain a lot. And how long it took him to zip her up--she didn't doubt that he was seeing at least two of everything by that point. By then, she gotten the wig on.
        "Thanks." she said, grabbing her gloves and putting them on. "You just saved me a coupla minu..." she said as she turned. The words died. "Oh my god..." she whispered, her face becoming bloodlessly pale; suddenly losing feeling in her lips. "No...no, no, no, no, no..."
        The Hunter. Between her and the door. He stared at her through the white eyes of the mask and she could only stare at him dumbly, shaking her head as if that would make him go away, praying her eyes were wrong. But knowing they weren't.
        She stared at him. "What do you want from me?" she finally yelled, feeling her chest heaving against the red satin of the bodice of her costume.
        "Christine, listen to me."
        "Get out. Get out. Get out before I...before I do *something*!" she yelled, knowing that any threat she made would be idle. She had often wondered what would happen if she was in this situation again--now she knew. Mind-numbing terror made it impossible for her to think or even move; paralyzed her. All she could do was stare at him and tremble. She was too frightened of him to even be angry at herself over being frightened.
        "Christine, listen to me. I'm not here to hurt you. I promise. I'm here to warn you. To *help*."
        "Bull-fucking-*shit* you are." she hissed.
        "Christine, listen to me. Listen. You are *asleep* right now. You know this isn't real. None of this is real. It's a spell. Christine, are you *listening* to me?"
        "Why can't you leave me alone?" she whispered, shaking. Her eyes were huge, and she knew that they were full of the terror she felt. She had been terrified of something like this...for so long, after she had been captured by Mark all those years ago, she had been terrified of being alone backstage--for the next three years, whenever she performed with Erik they had shared a dressing room; and of they weren't performing together, she would share it with someone else; anyone. For six years at the Met she had insisted on sharing a dressing room. She was only just now beginning to be able to be alone in a dressing room without terror. And now, here he was again, just like that day all those years ago, almost exactly like before--between acts of an opera, with her only just switching into her new costume. She was terrified, and ashamed of her terror.
        No. No more terror. She couldn't do it. God damn it, no! She was tired of being afraid! No more!
        Her spine straightened and she felt the rage fill her. "I'm *not* the monster you think I am!" she yelled, the tremor in her voice vanishing as the rage she had felt for so long but had buried came roaring out.
        The Hunter pulled off his mask. As he did so, she looked at him from top to bottom, her eyes following the lines from his neck to over his shoulders, across his chest, down his arms, down his legs, some part of her assessing, gathering information to use about his build, possible strengths, possible weakness. She grudgingly had to admire his body--it looked as if he was in perfect shape and if that was true, they would be more than evenly matched. Even though she was naturally stronger than most women--hell, than a lot of men--she was *still* a woman. Her upper body strength would be a joke in comparison to his. And she while she still trained, she had let it slip the last year or so--it looked like he hadn't, and if so, his agility was likely to match hers--by virtue of his being male she knew he was going to be less agile than she was, but he looked to be in slightly better shape. The field was level, but he was holding cards she couldn't pray to match. All she had was her rage. "I don't think you're a monster. And for God's sake, will you look at me? I'm not the boy that hurt you all those years ago!"
        She had been looking at him. Assessing. Admiring--despite herself, of course--and of course in only the way as any weapon would admire the strengths of an enemy. "Get out." Christine hissed, her entire body tense, her eyes narrowed into glittering slits. "Get out *now* before I kill you."
        "You won't kill me and we both know it."
        The look on her face was terrible to see. "If you believe *that*, then *you* are a bigger fool than I ever took you for!" she hissed. "Unless, of course, you plan to do what you did eight years ago."
        "Curtain in five!" a voice yelled at the door.
        They glared at each other, Christine's dark eyes almost daring him to call her on her threat.
        "I'm not going to fight you, Christine." he said, setting his jaw. "I want what's for the best..."
        "The best?!!?" she yelled, brushing the hair from her wig out of her eyes. "What, is the best destroying me because I'm 'tainted' with gargoyle filth? Using me to attack those I hold dear? What next, attacking my child?!!" she yelled, shaking with rage. She leaped at him. Mark just barely managed to grab her arms and press her against him so she couldn't fight. She was furious, cursing and struggling, and Mark only barely managed to hold her in a tight bear hug, the only reason he had a chance was because she was so enraged that she wasn't even able to *think* straight--if she was calm, it was quite possible she would have already snapped his neck.
        "Listen to me!" he hissed. "This isn't real. For god's sake, Christine, look at me! How the hell could I be the same *boy* who hurt you before? Think about it! How the hell could I be real? Could this be real? It's not! It's all a lie, a dream, and you have to believe me! You have to wake up!"
        She managed to twist her head up to look at him, almost unable to breathe because he held her so tightly. Her chest was heaving with rage.
        "Ms. Bernett! Curtain in two! Ms. Bernett?!!?" a voice yelled, banging at her door.
        "Coming!" she yelled. "Let me go." she said icily. "I have a *job* to do."
        He let her go. She slapped him so hard he fell onto his knees. "This isn't over, Hunter." she said, standing over him, her head raised. She started to kick him, but Mark grabbed her leg and managed to knock her over--just barely. He laid down on her to stop her from fighting, holding down her arms. She glared up at him, her face frozen.
        "So that's it." she whispered, her eyes narrowing and her voice glacial. "Finishing what you started? Or rather...what you *wanted* to do?" Her voice was challenging, almost daring him to make a move. He was stronger than she was. Larger. A lot--standing, even though she was 5'9", he was still a head taller than her, he weighed more than she did, and he was in perfect shape. Hell of a thing to notice just then. She could feel her face flushing, and she hoped her expression didn't betray her emotions right then--she needed to seem cold and in control, when that was the furthest from how she felt just then. But, and this was the weird part, she wasn't afraid of him. She'd had nightmares over something like this, over the years, but now that she was in the situation, for some insane reason, she wasn't afraid. Fear was nowhere, now. Instead, insane as it was, she almost felt like...
        She shut down on *that* line of thoughts almost instantly, not even dignifying them with finishing the thought or dwelling on this at all. Instead she glared at him, daring him to try something, letting her anger at herself--she could stop her thoughts but not her inexplicable physical reactions--refocus itself on him.
        He let go of her and jumped to his feet. "Jesus!" he hissed, furious at what she had insinuated. "You...*no*."
        She was up and punched him with enough force he have him reel backwards. "It's not over. This will *never* be o..."
        "Curtain! Ms. Bernett! Open the door, it's curtain! You have to be out for the 'A te!' Ms. Bernett!"
        "We'll see each other again, Hunter."
        She turned on her heel and left the room.

