A/N - Sorry for the delay, and thanks to all of you who sent encouraging messages. I haven't forgotten or abandoned this story... I'm just a slow writer. Anyway, here's chapter 42. Thanks for reading :-)

They ascended the stairs in total darkness. Christine gripped Erik's hand tightly, as he seemed to know exactly where they were going. They moved quickly, Christine having to trot to keep up with Erik's assertive stride. Occasionally he would take them on an abrupt turn and they'd walk for a bit… and then climb some more. In the dark, Christine was disoriented. There were no landmarks, no way of knowing where she was.

Even more unnerving - she was beginning to grasp the scope of just how silently Erik moved. Her senses were heightened in the dark; she was wholly aware of her every breath, the rustle of clothing. Even still, Erik made no sound at all as he swiftly maneuvered them through the corridors. She could not guess how he managed it, but even his footsteps were silent.

If it wasn't for the constant pressure of his hand, the sensation of his thumb rubbing idle circles on her wrist, she would think herself completely alone.

"Say something, Erik," she whispered.

"Like what?"

"Anything… I'm just… I need to hear your voice," she confessed. "I'm scared of the dark."

He chuckled. "You're a funny little thing, sometimes," he said absently. "I like the dark. It's easier. In the dark, I feel like I'm in control."

"Seriously?" Christine asked incredulously. "You control everything… every single detail. You always get your way. Everywhere you go, you just make these… decrees… and everyone falls into line. I don't think anyone would dare go against you."

"You do," he pointed out. "All the time. You never do as you're told." There was laughter in his tone and Christine knew that he was baiting her.

"I refuse to respond to that," she said, primly, and that earned her another chuckle.

"Christine, I-" Erik bit off his words, his breath hitching ever so slightly.

"What's wrong?"

"I like holding your hand," he said, softly.

She smiled and her heart broke for him a bit. For someone so complicated, he said the simplest things at times. Childlike things - as if he was compelled to verbally recognize what everybody else took for granted.

The man was a whirlwind, and it was easy to get caught up in the power and dominance he radiated. And then there were moments like these… Christine realized that, for all his genius, he was still somewhat of an emotional novice.

"That's good," she assured him, "I like holding your hand, too."

She followed him a little closer, he held her a little tighter.

-0-0-

Besides Erik, there was no one who had more cause to hate and fear gypsies than Rodolphe. He'd toured in one of their circuses before, long ago. The Strongest Man in the World, they'd called him. But it was all a sham; smoke and mirrors and little substance.

Rudolphe's stay at the asylum ought to have been a temporary one. His excessive - and expensive - drinking and opium habits had gotten him dumped in Dr. Gagnier's lap by his uncle. A effort to scare him straight… or so he'd assumed at the time. Many years later, he'd discovered that Gagnier had signed his death certificate and sent it to his family, leaving him free and clear to be misused as the doctor saw fit. Many of the doctor's test subjects had fallen prey to the same scheme.

The insult to injury was that he hadn't even been part of Gagnier's experiment! The man had been obsessed by perfecting the specimen of beauty, that was true… but that was not why he placed the comically large implants under the skin of Rudolphe's arms and thighs. No, he'd been disfigured on request, pre-purchased by a carnival looking for a strongman bigger and even more exaggerated than any man could naturally achieve. A walking, talking caricature.

Desperate for coin, the doctor realized he could finance his bizarre experiments by selling off freaks to sideshows. He'd begun to collect money from both ends - charging families to take inconvenientrelatives off their hands, only to turn around and sell them to others for a second profit. And, when he had no failed experiments to part with, he took special orders.

A freak on-demand. Created and sold like a mail order garment.

"Not exactly what I had in mind for you when we first met," the doctor had said as he administered the medication to render him unconscious. "But, needs must, I'm afraid."

Rudolphe had struggled with all his might, to no avail. The last thing he remembered was Gagnier looking down at him with sympathetic eyes, saying, "The scientific community thanks you for your sacrifice."

Thus began his career and some of the darkest years of his life.

He never spoke of those years in the circus, not even after all this time. All he would say was that they were nightmarish... and that it was almost ironic how the only reason he survived was by nursing his bitterness toward the very man who'd set him on that journey.

But it didn't last forever. Eventually, Rudolphe found a way to leave the circus. He returned to the asylum, intent on destroying the doctor who created him.

