Eeeek, please let me know what you think.


Chapter 3: Prison

Christine put on a burgundy dress Raoul had bought for her. A rose pattern in soft velvet dotted the sleeves, spread down the middle of the bodice around the buttons, and continued between the folds of the skirt. She pinned her hair up, fixed her hat, and tugged on the matching gloves. Then, she examined herself in the small oval mirror of her bedroom's vanity.

Her mother's face still blazed perfectly in her memory. Her dark brown hair had contained even more persistent ringlets than Christine's, which curled mostly starting below her ears. Her blue eyes resembled her mother's, and even in shape, they were the same. Her pointed nose came from her father's mother, her full lips from her mother's side of the family. Her mother had told her that her freckles, covering her cheeks and dusting the tops of her shoulders, must have trickled down from a red-headed great grandmother.

Blowing out a steady breath, Christine closed her eyes, then opened them again, staring at her reflection. She tried to see herself as others might see her – a rather plain country girl with small breasts and wide hips, a little too short in stature, an accent that some might find endearing.

Raoul had once said she had a natural magnetism that drew people to her, but Christine had never thought of herself as charismatic. Rather, she had been ignorable her whole life, the type of girl that no one noticed by their elbow or forgot she existed as soon as she left. She supposed that was why Raoul had surprised her at first. Instead of leaving, he had come back for more of her company again and again.

She had placed the rose he had given her on her first day here in a glass of water. Now on her bedside table, its petals, once lush and a deep red, were beginning to turn dark at the edges. Perhaps she should consider drying it properly, as a way of commemorating. But she was not sure yet what to celebrate.

Frowning at her reflection, she unpinned her hat and tossed it onto the dresser. The gloves quickly followed. She would not need either today. She would not be going anywhere.

The voice from the courtyard had called her "songbird." Christine felt that if she were a bird, then her wings had been clipped. She could no more fly out of this building than she could step out the front door and make her own way in society.

Which is why her excursions at night had come to mean the world to her. In that fraction of time, in that minute amount of space, she could pretend that she was no mere unmarried woman trapped within the boundaries of decorum and propriety. She could let loose her voice in ways it was typically restrained.

When she had spoken to the unseen voice, she had found her own voice again.

Therefore, tonight, she would ignore the voice's insistence that she stay inside. If he did not like it, he should have faced her like any dignified person and told her why directly.

She had not ventured outside today, so she did not realize how cold it had gotten until she opened the door leading to the courtyard. The chill slapped her cheeks. Autumn had crept in on silent feet, and she would need to bring her shawl or cloak with her from now on. Hesitating, she considering going to fetch hers, or at least retrieving her gloves, but she resolved that she simply would not stay late tonight.

It was a sensible way to reason with the voice's want that she keep away today. The chill was not quite enough to cause her breath to emerge in white wisps, but her fingers quickly grew frigid as she held the lantern aloft.

"Are you there?" she asked, seating herself on the bench. A scarf might be a clever idea next time as well, to wrap around her throat while she sang.

The voice did not reply.

Admittedly, she pouted a bit. Was he avoiding her now? Maybe she had angered him by coming out here against his wishes. She opened her mouth to state something about this being her own space, but she thought better of it. Even though she liked to think of the alcove as her own, she knew she no more possessed the stone bench, the vines, the high walls as Papa did the apartment in which they now lived.

"I understand if you are angry with me, but I have so few…" She trailed off, checking herself again. Her excuses sounded like complaints even to her ears, and Christine was not a complainer, never had been.

The voice still did not reply, and the thought struck her that perhaps he was not even here tonight.

She blew out a breath and contented herself with sitting for a while in the quiet. When she was not singing, she noticed the cacophony of other voices around her – that of insects prowling in the vines, the bubble of the fountain, the occasional whistle of a faraway train.

The fresh air began to ease her spirits, so she stood to leave. And then she heard the creak of the single door, which led to the courtyard, opening.

The voice suddenly snapped in her ear, "Turn off your lamp, foolish girl."

Immediately, she did so, throwing herself into darkness. The moon was a sliver in the sky, giving her enough light to see shapes, but her ears quickly attuned to the sound of the two men who had emerged into the courtyard. Their voices spoke in slurred French as they joked about a busty woman they had seen. The door shut behind them, and one of the men laughed crassly.