*** *** *** ***         She knew he was out in the audience. Where he was, she had no idea--she only knew that he was there. She could sense him. She could *feel* him. She knew this wasn't over. Not by a long shot. This, she knew, was only *just* beginning. Because she knew that this would *never* be over.
        "Ah, non so nulla, ah! Dovrei mentir? [Ah, I know nothing, ah! Do you want me to lie?]" *** *** *** ***         And he watched. *** *** *** ***         The second act was over and she felt her breath hitching. Again, he was here. Again. In her dressing room, wearing the Hunter's costume. But the mask hung in his hands. She felt her color rising as she stared him down. Yes, he was older than he should have been. How? It was the same man, she knew. But how?
        Strange things were happening to her, being so close to this man that she knew had hurt her and could easily do so again. She swallowed thickly, her hands shaking. But not only from fear. She was afraid of him, but there was more than that. Mixed in with that fear...it made her nervous, the fact that she...that she...wanted him. Even thinking it was impossible. But...but it was there and it was undeniable, as much as she felt betrayed by herself because of it. She didn't understand it; it frightened her. "Go away." she hissed.
        "Not until you talk to me!" he said, closing in on her. He was so close to her now, such an overwhelming physical presence--she *was* almost five foot ten, but she knew he was over six feet tall--and she wasn't used to it. She was eye-level with his shoulder before she looked up at him, her eyes meeting his.
        "Or you'll what?" she said, tilting her head. God damn it, she wished he would back up some. He was so close to her. She felt small. She felt...hell, she suddenly *really* knew in a way that wasn't coldly academic that he was male, she was female, and there were worlds of difference between the two. Anger hit her. He was the Hunter. After what he had done...and she was suddenly out of whack, here? He had used her! It was only blind luck that he hadn't taken her--raped her--all those years ago, when she would have been unable to refuse. And now, what was happening? Her own *body* was betraying her? Damn it! She felt ready to scream in rage.
        "Nothing." he said, holding up his hands. "I'm not going to do a damned thing. Except plead for you to believe me. You have to. Christine...this is all a lie!"
        "I should believe you?" she said, her eyes narrowing. Her chest was heaving again, and now her legs were shaking.
        "Yes." he said, stepping closer. Christine took a step back and found herself against a wall. "You should."
        "Why?"
        "Because I'm telling the truth." he said, coming still closer.
        "Get away from me." she whispered, her chest heaving, her sweaty hands clutching at her gown nervously.
        He kept coming closer. "You have to listen to me. You have to."
        God, he was close, now. Close enough for her to see the beginnings of a five o'clock shadow on in his face. Oh, God... "Get away from me." she whispered weakly again, shaking.
        "Not until I make you see the truth!" he said, now only inches from her. She knew if she breathed deeply, her breasts would graze his chest. She did her damnedest not to breathe because she was afraid of the way it would feel and afraid of her reaction; the way the bodice of the costume suddenly felt too tight.
        "And how are you going to do that?" she said, deciding to go for a direct approach, anything to keep him from being so close and disconcerting her so much. "Rape it into me?"
        "Low blow, Christine." he said, not backing up. "I said I wasn't going to hurt you, and I won't."
        "Hard to believe when you're going for physical intimidation tactics." she snapped back.
        He laughed dryly. "Says the woman who could beat the crap out of me if she so chose, and we *both* know it."
        She glared at him. He didn't move. She did. She shoved him, then pinned him against the ground, sitting on his chest. She glared down at him, but he didn't try to resist or to fight her.
        "Christine." he said softly.
        The next thing she knew, she was kissing him. Hard. And God help her, she didn't want to stop. She didn't. She stopped his words with her kisses, giving in to what had been so crazy. Her and the Hunter...it was ridiculous, but it was happening. Jesus, was it ever happening.
        She suddenly stopped and scratched his face, drawing blood. She jumped off of him and kicked him sharply in the ribs before he could move.
        "Come near me again, Hunter, and I'll kill you." she whispered. "I'll fucking *kill* you!" *** *** *** ***         It was the third act. She listened to Erik singing E lucevan le stelle from offstage, listening for her cue to enter after he finished. She knew what was coming.
        She hadn't told anyone yet. She wasn't planning on it. She knew the noose was tightening around her neck but she knew that this had to end one way or the other. It had to because she couldn't take any more otherwise.
        Only now...what had happened? Her own motivations for this had always seemed so clear and pure to her. To make the nightmares stop To make her shame stop. To make him pay for what he had done to her. But was that why she was all but orchestrating this, when it would be so incredibly easy to have him arrested and out of her life?
        Everything that had been so clear suddenly wasn't anymore. Everything that was so pure in her mind suddenly wasn't anymore.
        What was she doing?
        Her cue came and she went onstage. *** *** *** ***         The curtain call seemed to last forever. Forever and to be too short. Soon she was on her way to her dressing room to change. She had a champagne party the Met threw, a 'meet-the-artists' the ultra rich patrons attended, that she was supposed to go to after this, but she knew it wasn't going to happen. But she smiled all the same, she accepted and gave out congratulations, she kissed and hugged and acted as if everything were normal. *** *** *** ***         And he watched. *** *** *** ***         She closed the door behind her gently, not turning to look inside the room, facing the door with eyes shut.
        Before he could speak, she began. "I know you're here. So stop hiding in the shadows and come out."
        She heard footsteps but never turned around, even as they got closer and closer. Not even when she could tell he was less than a foot from her, staring at her.
        "Christine, listen to me. I'm not here to hurt you. I'm *not.*"
        She turned to look at him, then. "No? You've *hurt* me by just being here." She looked up. He wasn't wearing the mask and the scratches she had given him were still red. The uniform he still wore, with three--no, there were *four*, but the fourth was paper fine--red parallel scratches in the black across his chest. Strange--she remembered--and clearly so--that there were only three. Why did he have a fourth?
        No matter.
        "What do you want, Hunter?"
        "To help you. Christine, you have to listen to me. Listen to me more than you've ever listen to *anyone* in your life. Christine, you are asleep. This, all of it, is a dream. It was a spell put on you by Hecate when you killed her to protect your sister, your nephew, and your grandchild. None of it is real. You have to wake up. You have to break the spell."
        "Why are you doing this to me? What are you trying to do?" she said, staring up at him. "I don't believe you. How *can* I believe you?"
        "Because you know I'm telling the truth. You know I'm not lying. You know it."
        "What do you really want, Hunter?"
        "Nothing."
        "I don't believe you." she said, her back against the door, trying to stop from breathing as deeply as she was. She was frightened. But more than that, she felt as if this was coming and had been for a long time. She knew it was coming and that was why she hadn't done the simple things she could have to stop it. *** *** *** ***         Something in her sleep was bothering her. She was frowning and turning her head from side to side. She finally seemed to settle and he brushed the white hair out of her face. She inhaled sharply and he wondered again what she dreamed of as he watched. *** *** *** ***         "Don't touch me." Christine hissed, slapping his hand away from her face. "What do you *really* want from me?"
