"Oh, no," Lysette whispered again. She could hear more heavy thuds from the living room, grunts too. She knew Montparnasse and Bahorel were fighting in there, and she desperately wanted to go out and stop them, but she was at a loss. She was naked underneath the soft dressing gown, and knew if she walked out Montparnasse would grab her and probably ravish her right there in front of Bahorel. Bahorel's big enough. He can handle this on his own, can't he? He'd want you to stay in the room. Stay here and be safe. And oh, she knew those thoughts were useless. People like Montparnasse never went into a fight they thought they'd lose. He was probably armed to the teeth, or else had goons tucked away in various corners of the tenement. The very thought was enough to make Lysette blanch. If Bahorel got hurt (or worse) trying to protect her, she'd never forgive herself.

She leapt up from the soft bedspread, taking a quick look around her. She took in the mismatched, "manly" furniture, the rumpled bed sheets, knowing that she needed a weapon. All she could find was an ugly brush missing most of its bristles that had been carelessly thrown on to the vanity. "It'll have to do," Lysette muttered under her breath.

"I tell you, you maniac, the child's not here! Get the hell out of my house!" she heard Bahorel cry from the living room, followed by a loud crash.

The crash fueled Lysette's fear and anger, and she wrenched the bedroom door open to find him backed up against the wall with Montparnasse's knife to his throat, a savage grin on the cherry-red lips of the young con. "And I tell you, you brute, that the little bitch is most certainly here." Montparnasse gave a smirk. He frowned, then. "And since she is here, and we both know it, this game should come to an end. Don't you think, big boy? I certainly do. I say you tell me – and soon – or I'll slit your throat and find her while you choke on your own blood." He smiled sweetly.

With panic in her heart, Lysette stepped into the living room, her bare feet sinking into the well-worn yet still-soft rug. "Hey!" she shouted. "I'm right here, Montparnasse. Get the hell away from Bahorel!" Oh, God…Bahorel. Please don't hurt him. She knew she looked ridiculous, a skin-and-bones girl in a surprisingly fancy men's dressing gown, her leaf-green hair lopsided from sleep, holding a brush aloft in the air, ready to kick ass and take names. She clenched her fist tight around the brush and set her face in a snarl. "Get the hell away from Bahorel," she commanded again. "You want me, you've got me. I'm right here. Take me if you have to, but leave him out of it." Where had those words even come from? She advanced steadily, her features set in a wolf's glare.

"And you expect me to believe, child, that you'll just come with me if I take my pretty little blade away from his throat? You'll follow me right out like an obedient little lamb?" Montparnasse asked mockingly. He gave a high-pitched, scornful laugh. "You may be a thickheaded child, but you've got the spirit of a gamin in you. I know you're not idiotic enough to think I would believe that." He chuckled nastily again, looking immaculate even as he threatened to take the life of another human.

Lysette was at a loss. Oh, God. What do I do? Any choice she made would determine whether or not Bahorel lived or died. She was panicking, her thoughts flying at a very muddled hundred miles an hour. This wasn't a story, a video game – it was real life, and she'd have to make a choice soon. But instead of making a choice, she just clenched her fists into hard little balls and felt tears start to drip down her face.

She opened her mouth and stammered, "P-please. Don't hurt Bahorel."

"Lysette," Bahorel gurgled, something like apology in his eyes. "Run. Go."

"Shut up!" Montparnasse snapped. He pressed the tip of his blade harder into the brawler's throat so that a small drop of blood bubbled up, and then slowly slipped down his neck. Lysette flinched and let out a pained, mewling noise. This of course made the murderous dandy grin.

"Please," she begged again, inching a bit closer. "I'll go with you. Wh-whatever you want. Just please, stay away from Bahorel. Don't kill my brother."

"Will you now?" Montparnasse said in a nasty, mocking tone. "Will you go with me and do what I say, child? Leave your precious revolutionaries behind?"

"Yes," Lysette said somberly, the tears stopping.

Bahorel looked to Jamie with begging eyes. His deep brown eyes seemed to say: Don't do this.

"Then come, grab your things and let's go," Montparnasse said with a sick smile. "I have much to teach you, little slut." He gave Lysette a wink and added, "Do hurry. If you take too long, my knife may just grow impatient."