Only to find that another man had beaten him to it.

Without his singular goal to focus on, Rudolphe found himself adrift. Desolate and confused, he'd looked to Erik for direction.

Erik, who'd brought him into the fold without hesitation. Who'd showed him his name, cleverly painted on the skull - a sign that his vengeance had been wrought, after all - and stood in benevolent silence as Rudolphe screamed and wept and railed in the very room the crimes against him had been performed.

Erik had given him a new chance, a home and a family. Safety. Cut off from the world that would seek to harm and use him, Rudolphe had been instantly welcomed by the only people who could truly understand his brokenness. The years that followed were some of the happiness in his life. He wouldn't trade them for all the world.

But he never forgot. His nightmares might have lessened, but the revulsion of his past life stayed with him, like a shadow in the back of his mind. Every morning, after he shaved and cleaned his teeth, he would stare at his reflection in the mirror and say, "Never again."

He'd never be the gyspies' freak again. No matter what he had to do, he'd never let himself be taken. And he'd prevent his friends from enduring the same horror.

Whatever it took.

-0-0-

"Where are we?" Christine asked.

"Farther up than you think we are," Erik answered in that enigmatic way of his, "but not as far as I'd like us to be. We keep getting diverted; parts of the asylum are compromised."

Then they came to a sudden halt and Erik cursed under his breath.

"This passage is completely blocked. We'll have to go through the main areas now.

"What do you think is going on out there?"

"If I had to guess? General mayhem. I can't say if it's on our side or theirs - I suspect both. Large groups can devolve into wanton destruction at the best of times. An angry mob loose in an insane asylum is not likely to encourage impulse control on either end." His voice was mild, if a bit sardonic… but his unblinking raptor's gaze was calculating. Christine had no doubt his clever mind was turning a mile a minute even as he was explaining himself to her.

"I have safe rooms on every floor," he continued, "but these aren't the type of people you can run drills with. I've a few sane, capable people to look out for dozens who are… not. I'm praying they're staying out of trouble until I can get to the roof and buy them time to evacuate."

"You don't strike me as a praying man," Christine observed.

"There's not a lot of choice, right now," he replied. "These people… they can't be captured. They can't. I know what they gypsies will do to them and they've already been through so much…"

He trailed off and Christine gave his hand a squeeze. This was the first moment he'd seemed the slightest bit shaken and she remembered that, cold and distant as he was, he truly and deeply loved these people.

They won't be taken. We'll stop them. It will all be fine… all thoughts that Christine scrapped the second they entered her mind. She wanted to reassure him, but lies and platitudes wouldn't do. Not with Erik. Guilt upon guilt heaped on her shoulders. So much she almost wished he'd rage at her, just to give them both something to focus on.

"Erik, I-"

"Hush now," he whispered. "Hear that? The door just cleared. Now is our chance…"

With a murmured prayer of her own, Christine followed Erik as they stepped out into the unknown.

-0-0-

Rudolphe awoke roughly, jerked into consciousness by the clanging of bells. He'd been having another nightmare. Or, more like a memory. Gagnier was handing him over to the gypsies… although, in the dream, instead of being too drugged to resist, he was overpowered, dragged away by hands that gripped and pulled at him no matter how hard he struggled.

His eyes snapped open to find the cause of such a sensation. His neighbor, Valentin, shook him frantically, his white-knuckled fingers digging hard into Rudolphe's forearm.

"Come, neighbor," the Valentin cried, desperately, "Come away, for we are the end for us!"

Rudolphe tried to make sense of the man's words. Valentin was dear and loyal, but simple in mind and speech came to him with much difficulty. His words were slurred, his construction convoluted, but it spoke to his desperation that he was attempting such a feat at all.

He brushed of the remaining daze of sleep and jumped into action, leaping from his bed. Already he could hear the sound of pounding footsteps and raised voices in the hall as bedroom doors were wrenched open one by one. Valentin must not have been in his room - that was the only way he could have escaped to warn him.

Not even bothering to dress, Rudolphe barely took the time to don his slippers and retrieve the knife he kept beneath his pillow, taking his companion by the hand and leading him from the room. There was a safe room through the kitchen, a false wall in the pantry that served as a doorway. Jean-Pierre had shown it to him when he started working in the kitchens. It wasn't far from his bedroom - they just had to get there without being seen.