        "For you to end this farce, Christine."
        "The only farce is this one." she shot back, raising her chin.
        "Christine, are you alive in there?"
        She turned her head slightly. "I'm fine, Erik. Just changing. Go on ahead, OK? I'll meet you at that dratted 'meet-the-big-money-people' champagne thing later."
        "Are you sure?" she heard him yell back, through the door.
        "Positive. Go on, OK? Everything's fine, aside from this stupid costume."
        Every once in a while, Christine surprised herself with her ability to act. This was one of those times. She sounded perfectly normal. Not as all as if the Hunter was standing a foot in front of her all but pinning her against a door. Oh, no.
        "I'd rather not, Christine."
        "Oh, just go!" she finally snapped. She could feel him recoil slightly.
        "All right," he said. "All right."
        His footsteps were light as he walked away. She turned back to see the Hunter. "If you think I was bluffing before, you were wrong." she said, sneering. "I said I was going to kill you if I ever saw you again, and I meant it."
        He took a step back, but she knew it wasn't from fear. "Then do it." he said, spreading his arms. "I'm not going to stop you. I know you want to kill me. I know I deserve it. So try it. But first, hear me out. You have to."
        "Why? So you can capture me again?"
        "If I was here for that, I would have done it already."
        She stepped past him suddenly. "At least let me have the dignity to take off this damned stage make-up." she said, going to the make-up table, taking out cold cream with jerking movements. He watched her; she could feel his eyes on her. It made her shiver. He was so focused on her; she wasn't used to it from anyone. She tried to ignore him, getting all of the make-up off, looking up to see her own face now staring back in the mirror, him now standing behind her. She closed her eyes then stood up, turning to face him. The costume felt so tight and heavy now. She knew she wouldn't be able to fight well in it, but she also knew she wasn't going to strip in front of him to change. Besides, part of her knew that that she wasn't going to fight him. That frightened her--what the hell was she doing? It was almost as if she *wanted* this mess to happen.
        "Talk." she said, her face cold.
        "Christine, you have to believe me. This life isn't real. None of this is real. None of it. You're literally dreaming it."
        "If I'm dreaming, why the hell would I dream about *you*?" she hissed.
        "Because part of you is fighting the spell. Part of you wants to wake up. That's why you haven't killed me. Why you haven't done anything to stop me. Because you want me to wake you up."
        "What I want is you to leave and never come back. What I want is to get on with my life!"
        "But this *isn't* your life." he said, walking over to her. She began to back away, but still he came closer, closer. Her back hit the wall and he still kept coming closer, closer, and she felt her breathing speed up, her eyes dart around. It suddenly hit her where she was and exactly what situation she had gotten herself into. How had she let this happen? How? How had she ended up *here*, trapped in this small room with the Hunter?
        He was standing right in front of her then, looking down at her with his light brownish-green eyes that seemed to glitter. She refused to look at him, her eyes wandering off to the side, feeling high-strung and jittery. She simply *couldn't* look at him.
She felt his large hands land on her shoulders. She jumped and stared at him, lips parting slightly, eyes huge. Now she shook. His hands were on her shoulders, the fingertips lightly against the base of her neck. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She was afraid, yes, but it wasn't simply fear.
        "Let's just finish this, Hunter." she said, staring up at him through narrowed eyes.
        "All right." he said. One finger lightly traced up her neck and she sucked in a breath, tensing, shaking, her breathing going haywire at the feel of that fingertip's trail on her sensitive neck. "We'll finish this. We'll finish this here and we'll finish this now."
        "Good." she whispered, her chest heaving. She was terrified. She wasn't terrified. Emotions that seemed totally foreign to each other were mixed together in her mind, confusing, angering and frightening her. Why hadn't she stopped this? How had she allowed this to happen? Why *hadn't* she stopped it? She wondered now if maybe she hadn't been lying to herself when she let everything go, by thinking it was inevitable. She wanted this to happen. A part of her did, at least--he was right about that. She'd been lying to herself, and she tended to forget that while she could act, she couldn't lie well to people--although she lied fabulously to herself.
        "Obviously, you don't believe me."
        "No. I want to know what your game is." she said.
        "Exactly what I told you."
        "Yeah, that's why you're doing what you are to my neck." she said sarcastically.
        "Want me to stop? You and I both know you could have already wiped the floor with me by now. Why haven't you?" he answered back.
        Ouch. So *this* was what he felt like when the shoe was on the other foot.
        "You're right. I could have. But I haven't because I want to end this."
        "You could by killing me. But you haven't."
        "Yet."
        "You won't."
        "Why *won't* I?" she said, baring her teeth.
        "Because you haven't yet. Because *you* orchestrated this. You knew I was coming but didn't do anything. You came back here alone even though you knew I was here. You told Erik to leave even though I was in here with you, and all you had to do was scream."
        "I want to finish this."
        "You could have already."
        "You know what I mean, Hunter. This is between you and me. No one else." Her voice was cold, her eyes brittle. The wall against her back was cold and she felt trapped, frightened, expectant. Nervously, she licked her lips, not taking her eyes off of him.
        "You're right. It is." he said. "You didn't want me stopped, you wanted to face me yourself. Because I represent so many things you don't want to think about or face."
        "And what do you mean by *that*?" she asked, raising her head more, tilting her chin to one side, inadvertently--so she told herself when she realized it--exposing more of her neck.
        "You said you wanted to finish it. So we're going to." The fingertip was still there, still tracing one of the tendons of her neck. She tried to ignore it. She failed miserably. "Something is going to get accomplished. Something. This is going to get settled, and then you're going to wake up."
        "I'm...I'm not dreaming."
        "Yes, you are." he said, staring down at her. "And we both know it. And we're both not going to waste our time on that fact. There are other things to worry about right now. Like finally ending this." He smiled down at her suddenly. It was not a warm smile, it was a cold one, a determined one. "So end it. You say you want it to end. Stop talking about ending it and end it."
        "You came in search of me."
        "Yes. To tell you the truth, that this is a dream. *You*, however, created me in this form to tell you. Because you needed me to be this form."
        "You're talking nonsense."
        "Am I? You know this is a dream and you know that you chose the way to wake up to be me. Part of you knows. The part of you that is me."
        "You're even more insane than I thought."
        "You chose me like this because you needed this to be me. You're right, there is a lot left unresolved. And you know this is the only way that you can resolve it. You won't let yourself wake up until then. Until you're resolved it. In all the dreams, it's been me that tried to wake you, and Erik who kept you asleep."