Lysette sprinted from the living room and into Bahorel's bedroom. She felt like dizzy, and thought she might vomit. Stuck between a rock and hard place… she thought miserably, and quickly changed into her gamin's outfit. She sat the broken brush back on the vanity, running a hand over it gently as if Bahorel could feel the tender touch, and then dragged herself back into the living room. "I'm ready," she said in a broken voice, then turned to Bahorel. "Thank you for being kind to me, frère."

Bahorel's eyes filled with tears. Montparnasse removed the knife from his throat and then quickly clubbed him over the head with the handle. Bahorel crumpled to the floor. "Can't have your brawny friend here following us and making trouble," he said sweetly, then snatched Lysette's wrist in a death grip and hauled her from the house. He tugged her down the stairs, past Mother Archambault's little kitchen where she could be heard grumbling to herself about "ungodly folks." They marched along the streets at a fast clip, Lysette's heavy boots tripping her up on the uneven cobbles. Montparnasse made sure to hold her tight, almost torturously so. They walked and walked for what seemed like hours, Lysette with tears pouring down her face and Montparnasse with a wide grin on his. He took her down grimy alleyways and through so many twists and turns her head spun. Tall, uneven buildings gave way to squatter, rattier ones after a while, and the sky itself seemed to turn gray. Shady folks in shabby clothing peered at them from the shadows, ugly girls leering at Montparnasse. He didn't respond to their glances, and instead kept his smiling gaze firmly focused on the paths ahead of them.

"Where are we going?" Lysette finally ventured to ask after maybe two hours of walking. Her voice felt rusty and broken.

"Home," Montparnasse snarled. He suddenly stopped and shoved her to the ground. Her ass hit the uneven stones of the street hard, and she cried out in shock and pain. "Listen here, child," the young man said in the tone of a lecturer, ignoring her outcry. "You are now mine. You will do what I say at the exact moment I say it from now on. If you object, you will get a slap. Do you understand so far?"

She nodded from the ground, hating him with every fiber of her being, wanting so bad to kill him in that moment.

"Good girl. Now, if you argue or disrespect me, you will get my blade. The location is undetermined, of course. Can't plan everything in advance, eh? Maybe I'll give that sallow face of yours a few scars to give it some character. Maybe I'll slash your stomach, your arms…who knows? Maybe I'll slit your throat and let you bleed out in the gutter if I get the urge. What an adventure!" There was a pause here, as he gathered his thoughts. "But because you're young and not vain yet, a few scars will mean nothing to you. If you worried about being ugly, child, you'd not look the way you do. If I truly have to punish you – or should I be of a certain mood – I won't hesitate to take away the thing little girls value most – their innocence." He crouched down to her level, somehow looking attractive even when squatting and leering. He slowly crawled forward and slid a hand up Lysette's thigh.

She automatically batted his hand away, squirming as far away as she could get. "I'm too young!" she cried in a strangled voice.

"False. A gamin is never too young," Montparnasse said brusquely. "You'll need to learn the ways of the world soon. Besides, you've used your age as an excuse one too many times."

"I know the world just fine!" she snarled, leaping up and putting up her fists. "I don't care what you do, but if you so much as a lay a hand on me, I'll kill you! I swear I'll kill you!" She wanted to give into her rage and fear and pummel the dandy, but knew she was crossing a line already. How? How was it that just a few hours ago she'd been sleeping comfortably in a big bed, feeling clean and refreshed and ready for an adventure, ready to change the world, when now she felt terrified and beaten and filthy with the evils of Montparnasse?

"You'll kill me?" he smirked, reaching up and closing his long, thin hands around her fists. "You, a child of thirteen, will kill me?"

"Yes," Lysette said weakly, no fire in her voice. A policeman walked by just then, his uniform immaculate. It was dark blue and the brass buttons shone like dull stars. He had long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Lysette automatically thought: I'm saved! His eyes sparkled with friendly recognition when he saw Montparnasse, and he grinned an easy grin. The girl's heart sank, then. So he was a corrupt one.

"Why, 'Parnasse," the officer of the law exclaimed, "I haven't seen you in an age!"