They made their way down the corridor as quietly as possible. Rudolphe, alert and on edge while Valentin stayed close beside him, following his lead with absolute trust.

They reached a place where the hallway forked into two directions. "Stay right here," Rudolphe commanded. "I'll see which way is safest."

Valentin dropped his hand from Rudolphe's and stood obediently still while his friend turned left and disappeared from sight.

Rudolphe trotted a few steps down the hall before he heard voices he didn't recognize. Abruptly he retraced his steps and examined the left hand path. Yes, that seemed safe. Satisfied, he turned back around to retrieve Valentin.

"This way," he whisper-shouted, eyes still fixed forward as he beckoned from behind his back.

He heard a cry and whirled around to see Valentin being restrained by two men. Their garb was colorful - simple clothes adorned with bright strips of cloth that made them seem both cheery and menacing.

Rudolphe's stomach clenched.

Gypsies.

For a split moment of paralyzing fear, Rudolphe considered running to save himself. But… that would mean abandoning Valentin to the gypsies and whatever cruelty they felt like inflicting.

Perhaps there was a time when he might have. He'd vowed he'd never go back to the circus. Never that, no matter what.

And yet…

If he'd nearly been driven mad with rage and fear, how would gentle Valentin fare under such treatment?

And why did he care? Because he did care. He cared a great deal. So much, in fact, that he could not force his feet to turn around and run.

He'd changed somehow. Allowed just enough friendship into his heart that Love might speak Fear into submission. How had such a thing happened without his notice?

Regardless, it seemed he'd made his decision. He did the thing he swore he'd never do and ran toward the gypsy intruders, even as they'd converged on Valentin's cowering form.

Without the slightest hesitation, he reached the first of the two men, pulling him backward even as he thrust the knife into his kidney and twisted. They gypsy's cry of pain and surprise attracted the attention of his partner, who turned to plant his fist into Rudolphe's face. The man barely grazed his cheek, though, as Rudolphe ducked and stabbed between his attacker's ribs… once, twice, three times with blurring speed.

Both men collapsed, clutching their wounds, as Rudolphe reached for Valentin, who stared at him with shock and just a hint of fear. Despite his wary expression, though, Valentin readily accepted his beckoning hand.

One of the injured gypsies seemed to regain his wits long enough to put two fingers in his mouth and whistle loudly, alerting any friends who might aid him… or, more likely, avenge his death.

Rudolphe and Valentin found themselves pursued.

In the end, they hadn't made it to the kitchen safe room at all. Realizing they'd soon be cornered, Rudolphe made a split second decision and took a sharp turn to one of the doors leading outside. The pair nearly flew through the door, pursuers hot on their heels, and headed for the cover of the trees.

Their freedom was short lived, however. They'd only taken one or two breaths of the cold night air before they were shoved to their knees by the gypsy guarding the door. Apparently he'd been stationed there to catch any stragglers who might think to get away.

Rudolphe tried to rise and the gypsy pushed him down again, planting a heavy foot on his back to keep him prone on his belly. Chest heaving, Rudolphe dug his nails into the dirt, willing to crawl if it meant escape, but he was stuck fast, not gaining a single inch. He turned to the kneeling Valentin in despair. "Run!" he whispered, hoping his friend would have the cognition necessary to save himself.

Valentin simply shook his head. "You… sleeptalk... next door." his eyes were swimming as he reached out and took hold of his neighbor's clawed fingers. "Dream and talk. I… I…" he shook his head, looking for words, to convey that he knew of his friend's torture. "We'll stick together and keep them from taking each other away."

Rudolphe's breath caught, seized with emotion. Horrid as his life had been before, he was ever grateful for the acceptance he'd found in this place. A sensation of peace swept over him, knowing that, even though his time here had come to an end, he had not a single regret.

Several gypsies approached the asylum from a distance, even as their pursuers closed in on them from behind.

Valentin cried out as he was roughly hauled to his feet. Someone grabbed Rudolphe by the back collar of his nightshirt and yanked, bringing him up even as buttons went flying in all directions and the shirt gaped, baring his shoulders and grotesque implants for all to see.

The man holding him paused for a minute as a glint of recognition spread across his face. "Lookie what we found!" he called out. "Our very own strongman and… I dunno… his pet?" His captors from behind shoved them both, so that they took several stumbling steps toward the approaching gypsies.