        "Don't bring my *husband* into this."
        "But he's not. Not in reality. In reality, he died and he died a long time ago. And you know it."
        He was confusing her and he was frightening, and the finger on her neck--her sensitive neck, was sending sensations through her that only made it harder for her to think. If only he would do something, anything, to give her a way to react. To put her on solid ground again. Then she could kill him and go back to her life. He threatened her life and her happiness. He only promised darkness in a world that finally had light. She hated him. She hated what he represented. She wanted him to go but she didn't, she knew she couldn't drive him away and she knew she couldn't kill him. But she didn't know why.
        It frightened her.
        "So let's finish it. You hate me. I think we've established that fact." he said, moving the slightest bit closer to her so there was only an inch or so of space between them.
        She nodded, wide-eyed, clutching at the skirt of her dress, keeping her hands busy so they wouldn't...wouldn't what? She didn't know and that frightened her as well.
        "But you can't kill me. I've told you why you can't. But why do you think you can't?"
        "I don't...I don't know..."
        "Why did you kiss me before?"
        "T-to throw you off-guard. To give me an advantage."
        "You can't lie for shit, Christine."
        She wanted to slap his smug face. Instead, she clutched the skirt even tighter, snarling.
        "There's more to all of this than you're even admitting to yourself." He smiled again. "What was it you told me? 'Lie to yourself, fine. But don't even try to lie to me.'"
        She dropped the skirt and lunged in the small amount of space, reaching for his neck. He countered and dropped her to the floor, his knee crashing into her ribs after she hit the floor, knocking the breath out of her. One of her arms he held twisted so she couldn't immediately get free. Soon she would; pain didn't matter to her. "Going for violence instead of answering, eh? You accused me of wanting to do the same thing. Remember?"
        A snarl was her only answer. Then: "Don't try to turn the tables on me, Hunter. I'm justified in wanting you dead. Completely. What you did to me has no justification! You...you..."
        "...betrayed you. By making you betray yourself." he said in her ear. "Because you couldn't make heads or tails of me. I came at a bad time, didn't I? The first time, I meant. Your life was sucking pretty badly right then. You and Erik were close to splitsville. You were miserable." Wait. She and Erik hadn't been having problems...had they? No...yes, they had...but...wait... "And suddenly you realize that you're being followed and watched. And you knew I was there. You're an empath. You lied to yourself by denying you knew I was there. But you knew." he said, tracing her cheek now with his free hand. She knew she could break his grip. Why wasn't she? Why was she letting him do this? And why was it so hard to breathe when she felt his finger traced her cheek? This was worse than before. A lot worse. "What did you think when you first saw me, Christine? The first time you saw me? I wasn't dressed as the Hunter. Just backstage, dressed like any one working here, when I was getting a feel for the layout and planning? You knew I was watching you even then. But what did you think?"
        "I didn't. You were just another stagehand as far as I was concerne..."
        "Lie to yourself, but don't lie to me." he said, smiling again, his paler eyes never leaving hers.
        "What do you want to hear?" she said, ignoring the confusion suddenly popping up in her mind.
        "The truth."
        "You want to hear the 'truth' that you want to hear. Whether or not it *is* the truth is an entirely different thing."
        "The truth is the truth, Christine."
        "Let me go, then."
        He abruptly stood up, releasing her. She rolled and then was on her feet, in fighting stance.
        "I'm not here to fight you. At all. I'll defend myself, nothing more."
        "Right. I'll stay like this, thanks." she snarled.
        "Very well." he said, taking the same stance. "I'm no fool, Christine." he said, eyes focused on her and determined. Very determined. She remembered his eyes, from the first time she had seen him. She had been drawn to them--there was a determination and a sense of purpose about him that was reflected in them. She hadn't known his purpose, or anything. She had sensed that there was some sort of danger around him and she had unwittingly found herself drawn slightly to it...to him. Focus like his instantly had drawn her attention as an empath--it was so rare that it stood out like a beacon. No, he hadn't seemed like 'just another stagehand.' He had taken her breath away. And she had been going soft in those years, empathy-wise. Everything-wise. She had settled into a life where she had thought nothing could hurt her again. He had destroyed her innocence about that, left her realizing that she could never be free and would never be safe, and that her mind wasn't her own...that she could never knew where she ended and her programming began. And destroyed her trust in herself. And made her angry at herself. And oh, god, was she ever angry at him for having that focus and intensity that drew her the same way as a candle would draw a moth to be burned and destroyed.
        That was at the root of her anger. That sense of betrayal. God, she hated him for that! She hated him for everything he had done and more than anything, she hated him for that, and she hated herself!
        She reacted violently to having to face things she didn't want to. Skirts flying, she did a roundhouse, her foot connecting with his temple, knocking him to the ground. He got to his feet before she could land a blow he knew would have killed him. They circled each other in fighting stances, Christine hearing the music in her head begin, the music she heard whose tempo was kept by the beating of her heart, the pounding of blood in her head, and the sound of her own breathing.
        She attacked then. He matched with her, only going to block, not to strike himself. That would get him killed faster than anything else. Because that would enrage her more, and she didn't need another excuse.
        A lucky palmshot on his behalf knocked her backwards, blood in her mouth where her teeth cut the inside of her lip. Blood dribbled out of the corner of one of her lips and she licked it away quickly. Her eyes darkened, pupils large and dilated, breathing quickened. Silently, she attacked again. She knocked him down again, hard, and he only barely rolled out of the way before her elbow crashed down where his head had been only seconds before. He managed to grab her by the top of the dress and she pulled herself free, the fabric giving before either of them did. Angrily she kicked the torn dress off, then whirling on her left foot, her right slamming into his head and knocking him to the ground again. That was it. She'd had it. It was ending and goddamn it, it was ending *now*.
        She dropped on top of him, bare chest heaving, sweat dripping down her back and her face, straddling his chest, one hand holding his shoulder down, the other arm across his neck, directly under his jaw, applying pressure in a way to let him know that she could very easily cut off his blood supply.
        "You want the truth, Hunter?" she snarled. "You were right. Damn you, yes. You were right. I was attracted to you. And I hated you for it after what you did. I hated what you did. I hated you for the fact that I was still attracted to you as much as I fucking hated you! Yeah, I lied to myself because I had to! Goddamn you, I had to, because otherwise, how the hell could I look myself in the face!" she screamed, grabbing his shoulders and slamming him into the ground as hard as she could. She was crying and she didn't give a damn. He grabbed her hands and ripped them off of him. She started wrenched herself to get free, but he had her hands tightly. "Let me go!" she yelled, struggling. He let go abruptly and she tumbled backwards. She ran into a corner, curling herself with her back against the corner, hugging herself and staring at him through bloodshot, teary eyes, eyes filled with rage and anger, filled with confusion and hurt.
