A/N: Eeek, this update took forever! I'm so sorry. I've been sick, school has been hell, and I'm trying to finish up all of my college aps by Thanksgiving. –headdesk- Anyways, hopefully this chapter will be worth the wait… it's quite the plot twist. ;)
He refused to look at her for the rest of the afternoon, while she tried her best to pretend not to notice. The more time passed, the more she began to realize how ludicrous her idea had been— but there was no taking it back now. A few times during that first bleak stretch she considered simply telling him the truth, but quickly lost her nerve upon looking at him. He was so devastatingly handsome, despite his sickly pallor and distant eyes. It was unbelievable, but he had bought into her improvisational story— what option did he have? Her emotions and conscience played an incessant game of tug-of-war; one moment she was downcast, her spirits dampened by guilt, and the next she had re-convinced herself that since he had no recollections of his former life whatsoever, she was doing him a favor by giving him something to believe in. By the time the church bell struck five she could no longer decide whether she was continuing this deceitful little game for Raoul's benefit or her own, or some blurred combination of the two.
"Are you 'ungry, m'lord?"
For the first time in hours, his ocean blue eyes snapped up to meet hers. "What did you call me?"
Shit. Emily's breath hitched painfully in her chest as her ears burned bright red. Thinking on her feet, she blurted out as casually as possible, "'My love'… why?"
Raoul studied her questioningly for a moment before murmuring a quiet "oh" and shifting his gaze back to the frayed hem of his blanket. Emily had to remind herself not to breathe a sigh of relief. The opposing voices in her head took no time at all to resume their bickering, one insisting that it had been the perfect opportunity to admit her lie, the other maintaining that she had done the right thing.
She wanted to scream. What had she been thinking? Less than a day into her fraudulent "marriage," and already she had turned into a madwoman. Fortunately, years as a prostitute had taught her to drown out her conscience, and eventually she succeeded in doing just that. After all, she had no choice in the matter, really; to let her conscience win out would mean losing her only chance at a normal life, with a husband who might actually learn to love her for her soul instead of her body. It could work… she could make it work. What Raoul didn't know couldn't hurt him, therefore she was doing no wrong— perhaps she was even protecting him. Either way, what was done was done, so with a resolute professionalism she silenced the nagging voice of reason in her head and began to chop carrots for her husband's supper.
Absorbed in the meal's preparations, she didn't notice the clatter of the front door or the thump of heavy boots on the hardwood floor. Not until Charlie's cold, wet lips were on her neck did she recognize his presence. Yelping loudly, she whirled about to face him, her wide eyes darting frantically from his face to the couch and back again. Raoul had drifted off, thank God almighty, but he began to stir at her startled squawk. She acted impulsively, grabbing Charlie's wrist, yanking him unceremoniously down the hall and into the bedroom, and slamming the door firmly shut behind them.
Fortunately, Charlie didn't seem to find her behavior even the slightest bit odd. He sat on the edge of the bed and threw his head back, husky laughter booming from his large form. Emily clenched her fists until her nails dug into the flesh of her palms, praying with all her heart that Raoul had either fallen back asleep or mistaken the sound as coming from one of the neighbors.
"Don't look so flustered, Em!" Charlie hooted, gesturing for her to come over to him. "I love a woman who knows what she wants." He grinned, unbuttoning his trousers. "Especially if it sounds good to me too." His thunderous laughter shook the room once again as Emily backed into the wall behind her, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. "Well, get over here, yeh crazy bitch! Jesus Christ, Emily, I've told you I don't like that… oh, what's it called? Whatever those other chaps like… you know, when yeh fool around for awhile before actually—"
"Seduction," Emily supplied wearily, her voice uncharacteristically frightened. Never in her life had she wanted to sleep with a man less. It had seemed like a wonderful opportunity at the time she had accepted the job— a warm bed, food, drink and regular pay for an entire week? It was unheard of! She had considered herself the luckiest whore in Brighton for getting such a bargain, but at the moment she could not think of a single decision she regretted more than accepting it.
Raoul, she told herself repeatedly, Think of Raoul. You have to do something quick… he can never find out about Charlie. It would be the end of your plan; that bastard would give it all away. You'll lose him forever. Think, Emily, think!
"Yes, yes, that's it!" Charlie waved his hand dismissively. "Don't bother. I'm not paying you for that. You're the best fuck in England, Em, which makes me the luckiest son of a bitch in the country. Let's not waste any more time, eh? I've only got you for three more days."
Emily was about to be sick. Her stomach churned, her throat burning with oncoming tears. Of course, she couldn't refuse him; he owned her body, the house she stood in, and the couch Raoul was sleeping on. She was trapped in this room by her own desperate lie… and for the umpteenth time that day she cursed herself for trying to make her wretched life into a fairy tale. Feeling quite sure that within a few moments she would retch all over Charlie and throw him into a rage, she moved silently to the bed and began to unlace her corset.