One man, a leader among them if Rudolphe could judge from his richer clothes and jewelry, looked him up and down with an appreciative grin. "Oh the boss'll like this," he said. He glanced over at Valentin with a frown and a shrug. Waving a dismissive hand, he added, "You can do what you want with the other."

"YOU. WILL. NOT!" Rudolphe roared, taking an aggressive step forward.

He flashed the knife that he had somehow managed to keep hold of... and his tormentors simply laughed. The two were outnumbered, surrounded. One freak with a knife was no match for them all.

"Oh that's simply… adorable!" one of them sneered, face alight with humor.

But Rodolphe's own expression was cold with resolve. He turned his weapon, not on the gypsies, but on his friend, whose eyes (though maybe it was his imagination) seemed brighter and more intelligent than ever before, as if God was giving the poor man a moment of clarity.

The two captives shared a moment, a silent conversation of utmost magnitude. Then Valentin gave a nearly imperceptible nod. Rudolphe's lips tightened into a firm line, as he gripped his friend's hair. "I'll see you soon," he murmured, using his deadly knife to slice a decisive line across the other man's throat.

Valentin dropped to the ground and Rodolphe turned back to their would-be captors, who were suddenly more wary than amused. "You'll not take us," he assured them, calmly, "Not one."

He looked at the leader, maintaining eye contact as he quickly and precisely slit his own throat.

Several of the men staggered back, wholly disturbed as they realized the length some of their prisoners would take to avoid capture.

"Bloody lunatic freaks," the leader spat, though even his voice seemed shaky. He grabbed the shirt front of a young man who might have run and thrust him forward. "Back you go," he ordered. "Find another. And… tie 'em up next time."

"But…" one gypsy complained.

"This is for Javert, for justice," he interrupted, "And for the circus. Think of your mother, your pretty new wife… they'll live like royalty with the money these abominations'll bring in. You want to tell them your cowardice is the reason our troupe falls into poverty?"

The two men lay dead at their feet, eyes frozen open, glaring up at them. In the distance, they could hear an authoritative voice shouting, saw the silhouette of the vicomte, running at them as he hollered.

They ignored both, marching back into the asylum toward what was beginning to feel like a mission in futility.

Pride, it seemed, was a powerful motivator. As was greed.

-0-0-

Mathilde soothed her fussy baby, calming her gently in the rocking chair that Erik had carved. There was a ruckus outside that made the mother uneasy. She dared not go out and check on the disturbance; instead, she found herself a quiet corner to hide away from the noise, hoping the chaos wouldn't wake Hannah up from her nap.

Until the chaos came to her door.

Men barged in - two of them - one thick and burly, the other tall and gangly, both looking weathered and determined.

"Found another one!" the burly man hollered to some unseen companions outside.

Mathilde sprang from her chair, backing into the wall and clutching her infant protectively to her chest.

"D-don't touch us!" she cried.

She tried to rear back when the gangly man reached for her, but he was too fast. His fingers grabbed the edge of the baby blanket. The bundle in her arms was ripped away, shaken until it fell apart in pieces.

"What is this?" the man sneered in disgust.

Strips of cloth lay scattered on the floor.

Mathilde battled a sudden onslaught of images.

A smiling, cherubic face.

A sickness that simply wouldn't quit.

Doctors in protective masks, shaking their heads and looking at her with pity.

Coffins, lowered into the ground one by one. A new one every week, it seemed.

"It's just you and I now, baby. Oh, Hannah, don't fret! Mama will take care of you. I'll always protect you."

Rosy cheeks flashing redder with fever, then slowly paling. Little eyes that didn't seem to want to open. Tiny fingers that wouldn't grasp at hers.

Nuns pleading with her to let go. Insisting that they take the baby, give it a proper burial.

But she hadn't wanted to let go! She couldn't leave Hannah alone in the dark! Not the child she'd sworn to protect! She was all she had left in this world...

Then, one day, she'd looked down and seen her baby, whole and healthy again. It was all a dream! she'd thought. My Hannah is alive! She'd been granted a second chance. This time she would not fail. She'd never let her baby out of her sight again!

Mathilde looked at the upturned room around her. The men grabbed at her, marking her arms with bruises she couldn't feel. They examined her for oddities, asking her questions that she couldn't hear over the buzzing in her ears. She fell on the floor as they judged her worthless, instead searching the room for valuables.