Christine's heart tried to leap from her chest, the beat of it loud in her ears. She did not recognize the voices of either man; they were certainly not that of her voice. For a moment, she hovered in indecision. If the men crossed past the fountain, and if they had a lantern, they would see her as soon as they went around the corner.

She heard the slight creak of something turning upon hinges. In the dim light, she saw that the small window to her right, the one that seemed separate from the first floor of the building, was now cracked open.

"Inside, quickly," the voice ordered again, and Christine did not have time to hesitate. She could hear the boots of the men scraping along the cobblestone path. She knew her father might be fired if she was caught wandering around in the middle of the night.

Taking her lantern with her, she shoved the window open further, revealing a dark chamber beyond. Another lamp glowed dimly in a corner, giving her enough vision to see that a table had been shoved underneath the window, giving her a way to climb down. She tucked her heavy skirts around her legs, then slid on her belly through the window.

She made more noise than she would have liked, climbing onto the wooden table. And she was far from graceful. The edge of her bodice caught on the frame of the window, and she definitely heard a rip before she landed onto the table. Quickly, she grabbed her lantern, and then she swung the window closed behind her, throwing the heavy black curtain closed.

Panting from her quick exertion, she eased down from the table and stepped further into what seemed like a small room. She could not distinguish much of its contents, except to the right, where there was what looked like a bed the size of a cot. As her eyes adjusted, her lips parted as she sucked in a startled breath.

Upon the bed sat a man, straight-backed, staring at her with cat-yellow eyes, which glowed faintly in the flicker of the lantern. His bare hands were spread across each of his thighs, his splayed fingers spider-like.

His dark figure began to rise when she saw him. He uncurled the long line of his body as he stood, and her eyes followed, widening in fear at his towering height, his form dressed all in black except for the white of a shirt peeking out at his lapels.

The clinking of chains caught her attention, and she gasped at the sight of metal shackles around his wrists. Her gaze darted back to his face, or what she thought was his face – all she could see were those golden eyes.

Who was he? What was he?

Her mouth opened with a rising scream.

Chains clanking, he moved, darting in a blur before she could react until he had spun her around and caught her against his chest. One hand gripped her upper arm, and another came across her mouth, cutting off her scream. She panicked, clutching at the broad palm, trying to claw the long, bony fingers from her mouth.

"Hush now, little bird," the man murmured.

She recognized the unseen voice immediately. This man, this tall pole of a man, was the one who had spoken to her the past two days. Except now instead of merely hearing his voice in her ear, she felt the rumble of it at her back and the slight warmth of his body behind hers.

He did not remove his hand from her mouth. But as her panic eased slightly, she was able to notice how carefully he kept his thumb from covering her nose, how firmly he immobilized her without hurting her. His hand was cold against her lower face. She stopped trying to pry his fingers away and instead relaxed her hands upon his – one on his bony knuckles, the other resting just before the metal cuff on his wrist and the edge of his shirtsleeve.

"Calm yourself," he said, voice sliding over her.

Beneath her fingertips, she felt his own racing pulse. Are you so affected… by me? she thought, and then scoffed. "Calm yourself, monsieur."

His answering huff of quiet laughter took her aback, but he moved away from her, palms raised as though showing her he was unarmed. When he took a step to the side, she moved backwards toward the window.

"Stay back or I will scream."

He kept his hands raised. "I am merely going to turn up the lantern. Things appear less frightening in the light, yes?"

She nodded, and he moved slowly, bending the narrow length of his body to twist the knob of a second lantern. Though he kept the flame low, the glow was enough for her to see him in full detail. He stood far above her, his limbs lean, his torso slim. He wore a formal black suit with a black waistcoat and cravat.

A black mask covered the entirety of his face.

She was about to stammer out a question about the mask when the gleam of gray metal caught her attention once again. The tight shackles at each of his wrists were connected to a ring embedded in the wall near the bed, the chains long enough for him to be able to cross the room.

"W-Why are you chained?" she asked in growing horror.

His head tilted slightly to the side as he gazed calmly at her. "I did not do what I was told. I suppose you could say you are in this position because you did not do the same."