        "I hate you." she whispered.
        "I know you do." he whispered back. "Just like I know it's a hell of a lot more than hate that you feel. You knew that I hated what I did. You knew. It made it that much harder to completely hate me. You knew what I was doing was ripping at me and that I had to convince myself to keep doing it. You knew how much I struggled with it. And you couldn't hate me completely for that. And you hated yourself because of it. You hated the part of yourself that let you not hate me."
        "Shut up!" she yelled, tears running down her face, shaking harder, teeth bared. "Shut the fuck up! Stop doing this to me! What do you want from me!"
        "To finish this." He went over to her, knelt down to her level, his eyes meeting hers, putting his hands on her bare shoulders. "Just...to finish this. For you to forgive yourself, forgive me, and then to wake up. That's what I want, Christine.
        "That's what I want."
        His eyes stared at her, light brown, flecked with green, full of the same determination and force of will as he had always had. "All of this is a lie, Christine. All of it. Everything is except for you. And you know it."
        "Go away." she whispered, shutting her eyes, not looking at him. She couldn't. She couldn't. He had to go away. He had to go.
        But he wasn't, and she knew it. Not until it was finished.
        So what did she do? She couldn't lie to herself. He wouldn't let her anymore than she had let him eight years ago...it was more than eight years because he was older than thirty...no, it was only eight because he was only thirty...wait...when had he...? She was so confused. The world was spinning now and everything seemed fake and confusing. Everything but him and that frightened her. She threw herself at him, into his arms, struggling to get a grip on what was real and what was not, only knowing instinctively that there was something real about him even when everything seemed to be rocking at its very fibers. She didn't know why she knew he was real. She didn't know if it was because he was or because he had already taken over her mind, or if he was playing more mind games with her.
        She only knew that he was real, much as she hated him, much as she hated herself for not being able to hate him, much as she hated all of this...much as she wanted him.
        She looked up at him. Into his eyes.
        "Time to finish it, Christine." he whispered.
        "Yes." The word came out harsh, strained, an explosion. Her fingernails scratched his chest, hard enough she knew to draw blood, raging, lusting, frightening, frightened. She kissed him harshly, a kiss full of her own conflicting emotions and her own rage over the conflict, her own anger over how she felt, over what he had done, over what he had made her feel inspite of herself. He kissed back, a kiss gentler than she had never dared to allow herself to imagine, and she was undone. *** *** *** ***         Whatever...whoever...the hell she was dreaming of was not doing him much good at all. Honestly, he felt like a goddamned peeping Tom. He knew he was blushing bright red. It was painfully obvious right then what she was dreaming of, and frankly, it was driving him insane. You only moved and made little sounds like *that* when you were dreaming--or doing--one thing. And to be equally frank, watching her had to be the single most erotic thing he had ever seen in his life. He started pacing, trying hard not to glance over at her. Trying really, really, really hard. Hell, he didn't *like* feeling like a pervert. And when she woke up, she'd kill him dead if she knew. So he wasn't watching her. Seemed safe enough.
        But she was still making those little *sounds*...
        He ran both hands through his hair and pulled suddenly. It helped. A little. He began to consider going far, far away until he was sure she was finished with her happy aspect of the dream. But then he realized that would leave her completely unprotected. What if someone wandered upon her? That would be bad. Very, very bad. Yeah, sure, so this place was as destered as hell and it was 2 am. You never knew. And he'd made that deal with Thoth. He said he'd stay here and make sure nothing happened to her. There was that whole responsibility thing. And that whole *spell* thing.
        But she was making those *sounds*...
        "Oh, for God's sake." he muttered under his breath. This was ridiculous. "Mark Adams, will you get a grip on yourse...uh...will you get yourself together?" he said, gritting his teeth. He made the mistake of glancing over at her--he honestly didn't remember doing it consciously--and almost immediately looked away and began pounding his right fist into his left arm. Pain good. Yes. Pain was a good distraction. Kinda. Sorta. Oh, who the hell was he fooling? He started pacing again, but even he could tell his movements were clumsy and jerking. Hell, he was shaking from the nervous tension in him. He wasn't used to this at all. Years of learning self-control felt like they were about to go flying out of the window.
        There was a three-way dialogue running in his head--one voice just kept muttering "Aw, damn" over and over again, one was screeching, "Perv!" and there was one that had a sweet, quiet, persuasive little voice that kept telling him to look over. He was ignoring that one. So what if it was getting more and more difficult. He was not at the mercy of hormones. Or the other little voice he refused to so much as acknowledge in any way, shape, or form. No siree...and dammit he was watching her again. Now he bit his lip and hard, almost enough to draw blood. And the little voice screeching, "Perv!" got even louder.
        One of his mother's sarcastic little sayings came back to him: "Now, if you listen really hard, you can hear that special sound...the sound of God laughing at us."
        This was one of those times when he *really* didn't have to listen very hard at all. *** *** *** ***         She could feel the skin of his back under her hands, his breath on her neck, the tension in him.
        "*This* is what is real." she heard him say. "Nothing else here is real. I'm real. You're real. Nothing...*nothing* else is." he said, his words with his movements, her hands digging into his back, breath in short gasps. And...she could strangely feel...wings. Impossible. She hadn't had wings since...no, then it was gone, then it was back, all confusing and bizarre, mixed in with feeling him, feeling him inside of her, feeling as if she *should* have wings, she should have a tail, and that everything had been fake. Feeling as if everything else, everything that wasn't this and *hadn't* been this was false.
        She *did* have wings. She *did* have a tail. Or she was supposed to.
        No. No she wasn't. That was another life.
        No. This one. This one, the life where he was. This was real. This she felt. Everything else was paled in comparison; as if it was nothing but a delusioned, fevered dream. But this wasn't real. Not real. Not locked in this primal embrace with the Hunter. Not giving herself over to him like this. This was a dream. This couldn't be real. No. It was a dream. This was a dream. All of this was a dream. All of this was...
        Oh god, but it felt real. It felt so real.
        She could barely hear the sounds she herself made, barely able to think anymore. Her nails--they should have been talons, they were talons no they weren't because she was a human but she wasn't anymore yes she was--dug into his back.
        "It's not real and you know it." she heard him hiss through clinched teeth, through his own jerking breath. "It's a dream."
        No, it wasn't a dream. No. This couldn't be? Why would she dream something like this? *** *** *** ***         She lay there afterwards, her heart thudding insanely in her chest, feeling unable to move, breathing hard through her open mouth, feeling his weight on her, still shaking, her eyes shut because it would take too much effort to open them.