Her eyes riveted to the only valuable in the room.

A baby blanket, unraveled. Nothing but rags inside it.

Her heart broke again and again until it felt like she was coming apart at the seams. No, no, no! She cried, clamping her hands over her ears. She rocked herself back and forth as her arms ached with emptiness. She wasn't even aware that she was screaming.

-0-0-

Raoul vomited in the bushes beside the house as he was suddenly struck by the horror of what he had wrought.

A man had just killed himself before his eyes.

He had turned to see a gang of gypsies converge upon two men. The two were in robes, dressed for bed, looking altogether harmless before the group that seemed as if they were about to rough the pair up, or worse. One ruffian shoved the first man forcefully, causing him to fall to his knees. His companion tried to help but fared no better. Raoul's eyes narrowed - the long lines of muscle roped the larger man's arms and legs, their bulges visible by the way they pressed taut against his clothing.

Raoul had frowned, then, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. A man such as this should be able to hold his own well enough, shouldn't he? But he seemed more or less immobilized. The smaller man stood beside him, quiet as a lamb, not offering a hint of resistance.

What was going on here? Perhaps they were spies of some sort? Cavorting with his gypsy allies? Or maybe they were freeing their own prisoners from Erik's stronghold. It was possible that Christine was not the only captive held here…

But… what of the gypsies? Their body language was too aggressive for this to be a joyous reunion.

A brief flicker crossed his mind - a conversation with Christine - and he vaguely remembered hearing tales of those who'd found refuge in the asylum. Lackwits and lunatics… was it possible the man was strong in body but weak in mind? What would the gypsies want with him?

One of them tore at the man's shirt, baring his upper torso. The man shouted something he couldn't quite make out.

"Ho, there!" Raoul began, starting at a jog toward the gypsies. Enough was enough. They were going too far and, by God, he'd take them to task over it! Sometimes men's morality transformed during the heat of battle, and he'd not let...

He'd taken a mere three strides before he saw the two men drop to the ground, blood spewing from their necks as the gypsies looked on in disbelief.

Raoul was too far… he picked up his pace but, by the time he'd reached the horrid scene, most of the men had left - heading back into the building and leaving the two bodies in the dirt like so much garbage. One gypsy remained and Raoul snagged his sleeve before he could follow the others.

"What have you done?" Raoul had cried. "This was not our agreement!"

The gypsy had shaken off Raoul's restraining hand and scoffed, "Agreement! Bah! Go back to your toy soldiers, little boy. You are in over your head."

With a hard shove, Raoul had been repelled back over the bodies and onto the blood soaked dirt between them. He'd scrambled back in horror; by the time he looked up again, the gypsy was gone.

And then… a scream. Oh, Lord, the most soul-rending scream ever heard by the ears of man.

It was the scream that undid him - so full of pain and fear, the anguished cry of a woman who'd lost everything - and he found himself hunched over, sicker than he'd ever been in his life.

God in heaven, what have I done?

The truth hit him, ugly and hard. He'd wanted Erik - wanted his blood more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. Wanted it more than his last breath. More than Christine.

Yes, even more than Christine.

This expedition had begun as a mission to take back his fiancee. Slip in and out with Christine, leave Erik to the mercy of the mob. That had been their arrangement.

"I have seen where he hides," he'd told the eager crowd, spurred on by the eager expression on the gypsy chief's face, "I can take you to him, if you promise to help me.

But the closer they came to the estate, the more Raoul's anger grew. The gypsies and the villagers that followed behind were chanting, fueling each other's hatred as their rage rose to a fever pitch.

By the time they'd reached the asylum's gates, he'd been ready to tear the place down brick by brick.

It hadn't occurred to him - not for a single second - that there were innocents trapped in there with him. Innocents that, if Christine's tales had been accurate, had been sorely abused… some disfigured as to appear most monstrous. He'd latched onto the 'monstrous' part and disregarded the 'innocent'.

But what madness would cause those two men to so calmly kill each other?

And that scream... Lord, that horrible, heart wrenching scream.

And then a horrible realization. The gypsies had wanted to avenge their leader… but, it was more than that. They ran a circus. They had come for freaks.

They'd used him.

And Raoul hadn't cared. Even had he realized the double-cross... he'd wanted Erik's blackened heart so badly that he might've allowed it anyway.