Why did it feel like he was scolding her? She did not need yet another person rebuking her choices. She crossed her arms, suddenly too cold, too frightened, too confused. "Who are those men?"

"Messieurs Leclair and Plamondon. They come every Friday to collect from the vault. They are not men you wish to meet at night." He gestured a long-fingered hand at the room. "I cannot know if they will come here tonight as well."

"In here?" she said, voice rising shrilly in sudden panic. "W-What should I do?"

"You should hide." He fisted a hand over his broad chest. "I will keep you safe. I would not have brought you in here otherwise."

Eyes wide, she stared up at him. She had no idea who this man was. For all she knew, there was a very good reason he was in chains. With his entire face covered, his every expression was hidden from her, indecipherable.

And yet, his golden eyes gazed back with such warmth that she could not help but feel like she could trust him.

She swallowed, forcing her knotted throat to speak as unwaveringly as she could. "You… are the one who asked me to sing?"

"Indeed," he said, tipping his head to her ever so slightly. "Imagine my surprise when such a lovely voice began outside my window. I suppose you could say I was entranced enough to compliment against my better judgement."

"I am glad you did." A bit nervously, she smoothed her palms down her skirt. "Admittedly, I am out of practice."

"I meant what I said – you have a gift, despite the lack of practice."

She flushed at the compliment.

Her reply was cut short by the heavy thump of boots down what sounded like stairs. Her masked companion moved quickly, tucking her extra lantern under the table and gesturing at the cot.

"Under the bed, little bird."

"W-What?" she stammered, dropping to a whisper.

He gestured again, this time more insistent. The footsteps grew louder, and one of the men burst out laughing.

"Now, girl."

Finally, she obeyed, dropping to her knees. The space beneath the bed was so narrow, she had to scoot on her belly along the floor, using her toes to maneuver underneath the mattress. Her bustle caught, and she heard the man murmur an apology before he shoved the lump of her skirt under the bed. Quickly, he tucked the folds of her dress around her, then spread the coverlet down, blocking most of her from view.

She turned her head so she could see in the direction of the door. The masked man sat on the edge of the bed, the black fabric of his leg visible near the level of her chest. Despite his imprisonment here, his shoes were spotless, his clothes clean; he took evident care in his appearance.

"No matter what happens," he murmured, almost so quietly she did not hear him, "do not speak, do not come out."

No matter what happens? She trembled at the thought.

The door swung open, and Christine saw the boots of two men enter the small room, their footsteps scuffing as though they had been drinking.

"Evening, corpse," said one, and Christine could smell the stink of alcohol on his breath. "I see you're waiting for us like a good little pet."

"Watch out, Leclair," said the second man, who must be Plamondon laughing. "I have heard this one sometimes bites."

"Nah, he never does anything… besides refusing to do what we want him to do." Leclair strutted closer. "Feel like cooperating yet?"

The masked man did not give a reply Christine could hear, but whatever he did made the first man growl in anger. He swung back and snatched up a long rod from just outside the door.

"Off with the mask, monster, unless you want me to break it."

A few whispers of sound, and he must have done something, because Plamondon suddenly stumbled backward. "Fuck, that never gets any easier. Jesus Christ, can't you let him leave it on?"

"Nah," Leclair said. "Not if I want to bruise him up properly."

Christine could not see what happened next, but Leclair's boots twisted a little, and there was a wet crack of wood against skin. The voice's leg – but no, he was not a voice any longer, but this poor, wretched, caged man – jerked. Another thump, this time sounding against fabric, and another. The black mask toppled onto the floor near Christine's widened, tearful eyes. The man's feet perched on their toes, as though he were curling inward, and there was another whump of wood making brutal contact.

Christine thought she might be sick, right there under the mattress. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her own cries. The beating continued for what seemed like an eternity.

Finally, Leclair threw the stick away with a snarl of disgust. "You are never any fun anymore. Maybe they'll dispose of you sooner rather than later, freak. Come on, we've a load to deliver."

Plamondon spat on the floor near the wall. "Jesus Christ, I almost think you enjoy that."

"What does it matter? He's lower than a dog at this point."