        She should have been uncomfortable. She should have been laying on her wings and tail. Laying like this usually wasn't comfortable. But it was. Very much so. But it should have been. She didn't have wings or a tail. But she did. She could feel them. She could...she couldn't....they weren't there, but she could....she was human, but...no, no she wasn't she... *** *** *** ***         "Wake up, Christine." Mark whispered softly. *** *** *** ***         "Wake up, Christine." she heard the Hunter whisper. *** *** *** ***         "Wake up, Christine." both voices whispered. *** *** *** ***         And she did. *** *** *** ***         Her eyes flew open suddenly. "What in the...?!!?" she gasped, sitting up, eyes wide, darting around her. She looked down at herself--she could feel her wings. Her tail. She was wearing... she was dressed as if she had been fighting. She suddenly felt the sais clasped in her hands and as she looked down at them, it came to her. "Hecate." she whispered. She stared at the sais.
        They were safe now...she held them in her hands, feeling something in them resonating, sending a jolt through her that bordered on sexual. The it was gone. There was magic in the sais now, and it was attuned to her. These sais, she knew, were more powerful than they should be. But they were hers, and her responsibility. They had been infused with her own magic, and now the magic of the Hecatae. She could not allow them out of her sight now. If the wrong person had them, instinctively, she knew it would be earth-shattering.
        How ironic, she thought, that I of all people have in my possession three of the most powerful magical objects in existence. The Feather of Ma'at and now my sais. I doubt even if anything that *Oberon* has is this powerful.
        Mark was blinking, feeling his head beginning to clear from...something...and was suddenly realizing that she was *awake*. She was actually *awake*. Next he was suddenly hungry. Very hungry. But that first burst of hunger faded--he was still staring at Christine, amazed now that she was awake. "Oh my god. Thank God."
        But she was shaking as she put her sais away, shaking and staring out into space blankly, uncomprehending. Her lip was trembling. "Christine, are you all right?" He shook her slightly and she suddenly threw herself into his arms, still shaking, still trying to sort everything out.
        "I woke up." she said, her face against his neck. He pulled back and took her face in his hands. She was shaking--shivering. "D-didn't I?"
        "You're awake. Thank God, you're awake."
        "Why?" she said, her eyes darker than normal, seeming huge.
        "I...I couldn't....Christine..." he said, not sure of any other words, of how to express that mind-numbing terror when he had seen her go down.
        "What?" she whispered, her voice soft. Why was he holding onto her like this? Why was he looking at her like that? And why wasn't she trying to pull away from him? What was going on? She felt strange, and remembered suddenly the way she had felt during that strange dream...and now she knew what it was, why she had felt like that...how true all of it had been.
        "I don't know." he said, shaking his head but never losing eye contact with her. "Christine..."
        Her eyes asked the question she kept to herself. Mark held her tighter, afraid that if he let go of her, she would vanish suddenly. She was still shaking. He wanted her shaking to stop. He wanted to just hold her until she stopped shaking and he would be sure that she wasn't going to vanish.
        "I don't know anything anymore." she said, shaking her head. "I don't know what's real and what's not. Am I awake? Am I dreaming? Is this real or not? I..."
        "I don't know what I can tell you." Mark said, frowning as he felt her shake even more. It was almost impossible to believe that this was the same woman as had originally gone out after Hecate.
        She suddenly stopped shaking. She was tired of it. She was tired of feeling so out of control. She was tired of being the perennial victim. For once, for *once*, she wanted some control of *something*...
        Mark was glad when she stopped shaking, but the fact that she had stopped--and so suddenly--struck him as being odd and made him feel nervous.
        He was expecting something. But he was *not* expecting her to kiss him. And sure as hell not like *that*, not the way she was. Good God, he *never* had imagined she was capable of kissing like that. Or that she would feel like that.
Damn, she felt good...she felt really good. Far better than he had imagined all those years ago. But...he raised his hands and put them on her shoulders, then, despite his hormones which were getting a little *too* happy over the way her mouth felt on his and the way her body--God, how did she manage to be so soft?--felt pressed to his, shoved her away from him gently. He *knew* this wasn't her. He didn't want her like this.
        He was the one shaking now, but for entirely different reasons. "No. No. This...this isn't you. You're only reacting like...this...because of what you've just been through. I won't take advantage of you. I won't!" he said, almost trying to convince himself as well. He knew that this was right, he knew it, but, hell...he was only human. He took a deep breath and dug his nails into his palms, the sudden pain going a long way to clearing his head and making it easier to think.
        Her breath was erratic, her chest heaving. "'This isn't me'? You've wanted me since you were twenty-two."
        He knew better than to even *bother* not admitting to it--she was an empath, for God's sake. "Yeah. I did want you. And I won't lie, I...oh, God, I want you now. But, if you'll recall, I didn't take advantage of you then--I didn't even *touch* you--and if I didn't then when I was an twenty-two-year-old hormone, I'm sure as hell not going to take advantage of you now!"
        Her eyes narrowed and she tossed her head, flipping her hair over her shoulder and slamming her tail against the ground. "Maybe I'm *tired* of people deciding what's best for me!" she yelled. "I'm tired of people deciding for me who and what I am; what I want!" Her chest was really heaving, a lifetime of repressed and helpless anger suddenly coming out. As much as he knew she needed to get her rage out, it really just wasn't helping Mark stick to his guns right then. Especially after that last little display of hers before she woke up. This was all almost too much for him. He dug his fingernails back into his hands, realizing that at this rate, he was going to be drawing blood soon. But at least it was keeping him able to think rationally.
        "I'm sick of it!" Christine continued yelling, completely oblivious. "I'm tired of being the pure little *virgin* who has to be protected from the big bad world! I'm tired of being the fragile little...*child* that has to be sheltered from the world!" she roared. "I'm sick of being the damned child! I'm sick of people dictating the course of my life to me! Maybe I want to for *once* take control! I'm sick of being seen as a damned child who doesn't know what's best for her!"
        Mark snorted. "I sure as hell don't see you as a "damned child," unless I'm a closet pedophile." he said wryly. Christine glared at him. "But right now, you are *not* yourself. And you know that. Or you will when you calm down. Right now, you're a wreck. No one would be rational right now. Most people would be a basket case. I am *not* going to do something you'll regret later. I...I care about you too much for that. I... I want you, Christine, and I have for a long time...but, dammit, not like this."
        He let go of her shoulders and backed away, feeling like he had just left himself exposed to the world. God...now what?
        Christine rubbed her eyes. Christ, she suddenly felt so fucking *tired*. All she wanted to do was just sit down and cry. But she *knew* that would completely be interpreted wrong. She was just so...tired. Tears of weariness were in her eyes.