Even now! He winced, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Even now he was thinking of Erik when he should be thinking of a way out of the mess, a way to take back Christine and…

Oh Christine… she'll never forgive me! Not now...

It seemed hopeless. The gypsies had written him off and were wreaking havoc inside. In his absence, his own men seemed to have lost their focus, so keyed up that - rather than waiting for Erik to reveal himself - they'd taken to shooting anything and everything that came out of the building, picking off both inmate and gypsy indiscriminately. There was large tree that had been set ablaze and people had begun to light torches off it.

It had become a true mob, a mass of adrenaline and hate, multiplying itself tenfold until no one - not even Raoul - could control it.

But… Christine was still in there. He could still get her out, even if she hated him for it afterward. But even that plan was sketchy - when he'd stolen her key, all he'd discovered was the way in to the asylum, not where to go from there. She could be anywhere.

That screaming! It won't stop!

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, but the wailing persisted. Was it Christine's voice he heard? Or was it simply some other woman crying out...

Simply some other woman. Have I become such a monster that I would think such things?

There was nothing for it. His vengeance had been denied, his lady love as good as lost, his honor shattered and his men out of control. So, into the asylum he went. No plan, no backup...

He followed the sound of screams.

-0-0-

They emerged into total chaos.

Erik whispered a curse, then looked down at Christine, who had grown pale.

"How is your head?" he asked softly.

She spared him a distracted glance. "Fine. Why?"

"I imagine the drug I administered for your head, mixed with your body's adrenaline, is probably doing some interesting things to you at this moment."

"That's not it, and you know it," she whispered, eyes fixated on the overturned fixtures, ears trained on the sounds of shouts and crashes. "This… is all my fault."

"If you're keen to assign blame, I suggest we place it on your fiance's shoulders. Better still, let us put those thoughts aside entirely and keep moving. I can activate the projections simultaneously from the roof, but we've still a great deal to do if-"

"I understand," she interrupted. "Work now, fret later. I'm trying. It's just… how are you so calm? Aren't you angry?"

"Dear Christine," he said softly, "I am feeling more rage than you can possibly comprehend."

Christine shuddered, still on edge; still waiting for his hatred and condemnation. She'd experienced glimpses of his passion, and even those minute slips had given her a hint as to the sheer magnitude of emotion he was able to keep buried behind his unaffected veneer.

A loud shout caught their attention. Erik swept Christine behind him, a wall of protection between her and the pair of men who came barrelling down the hallway. Everything seemed to be happening so fast, Christine's mind could hardly make sense of who was chasing whom.

Erik, however, seemed to have no such problem. With the speed of a viper, he struck out and took one of the men by the neck. A quick flicker of movement from Erik's hands and the man was dead - all before Christine could so much as gasp her surprise.

Erik carelessly tossed the body to the side and directed his attention to the man's intended victim. He'd stopped to watch Erik's attack, blinking owlishly but seemingly unafraid.

"Remy," Erik said slowly. "Go to the small parlor, yes? Bar the door."

With an unsteady nod, the man began to wander off. Christine glanced around at Erik, who seemed exasperated.

"He'll forget," he mumbled, running a frustrated hand through his hair, "He always forgets." With great effort, he turned to Christine. "Go with him," he told her. "Make sure he gets there." It was nothing less than an order, and yet his voice grated as if his own throat protested the asking. As usual, he left no room for refusal - yet he almost seemed hopeful she might disobey.

Christine hesitated. "Promise me you'll be careful."

"I'm always careful," he quipped.

She grabbed his hand. "Erik, promise me… I need to know that you're safe."

His voice turned grave. "No, Christine… you need to know that I'm dangerous."

"That's not what I mea-"

"I know what you meant. I just… don't want you to forget what kind of man your Erik is. Members of the human race," he spat the words like they were a curse, "have attacked Erik's home and everything he holds dear. Safe is no longer an option. Every one of their lives is forfeit at my discretion. Everysingle one. Do you understand what I am saying, Christine? You're not to expect mercy from me this night. Not for them."

She blinked, taking in his meaning. He might be speaking of the mob in general, but it was Raoul he was warning her about. He was going to kill him. And he was daring her to argue.

Could she argue? Part of her wanted to. Raoul had been her friend once. She'd wronged him...