'Parnasse nearly skipped towards the officer, dragging Lysette with him. "Serge!" he said happily. "Serge, my friend, it is good to see you." He clapped the policeman on the back with one hand, keeping the other firmly wrapped around Lysette's wrist. "How is life? Your family?"

"Ah, Agathe is a bitch as always," the man called Serge chuckled. "Lord knows how I ended up with a woman like that."

"I sympathize, my friend," the young criminal chuckled. "I sympathize. Just remember the fun you can have with others. A good fuck with no consequences. No nagging wife, just a complaint young whore, eh?" Here he let go of Lysette's wrist and put a possessive arm around her shoulders, roughly drawing her to him. "This one here – she's my new project."

"Oh?" Serge asked, peering at Lysette like she was some kind of livestock for sale. He cocked his head and wrinkled his brow, then took her chin in his hand and tugged her face from side to side. "She got a name?"

"Used to," Montparnasse said with a one-shouldered shrug. "Called herself Lysette, though I'm quite sure that's not her real name. I think I'll call her something else, though. Any suggestions?"

"My name is Lysette!" she snapped. "I'm not your whore – not your pet!" Immediately, Lysette wanted to clap a hand over her mouth and take the words back. Hell. What've I done?

Serge gave a roar of a laugh that diffused the tension crackling through the air. Lysette was quite certain that if the policeman hadn't laughed, Montparnasse would've been so embarrassed at her outcry; he'd have beat her to a pulp right there in the street. Serge's odd bellow of laugher ended and he grinned. "A feisty thing you've got there, eh? What'll you call her?"

"Oh, I'm not sure. Chaton, perhaps. Our little rebel may indeed become my pet." He ruffled her hair like some kind of encouraging dad, then chuckled and began to talk with the corrupt police officer. They chatted for a half hour, maybe, and then Serge went on his way, waving as he departed. Through most of the conversation, the two men had ignored Lysette like she was just another cobblestone in the street. When their chat was over, Montparnasse led her through one final alleyway and then brought her into a sagging building that was painted a grim black. The pain was peeling off like dead skin, exposing faded gray siding underneath it.

"Welcome to your new home," he said, sweeping out his arm in a grand gesture like some kind of twisted magician. "This will be your new abode, petit. The boys shall help to teach you the rules of our house." He winked, and then opened the door, shoving Lysette inside.

The main floor was one large room with shabby, stained furniture scattered about: an old chaise lounge, a sort of a couch-chair-thing, a pathetic excuse for a kitchen, a moldering set of chairs, and a rickety table. Two men were playing cards at the table, one of them a bald, broad-shouldered giant, and the other a handsome thing with curly black hair and a scarf covering the lower half of his fine, pale face. Both looked up, and something about them immediately chilled Lysette to the bone. With a glance into their eyes, she realized it – their eyes were black and soulless. She shivered and actually moved closer to Montparnasse.

"Chaton, meet your new…brothers. Brujon and Claquesous." The skinnier one with his face obscured was Claquesous, and the living mountain was Brujon.

"H-hello," Lysette stammered, feeling terrified of the men and disgusted that Montparnasse had decided to name her something as demeaning as Chaton, kitten.

"Where is Babet?"

"That old fool?" Claquesous said in a voice that sounded…crazy. It was mesmerizing, and Lysette could swear that she'd heard it before. It sounded like everyone's voice, man and woman and child. Beautiful yet ugly at the same time. Wow. "Probably out roaming the streets, looking for his family."

"Heh. Family," Brujon chuckled.

Lysette stood there nervously, her hands clasped in front of her like some kind of obedient little choir kid. She swayed involuntarily from foot to foot on the dusty wood floor, unsure of what to say.

"Well, say hello to her!" Montparnasse snapped at the two men impatiently.

Claquesous looked up again, his black eyes peering right into Lysette's soul. She felt stripped to the bone, suddenly, and wanted to sprint away as fast as she could. "Hello," he said evenly, from behind his scarf, then peered at her some more. After about thirty seconds he said thoughtfully, "How old are you, Chaton?"

Lysette opened her mouth to say her age when Montparnasse cuffed her upside the head. "What does it matter to you?" he asked Claquesous defensively. "All you need to know is that she's mine."