        Mark hugged her. She tensed, then suddenly grabbed him and started crying, her head on his shoulder. "I'm just so *tired*!" she said. "And I'm so sick of all of this, of never knowing where I stand, of never knowing what's real or not, and of feeling like I'm in the center of something bigger than me that's using me like a puppet!"
        He let her cry for a while, then led her back to where she had been sleeping. She laid down without a word, then curled up on her side. She was asleep in a few minutes, still shaking occasionally from the remnants of sobs still in her. He gently wiped away the drying tears on her cheeks and watched her sleep, knowing this time that she'd wake up. But she kept shaking in her sleep. He laid down next to her and held her. She stopped shaking slowly, and he dropped off to sleep beside her. *** *** *** ***         Christine cracked her left eye open when the sun set. She was confused for a second, then suddenly realized that she was looking straight at Mark. As in, there were about three inches between her face and his. And there was something around her. His arm. She was completely confused for a few minutes, then suddenly turned bright red. Had she...no. OK. She remembered everything now. Well, she had to admit, she was suddenly glad that he had turned her down cold. She chuckled slightly. OK, maybe not so "cold." Poor guy... Can't hide things from an empath, after all...
        She frowned suddenly. But being an empath did make things difficult sometimes. Like now. Because she knew that he *had* wanted her. But he had refused. Her frown deepened. She stood up and walked outside, stretching her back out and breathing deeply. It was a beautiful night. She sighed to herself. Why were things always so difficult? Once, just *once*, she wanted something to be simple.
        "Are you feeling better?"
        She jumped a foot in the air when she heard Mark's voice. She instantly flushed bright red. "I...I...yes."
        Mark shuffled his feet into the ground, feeling embarrassed himself. Both of them had left themselves exposed...now facing each other was nearly impossible.
        Christine opened her mouth and closed it almost instantly, then sighed and started again, staring and the ground. "I...I wanted to say thank you. I was...I wasn't myself last night. Thanks f-for...for no...for not..."
        He chuckled dryly. "For not screwing you."
        She turned redder. "I...I wouldn't have phrased it quite like that..."
        "Oh, yes you would have. Once you managed to finish the sentence through all that stumbling."
        "You know, you're making it very difficult, here." she said, biting back a smile.
        Mark grinned. "I try."
        "You are one obnoxious son-of-a-bitch." Christine said, giving up at her attempt to not smile.
        Mark shrugged. "What can I say? You bring out the best in me."
        "Oh, I'm so lucky."
        Mark smiled again, then his face settled. "Seriously, Christine...you don't have to say anything."
        They were both silent. Then, tentatively, Christine opened her mouth again. "Di...did y-you mean what you said?"
        "I...said a lot of things." he said, staring at his feet and hoping that by playing stupid she wouldn't push the issue. He knew full well what she was talking about.
        She looked at him, then started staring at her feet again. Damn, they were becoming interesting... "Wh-what you said about...when you said no, because...because you didn't want me to...to...regret...be-because you...c-ca...care..."
        He started staring at his feet, too. "Yeah." he said softly. Damn, his feet were becoming interesting. "I...I meant it." *** *** *** ***         There was silence. A long silence. Neither of them quite knew what to say. Things were out in the open, now. And nothing said now--he knew, she knew--would be able to be taken back.
        Christine sighed, frowning slightly. Well, this couldn't go on forever. She knew that. She knew she could let things go and everything would slide back into normal--but things would never really be the same. There would always be something, but it would be unsaid and a weight. "So now what?" she whispered softly, looking at her hands.
        Mark glanced over at her, watching how she stretched her fingers and examined them. She had a pianist's fingers--long and slender. Amazing, really--they looked so incredibly delicate, but he knew they were strong enough to break bones and rend solid steel. Very much a reflection of the woman herself. He felt an urge to take one of her hands; to see what it felt like between his own; to see if it felt as delicate as it looked.
        *That* got stomped down on and fast.
        "I don't know." he said honestly. He stared out into space, now. "Why did you want to know? If I had meant it, I mean."
        She studied her hand more, staring at the fine network of veins below the surface. One talon traced a vein gently. "I...don't know. I suppose I just...I...I had to know. I needed to know if you were serious, or just looking for an excuse..."
        "And here I thought you were an empath." he said with a faint grin.
        She looked at him then. "I am. But...sometimes, I have to...I have to hear things, too. I'm only...I'm only human." she said with a faint shrug, her eyes flicking away from him to stare off to the side. She let her hair cover half of her face, suddenly grateful for the shield it provided. Everything was so confusing now. So much that seemed out of whack, off-kilter, least of all herself. She didn't know heads from tails anymore.
        There was a long silence again, neither of them quite knowing what to say. Finally, Christine spoke again. Her voice was a quiet whisper, almost unintelligible. "I woke up because of you, you know."
        Mark frowned slightly, feeling a strange quickening in his chest. "What did you say?"
        "I...I said I woke up because of you." she said, her voice only just a trace louder, only just enough to be audible. "I...all the time I was trying to wake up, part of me wanted to stay asleep and in that world. But...the form that my subconscious trying to wake me up took the entire time was you. Always. And...Erik was the one trying to keep me asleep. But in the end..." she said, and trailed off again, not knowing how to finish.
        Mark wasn't sure what to say. So he just sighed. "Christine, listen, I know that you'll neve..."
        "I forgive you." she said, looking at him suddenly. She raised her head. "I do. I...that spell... Everything has a reason. Everything occurs because it's supposed to. And Hecate's spell was like that. I...in that last dream, I dreamed about what my life would have been like if Oberon had never put that damned spell on Erik. If we could have been happy together. It was a life I always wondered about, always. But...I had to figure out a lot of things, Mark, and one of them was you. I had to...I had to face a lot of my own issues with what happened. I had to stop lying to myself. I know now that that wasn't you, but...I did a lot of thinking, and I remember all of it. I had to let it go, Mark, to move on with my life. I let it go then...and I let it go now. I let go of a lot of things...a lot of foolish dreams I should have let go off a long time ago." She smiled faintly. "So...I suppose this means you're free to go. I...I can take you home, now."
        Mark's jaw tightened. "Home, eh? I didn't have much of a home. Nothing but fighting a fight I can never really win, me against the rest of the world, it seemed like...a life I don't fit into anymore or even know why I'm doing anything anymore. It's not much of a home." he said, his voice bitter. "It's just a bunch of walls and space."
        Christine smiled faintly. "Better than having no place to go...wandering for your life, just looking for a place you'll be safe. A place of your own." She stared out into the landscape again, then glanced over at him. "Are you ready?"
        "Hunh?"
        She smiled faintly. "To go. No point in wasting time."
        "Oh. When will you return me?"