But, no. He'd made a choice - one that was beyond excusable. This went beyond hurt pride. She could abide his scorn, could even understand his hatred of Erik… but he'd come here with murder on his mind, even if he had to destroy innocents in the process.

Erik had multiple opportunities to kill the young man and hadn't. And now, Raoul had come to him. Christine would not tie Erik's hands when all he wanted to do was defend his home and family.

But what could she say? She could not approve, not killing.

"You'll not lose me," she promised. It was all she could say… but it was all he needed. The only promise he cared about.

He clutched her to his chest; a brief but desperate embrace. "I love you," he whispered into her hair. Then, just as quickly, he set her away from him.

"Go," he said. "I promise your Erik will return to you."

-0-0-0-

Christine sped through the hallways, hand in hand with Remy. She recognized him as the barber that Erik had conscripted to help him with the grooming of the most dangerous patients and, while his short term memory was spotty at best, he proved quite capable of taking care of both of them. He quickly forgot where they were going, but the overall sense of urgency was not lost on him. More than once, he'd dragged Christine into a closet or behind a corner. He covered her mouth when she might have screamed and given away their position.

Between the two of them, they made it safely to their destination.

Alas, the intruders had been there first. The room was in utter shambles - tables upended, windows smashed. The door was so badly damaged that Christine couldn't get it to close, even when she shoved her whole weight against it.

"There's no place to hide," she worried.

Remy thought hard. "The master wanted us to go to the small parlor," he said.

Christine shook her head as she watched him wander around, poking at things. "That's where we are, Remy."

He didn't seem to understand, "I think we should be headed to the small parlor. That's what the master wanted."

Christine closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Remy, I told you-"

But he was gone. Just… vanished.

"Remy?" Christine began to panic. How could he just disappear?

More noise in the hallway had Christine backing up toward the wall. People were coming back. She looked around frantically - no Remy and no place to hide. The doorway still hung open a good six inches, enough of a gap that someone could easily spot her. Worse, it still swung on its hinges; a sure sign that someone had been there.

"Look at that!" a voice called, "There's got to be someone there."

Nearly delirious with fear, Christine looked for a chair… a table leg… anything she might use as a weapon. She'd go down fighting.

She was still bent over, searching through the wreckage, when a thin hand snaked out from behind the bookshelf and tugged hard on the back of Christine's dress. She tumbled backward.

Suddenly, she found herself inside a small room, dimly lit and lightly furnished. Heart pounding, she spun back around just in time to see Rose sliding a the bookshelf back into place.

Other residents had found refuge there and were quietly playing cards in the corner, sparing her no notice.

Remy was there - he gave her a friendly wave.

"Where are we?" she asked, frankly surprised to still be alive. Her breath came out in pants; her body hadn't yet caught up with her brain.

"The small parlor, dear," Rose answered. "Erik did a bit of… redecorating… once my husband left. Many of the common rooms have these smaller annexes, in case of emergencies. That boy was always a touch paranoid," she added with a fond shake of her head.

"A good thing for it, too," Christine agreed, heart rate finally slowing, "otherwise we'd not be having this conversation."

There was banging around in the room she'd just been plucked out of, emphasizing her point. Men searching, shouting at each other, breaking things...

"I wouldn't worry about anyone finding us," Rose assured her. "But it does seem that we'll be here for a while longer, so you might as well settle in."

-0-0-

All things considered, Bastien held his own rather well. Oh, he'd been captured, of course, but there were three men knocked out cold on the ground as proof that he'd put up a good fight. Not to mention the large, darkening bruise forming on the jaw of the gypsy currently frog marching him out the room. Bastien just barely hid his self-satisfied grin when the man grimaced and spat a tooth out onto the floor as they walked.

Not bad for a grumpy old soldier with only one leg, he congratulated himself.

Perhaps the most consequential victory here was the fact that he'd been taken alive. Bastien had expected a quick bullet to the brain when he'd first seen the group approaching, and was genuinely surprised that they seemed more or less intent on capturing rather than killing him. Oh, he had no illusions about his precarious situation, but it was clear that - for the time being anyway - they seemed to find him more valuable alive than dead.

And so they'd taken his gun and restrained him. One man made to climb out the window in pursuit of the people Bastien had just freed when his comrade barked, "Get back in here! What's wrong with you? You know the rules. Everyone who leaves this way is shot on site." He'd given Bastien a teeth rattling shake, "Let's get this one back to the boss and then we'll go after the others."