"No, really," Brujon rumbled. "How old? Practically a child." He hefted himself up from the rickety table and walked over to them. Lysette could swear his girth made the ground shake. He stopped right in front of her, a hulking giant. He kneeled down, peering at her with his deep black eyes. "Well, talk," he finally growled.

"M-me?" Lysette stammered. At Brujon's nod, she looked to Montparnasse, who was ignoring her for some reason. "Thirteen," she finally blurted, fear in her heart for what Montparnasse would do to her later for defying him. But then again, if she'd defied Brujon, she felt like he would just pop her head like a cherry with one squeeze of his meaty fist.

Brujon grunted and walked back to his chair. Claquesous raised an eyebrow and adjusted his bandana, but both men stayed silent. The strange silence marched on for a few minutes until Claquesous finally said, "Really, 'Parnasse? Aren't there plenty of older ones all over Pantin? What's next, a babe?"

Montparnasse scowled and gritted his teeth but said nothing. Instead, he roughly grabbed her arm, pasting on a smirk over his look of annoyance. "Allow me to show you to your room." The two walked up a splintery set of stairs arrived at a long hallway. There were four tightly closed doors and nothing else to see. Montparnasse pointed to the door farthest away from the stairs at the very end of the hall. "That one will be yours. Yours and mine."

Lysette felt a deep hot slice of fear stab her.

They walked down the hall to the room and he opened the door. It was surprisingly spare, with a bed, a set of drawers, and other various things scattered about. The top drawer, Lysette noticed, had a keyhole in it. Probably for weapons. She wondered where Montparnasse kept the key.

"How long will I be here?" she asked softly.

"Until I say so," Montparnasse growled. "Now stay here until I come to get you." With that, he left the room and Lysette heard a door lock behind him. His footsteps receded after a while, and Lysette sank down on the cot.

What the hell am I gonna do? Oh, Bahorel…please come save me, she thought. Please.

XXX

Hours later, Lysette sat up in Montparnasse's cot, groggily rubbing her eyes. She couldn't remember falling asleep and honestly wondered how, in her situation, she could even manage sleep. Her stomach was growling and a headache was building behind her eyes from lack of water. Her body ached and her mind felt exhausted. God, she was miserable. She tried desperately to recall what that Voice in her head had said to her…had it only been a day before? The words suddenly came to her: Do not join this young man. He is dangerous; a criminal. For a time, he will protect you. You will receive good meals, and he will make you believe her loves you. Fat lot of good those words did her now. He'd already captured her. Make you believes her loves you. Yeah, sure. Because kidnapping a kid and threatening to rape them truly showed love. She wanted to cry. Her situation seemed so…unreal. Like some horrible story or TV show or something. Good God.

Suddenly, the doorknob began to jiggle slightly, like someone was trying to open the door to a baby's nursery without waking it. That meant that the person on the other side of the door probably wasn't Montparnasse. Knowing him, he would've opened the door with gusto and let it slam against a wall. He'd want the whole world to know that he was taking Lysette…

The door gently opened inwards, revealing none other than Brujon. He stood in the hall like a giant, menacing…giant for lack of a better comparison. A giant, menacing giant who looked oddly nervous and pensive. His deep black eyes showed something akin to…concern?

Brujon moved inside the room and shut the door softly behind him. He sat down on the floor and leaned his back against the door, barring it. "He calls you Chaton," the man said in his rumbling, gravelly voice. When Lysette didn't reply, he looked at her strangely, as if she was being rude for not saying something.

"Er…yes," she answered evenly. It was the only reply she could think of. She was certainly scared of Brujon's size and obvious strength, but she knew he was under Montparnasse's thumb. He wouldn't touch her.

"A shame," the giant man rumbled in his deep voice. "Not the first Chaton he's had."

Okay, now Lysette was confused. Brujon spoke in tiny sentences, each more confusing than the last. "What do you mean?" she asked. "I don't understand."

"He takes girls," Brujon explained. "Mostly young. Mostly stupid. Takes them. Uses them and grooms them."

"Oh," Lysette breathed.

"Chaton – before you – was the youngest. Hardly fourteen." He shook his head, his eyes showing remorse. "Like you, young. Like you, not stupid. But very afraid. Very much afraid."

"What…what happened to her?"