Both men trudged out of the room, slamming the door behind them and tossing what sounded like a half dozen locks. Christine waited until their footsteps climbed the stairs out of the basement, waited until their bickering faded into nothing, waited longer still. Tears pooled in the corner of one of her eyes and spilled onto the concrete beneath her other. The man sitting above her had not moved in that span of time.

Then, when she thought she could peel herself off the concrete, she scooted backward until she was out from under the bed and scrubbed at her face. She saw him, his back a hulking arch as he leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, his face cupped in his long-fingered hands. He did not tremble, nor did he make a sound, but his posture spoke far louder than any words ever could.

Tentatively, slowly, she walked around the edge of the bed until she stood before him. His hands covered the length of his face, all except ribbons of puckered skin along the edges of his scalp. She could see a red welt forming along the side of his thin hair.

His black mask still lay on the floor at his feet, and she could do little at this moment than restore his dignity. She bent and picked it up, and the fabric was surprisingly heavy. Then, she held it out to him.

"Turn away," he said, voice thick. "Please."

She did as he requested, twisting her torso so she could no longer see him. She felt him take the mask from her fingers, and in a moment, he had replaced it upon his face. When she thought it was safe, she looked down at him, but his golden eyes were fixed upon the floor.

"I am going to the police," she said, and stepped away.

But she only made it a few steps before his spindly fingers suddenly encasing her wrist had brought her up short. She jerked her head around to stare down at him, but he was still looking at the floor, eyes fixed upon some unknown point.

"You cannot," he said in a strained tone. "For almost two years, I have dwelt down here, and no one has managed to successfully expose my existence. If the gendarmerie arrived now, who do you believe they would blame?"

She drew in a sharp breath. "My father. Or me."

"Yes."

He was right. Who else would suddenly take issue with the fact that a man was in shackles beneath the Manufacture d'Armes? If not Papa, then it was her. Either way, they would be tossed back onto the streets.

Or worse.

Christine had just born witness to the horrific actions of two men – two men who were employees of MASE – who were clearly used to beating someone for no reason than the fact that he existed. What might they do to her father or her if she was the reason the police arrived?

"It is not right," she said, tears thickening her throat.

"It is the reality of this world," he replied in a way that caused her to realize that this man had been through much more than a mere beating. They had called him a corpse, a monster, a freak, and mentioned that this man had been refusing to do whatever it was they had been asking him to do.

Christine stared down at the fingers surrounding her wrist, at the gray twinge to his skin, at the coarseness of his grip, and at the bony litheness of those digits. She followed the line of his long arm to his mask. Here, closer to him as she was, she could just make out the sallow skin around the eye cutouts of the mask. Was the rest of him the same as his hands?

What other kinds of horrors had he experienced merely by existing?

Those unnaturally yellow eyes swiveled to alight on her, burning in their intensity. He had caught her staring.

"I do not need your pity, girl," he snapped.

Her pulse quickened, but not in fear. If he had want to hurt her, he could have easily done so by now. If she pressed her fingertips to his wrist once again, would his heart beat as quickly as hers? Her mind burned with a hundred questions that she could not ask.

"Perhaps not," she replied softly. But I am in need of a friend, and perhaps… so are you. She gathered her courage. "Would you let go my wrist, monsieur?"

He did so immediately, snatching his hand back as though she had struck him. However, those golden eyes widened when she presented her hand, palm down.

"My name is Christine."

His chest expanded as though he had taken in a large breath and then held it. Then, slowly, as though in pain and attempting to hide it, he rose to his feet. He reached out his own hand and gently encased her fingers with his own.

"Erik."

Her lips twisted, trying to offer a smile but too consumed by what she had just witnessed to fully curl upward. She did not press him for a full name and did not give her own. In this space, exchanged names brought reality into sharp focus and gave life to that which had recently only been voices traded in the dark.

They spoke little after that. When they had waited long enough for the men to have left, Christine climbed out through the window with a promise to return tomorrow night. She could feel his – Erik's – eyes upon her until she rounded the corner in the courtyard. Her feet dashed up the flights of stairs to the apartment as fast as she could, terrified that she might be caught.

She realized only after she had made it back to her room that she had torn a large hole in the outer layer of her bodice's hem. Her burgundy skirts were covered in a thick layer of grime.

She had all but ruined the fine satin of one of the dresses Raoul had bought her.