        She shrugged. "It wouldn't do to much good to put right back where I got you from. Out of the frying pan, eh?" she smiled faintly. "After about what, three months has passed? I'll take you to three months after when I picked you up. If "losing" three months is all right with you. It should, if nothing else, have cooled the Quarrymen at least a bit."
        "Yeah. That's fine." he said absently, staring off into space.
        "All right, then." she said, feeling a strange dread in her stomach, but ignoring it. What was she hesitating for, anyway?
        "All right, then."
        She picked up the Phoenix Gate. "Diflagrate muri tempi et intervalia." *** *** *** ***         Mark looked around his apartment. "Good thing I paid up for six months in advance." he said flatly. He looked over at Christine. "I..."
        "I guess this is good-bye." she said, a strained smile on her face. "I bet you didn't think you'd ever get rid of me."
        He managed a wan smile back, but it felt so false he was sure she was able to see straight through it. "I didn't."
        She stared at her feet again. "Well..." She inhaled deeply and looked at him. Jesus Christ, why was she dragging her feet about this and getting out of here? She had been looking forward to this instant since she had picked him up--so where was the feeling of euphoria? Euphoria was the furthest thing from how she felt right now. What once seemed so simple had become horrendously complex and she felt that she couldn't sort it out at all. That scared her. Part of her wanted to go for the simple reason that at least then her world would go back to normal--or at least something she understood--but part of her was a hard knot of dread. "Have a good life, Mark. I...doubt very seriously I'll see you again."
        She held out her hand to shake his. He took it slowly, then didn't let go. He bit his lip and suddenly hugged her.
        When they separated, she attempted a smile again, but it felt wrong. "Good-bye." she said again. "Diflagrate muri tempi e..."
        He heard her begin the Latin chant. That was when, full force, it hit him. When she left, he was never going to see her again.
        "Wait!" *** *** *** ***         His sudden yell startled her and she dropped the Phoenix Gate. "What?"
        Mark opened his mouth once or twice, then shut it sharply.
        "What is it?"
        He shut his eyes then opened them, not knowing what to say now. At the time, yeah, it had been pretty obvious he had to stop her from going. But...well, what did he say? How did he say anything at all? Now that he had stopped her from going...now what?
        He looked at her. She was looking at him, her brown eyes large and clear. He drew in a large breath. "I...um...well..."
        "Yes?"
        "Jesus." he mumbled under his breath. Now came the hard part. He was so tempted to mutter 'nothing' and let her go. It would be so easy...but why the hell should he ever make his life easy, especially since he knew afterwards he'd be kicking himself for the rest of his life if he let this moment slip through his fingers?
        "Christine..."
        "Yes?"
        He began nervously huffing. Sheesh--he felt like a tongue-tied teenager. It was ridiculous. *He* was ridiculous. He should have just let her go... "N-nothing."
        Christine looked at him, wrinkling her brow. "It's not 'nothing,' Mark. What is it?"
        He shuffled his feet, running his hand through his hair nervously. "Jesus." he mumbled again.
        "Why did you yell for me to wait?" she said when he fell silent again.
        "Because...because I suddenly realized that when you left, I was never going to see you again. And...and I'm not ready for that. Christine...good Lord, there's no way to say it but *to* say it. Christine...I...Jesus...I love you."
        The gate fell out of her hands and clanged on the ground. It bounced once or twice and then rattled as it finally came to a stop. Christine just blinked. Repeatedly. Her jaw dropped. Her mouth moved a few times, but no sound came out.
        While she was trying to get her wits together, Mark began pacing nervously, jamming his hands into his pockets. "Well? Are you going to say anything or just stand there with your jaw hanging open?"
        "Standing here with my jaw hanging open is looking pretty good right now." she said, still blinking repeatedly.
        "You've no ideas the wonders this is doing for my ego right now." he said flatly.
        She snorted, then shook her head. "Jesus."
        "That's my line."
        She laughed. "Ahh, yes, silly me." She sighed and looked at him, shaking her head. "You do make things complicated."
        "And you're still avoiding the issue."
        "I know. It's *so* much easier that way."
        "Well, I make things complicated, remember?" he retorted.
        There was silence now. Christine sighed again. "I don't quite know what to say." she finally said. "But you were honest with me, and I can't rightly do less, can I?"
        She began pacing nervously. "For a very, *very* long time, I *hated* you. Wanted your head on a stick. Then I get ordered to find you, save your butt, and stay with you until I had forgiven you. I thought forgiveness was impossible, let alone even *liking* you. And after Hecate's spell...after those dreams..."
        She looked at him. "I...I just can't deal with this right now. I...it's all just too much in too short of a time." She shook her head, frowning and feeling stupid and feeling, stupidly, like she was going to burst into tears. "I...I..." She suddenly grabbed the Phoenix Gate in a tighter grasp. "Diflagrate muri tempi et intervalia!" *** *** *** ***         She felt like a complete and total coward.
        Nothing wrong with that! a little voice yelled in her head. Nothing at *all*.
        She felt like cursing. God damn it, she just couldn't deal with this. Not at all. She did know one thing, however. She was *not* telling him what happened in her dream. No, no, no. But she closed her eyes for a minute. It had felt, well...
        That was how she had known that everything else was a lie, in that world. After that, she realize that nothing had felt real or right, except for him. But that was a dream and it really wasn't even him. Just her mind trying to get her to wake up...wasn't it? And as for everything she had seen, felt, pried out of her own mind...it was just a dream, right? Just a dream?
        She frowned. She needed to think. She would think, and she would decide. There was nothing else she could do, after all. *** *** *** ***        Mark heard a voice singing. He woke up suddenly, jolting out of bed--he had long ago taught himself to waken at the slightest sound.
        "Vogliatemi bene, un bene piccolino, un bene da bambino quale a me si conviene."
        It was a voice he knew. One he knew very well. When he realized he was awake, he knew that it was not a dream. He was not dreaming. He was hearing *her* voice. "Christine?"
        She was at the window. And in typical form, she'd picked the lock. It was open. He snorted--she was *good*. So there she was, in the window, the moon behind her. Her voice was soft.
        She just looked at him. "Do you know what that means, Mark?"
        He shook his head.
        "It's from Madama Butterfly. It means...it means 'love me a little, a love like a child, for that is what suits me'." she said, not moving. She smile faintly. "Un bene piccolino...a small love. I don't think I could deal with more than that...'modest and quiet, yet as vast as the sky'."
        "Christine..." he began.
        She simply held up her hand. "Un bene piccolino..." she whispered, her eyes shut, shaking slightly. "It's all I can bear and all I can give. If you want it."
        He was silent for a moment, staring at her in the moonlight. "Yet as vast as the sky." he whispered, and held out his hand to her.

*** *** *** ***

The end