Bastien paled a bit, hoping with all his might that between the grasshopper exploding the tree outside and his ill-fated battle inside, he'd given his charges enough diversion to cover their escape.

Must not think of that, he cautioned himself. He'd done what he could, dwelling on what might be was a distraction he could not afford. He had dozens of people he'd not yet accounted for, which meant he still had work to do. And not to forget - he thought as his captors jostled him roughly - my own future is not exactly secure, just yet.

Their party came to an abrupt halt as a wiry man, wearing bloodstained slippers, stepped into their path.

"Stay right there," a sneering gypsy ordered. Another removed a length of rope, as if he might attempt to capture the man. Bastien's thoughts went silent, a heavy lump lodged in his throat.

The man did not answer, but took a menacing step forward. He gripped a piece of bent pipe in each fist and he looked at them all assessingly.

It was this look in his eye that unsettled the gypsies. Whether they comprehended it on a higher level or not, some instinctual place in their psyches cried 'Predator!'... and they would have been right. The man's eyes glittered, revealing a soul so wild that no human rationale could break through.

Those were not the eyes of a man who saw the world in terms of logic and common sense.

But Bastien knew that. He knew this man, knew his story, just as he knew all the patients in Erik's asylum, and it filled him with a profound heaviness… a deep sorrow, knowing that he'd failed this man, who wouldn't listen to reason, wouldn't rush to save himself even if Bastien cried out a warning. The man grinned savagely. There was blood on his teeth.

More out of habit than intention, Bastien struggled, but the bruising grip on his bicep quickly reminded him of his helpless position and so he closed his eyes in grief over the man he wouldn't be able to save. The best Bastien could hope for was to keep himself alive long enough to rescue others. It felt cowardly but...

A stray thought injected itself into his mind; he wondered how the man escaped the locked rooms of the high security ward. The place where Erik housed the most violent of occupants - those beyond even his expert reach - whom he'd had to confine lest they pose a danger to themselves and others.

And, if he'd escaped… what did that mean for the others down there?

The click of a weapon readying had Bastien opening his eyes. He owed it to this man not to leave him alone in his final moments. His resignation turned to horror, however, when he realized just which weapon the gypsy planned to fire.

"NO! NOT THAT GUN!" Bastien shouted, trying to warn the looter who'd taken his rifle. The man either didn't hear him or didn't care as he quickly aimed and fired a grasshopper at the crazed inmate.

Time seemed to slow. The shot hit its target square in the chest, killing him instantly. But, unlike a regular bullet, the grasshopper became a raging fireball that exploded through the wall behind the victim, engulfing the adjoining room in white hot flames.

The shooter fell backwards, staggering into his dumbstruck companions as he was knocked unconscious by a piece of burning shrapnel. Men shouted, recognizing the danger but too stunned to know quite what to make of it.

Bastien could relate, he supposed; he'd felt much the same way the first time he'd fired one of the deceptive little bullets. Still, not one to let an opportunity pass, he took advantage of their inattention. He wrenched himself out of his captor's hands and took cover beneath a table as flaming debris rained down.

Smoke began to thicken as the flames caught on the drapes and wall decorations. Bastien crouched low and put a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. He crawled on his belly, feeling along the edges of the floor for the catch to a trapdoor he knew Erik would have hidden somewhere in this room. Must… be here… somew-YES! He nearly shouted in triumph as his fingers bumped against telltale indents.

Checking to make sure he was still unobserved, Bastien slid the floorboards aside and dropped into the crawl-space beneath. The fire was quickly spreading into the hall; at this rate, they wouldn't have long before the entire wing was ablaze. Erik's asylum did have some protections built in, and the safe rooms were especially well insulated, but that could only buy a few extra minutes.

The mob was waiting to shoot them down or run them through the instant they breached the asylum walls… but the unfortunate reality was that the safe rooms were no longer safe. Death by fire or death by gunshot? He deliberated for barely a heartbeat. There wasn't much they could do about the fire, but Erik could handle the villagers. He'd never let them down yet, so Bastien just had to trust he'd figure something out this time, as well.

It's settled then. Their run-or-hide strategy had just officially became a full scale evacuation.

"It's your time to shine, Erik," Bastien murmured into the darkness, "Because, ready or not, here we come."