"She was his first girl. Since her, he took older…but she was the first," Brujon said, changing the subject noticeably. He stood up and walked around the room, observing Montparnasse's random items, most of them beauty products. He picked up a fancy lady's fan and shook his head in disgust, dropping it back to the floor. "Chaton's a special name. Mostly he uses whore's names for girls; mostly he reuses the same ones. But he's never used Chaton again. Not 'till you."

"What happened to the first Chaton?" Lysette asked again, processing the information Brujon had given her. "And why won't you speak in normal sentences? Please, I can hardly understand you."

"Can't. Throat accident – from childhood. Talking…painful. I only speak when I need it."

"Oh."

"The first…she would not give up, not give in. Fought and screamed. Got her hands on his knife – tore his face open. He does not forgive, you know. After that, he took her. Then used his knife to kill her." Brujon spoke candidly, though his black eyes were pained. "He dumped her in the Seine," he added.

"Oh, God," Lysette muttered. If she hadn't already been sitting on the bed, she was sure she would have collapsed. "He's gonna kill me, isn't he?" she asked. "All that stuff earlier about me living with you…it was just a lie. He's gonna kill me." She began to breathe fast and shallow, and drew her knees up to her chest, rocking back and forth. "I don't wanna die. I don't wanna die. I'm not ready. I'm thirteen. Too young, too young…" she sobbed.

Brujon watched her sob for a few moments before nodding thoughtfully. "Child. Stop weeping."

Lysette looked up, tears dripping down her face. "How can I?" she whimpered. "There's nothing…he's gonna kill me."

"I have killed," Brujon said thoughtfully. "Killed men, many. Women, some. Never a child. 'Parnasse has something – I do not. Has a tad bit of evil – true evil. Child-killing evil. Child-fucking evil. I dare not defy that evil. But." He glanced over at Montparnasse's set of dresser drawers, his eyes drawn to the locked top drawer. "Weapons," he said, nodding to the drawer. "Keeps the key to himself. No way to get it. But…I am strong. Locks are weak. Drawers…weak." He took a deep, heaving breath and clutched at his throat. His breath rattled like a rusty screen door for at least a minute before he got himself back under control. "Knives." He pointed at the drawer. "Inside."

Lysette felt something hopeful stirring in her chest. "Monsieur Brujon…do you mean you'll help me?" she dared to ask.

He nodded. "You are a child. Weak and good. Too young." He walked over to the drawer and gripped the top of it, like he was about to slide it open. His gargantuan arm muscles clenched hard for moment and he gave the drawer a sharp tug. Lysette heard something crack from within, and suddenly it was open. She scurried over to it, peering inside at the array of sharp, gleaming weapons. There were knives, daggers, machetes, straight razors, and even what looked like a sword. All of them were obviously well-tended. There wasn't a spot of rust or a single dull edge to be seen. "Choose," Brujon directed, waving his hand over the weapons. "Choose one. Catch him when he is not expecting. Hurry."

Lysette picked a nasty-looking dagger. It was curved like a half-moon with a beautifully decorated red handle that had some kinda Chinese-style dragon curling around it. Her fingers fit well in between the dragon's coils, and she slashed the dagger through the air a couple times as practice. "I'll have this one," she said. She turned to Brujon and looked up at her unlikely ally. "Thank you for this," she said softly. "I know he's evil and I know he'll…do something terrible to you if he finds out you helped me. Thank you, truly. You're a good person."

Brujon chuckled humorlessly. It came out of his damaged throat like he was trying to gargle rocks. "Good…maybe. Good luck, Chaton." With that, he crossed the room and shut the door behind him. The silence was as if he'd never been there.

Lysette tucked the knife into the top of her corset, the red dragon handle just barely poking out. Montparnasse wouldn't notice unless he was scrutinizing her bust, and considering the fact that it was nearly nonexistent…well…there wasn't much to see. She began to pace around the room, waiting for Montparnasse to return. Apprehension clouded her mind. She'd never hurt someone before, other than slapping Benny Seinfeld in third grade when he tried to put gum in her hair. Stabbing someone was…a lot different. She didn't wanna kill him, or even maim him – just harm him temporarily. Even though Montparnasse was a terrible person, he was still a person who had probably once been good.

At that moment, the door slid open.