Trembling uncontrollably, she removed her outer petticoat and watched with a mounting anxiety as Charlie lay back on the bed expectantly. She swallowed hard and tried unsuccessfully to tame the wild butterflies in her stomach as she crawled onto the mattress and over to him…
Just as her lips brushed his reluctantly, the tea kettle let out a piercing whistle in the other room. Emily nearly jumped out of her skin, but recovered quickly and practically leaped over to the door.
Charlie propped himself up on his elbows and frowned at her retreating back. "Can't it wait?"
"I'll just be a minute!" she promised as she slipped out of the bedroom. As soon as the door had shut behind her she threw her head back and mouthed a silent "thank you" to the heavens. From the living room she heard the rustling of blankets and Raoul's sleep-thickened voice calling for her.
"Right 'ere, darling." She combed her fingers through her hair as she stepped around the corner and into his view. Raoul was sitting up and eyeing her suspiciously, and she tried to force a smile and calm her quaking limbs as she crossed to the stove and pulled the shrieking kettle from the flames. "Would you care for some tea?"
He shifted uncomfortably, shaking his head. "No, thank you." Emily could feel his gaze scorching her back while she poured herself a cup with a shaky hand. "Forgive me, but you seem rather… nervous." Her hand slipped, and she knocked the teacup over, spilling its contents all over the countertop.
"Shit!" Chancing a sideways glimpse at him, she spotted his skeptical expression and began to shake more violently. "I mean… I'm sorry… I really shouldn't speak like that… Jesus Christ, I'm so clumsy!" She slumped over, placing her elbows on the countertop and burying her head in her hands. An awkward silence ensued for a few endless moments before she made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a sob and straightened her posture. Her cutting board, carrots and knife had been completely drenched, and she sighed again as she dumped the ruined food into the garbage and began to mop up the counter and rinse the soiled dishes.
"Are you alright, Emily?" Raoul's voice was quiet and genuinely concerned as it broke the heavy silence. Nevertheless, it startled her, and she accidentally cut her fingertip with the sharp knife she was washing. Hissing through clenched teeth, she brought her finger to her mouth and sucked on it.
The demon was quick to flare to life within her, like a shark drawn to the taste of her own blood. Her eyes widened to the size of saucers as she pulled her finger away and stared at it, watching the ruby red bead swell and drip. Her demon whispered seductively to her as she watched the blood flow, suggesting a plan so malicious and unimaginable that it was oddly attractive. Half of her wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the idea, but her darker half was entirely serious and quickly overpowered the former. It was sinful; it was wrong. But it was absolutely perfect— the solution to every last one of her problems.
A strange calm enveloped her as she rinsed off the knife and tucked it securely into her corset. She had gone pale as the moon, though her heart beat like a caged hummingbird against her ribcage. Schooling her features into a casual expression, she turned to face Raoul.
"I'm fine," she lied unconvincingly. "A bit light'eaded. Per'aps I'm coming down with something." The ghost of a smile flitted across her lips as she strode across the room and bent to place a kiss on his forehead. "I think I'll go lay down for a little while. Go back to sleep, darling. I'll wake you when supper is ready."
Raoul caught her gaze and held it for a moment before he nodded and released her. "Very well. Have a good rest… darling." Her smile was genuine as she turned away from him and made her way back toward the bedroom. She drew strength from that single word, cherishing it with all her heart as she repeated it over and over in her mind. The hallway had never seemed quite so short to her before. In seconds she was at the closed door. Sucking in a deep breath, she closed her eyes for a fleeting moment.
She did not remember turning the doorknob. When she opened her eyes she was inside the room, staring at a naked Charlie.
"'Bout time!" he snapped.
Shutting down her mind came automatically. In seconds her skirts were in a pile at her feet. She stepped out of them, swaying her hips slightly as she strode over to Charlie's side of the bed. Her eyes were vacant and clouded as she straddled him, taking him deep inside of her. His moans and grunts of pleasure went unheard to her ears as she began to move with him. It was as if she was witnessing everything from behind a distorted glass wall, or deep underwater.
Charlie's eyes were screwed shut as she brought him closer to climax, his expression positively ridiculous. Had the circumstances been different, she would have laughed. Instead her face remained locked in a mask of nonchalance as her fingers slipped into the laces of her corset and drew out the knife.
It was so simple; one quick, clean cut and he ceased to writhe beneath her. Warm crimson blood spurted from the thick artery of his neck, coating her hands, face, and torso, the sheets, the knife… liters and liters of blood. Never before had she so clearly understood the phrase "blood bath." She stared down at the gushing gash across his throat for several minutes before heaving the contents of her stomach onto the bed beside his corpse. Adrenaline pounded through her veins— if she had been trembling before, now she was positively quaking.
It occurred to her after a few hazy moments that she was straddling a corpse. With a hoarse scream she scrambled off of the bed and to the far corner of the room, where she collapsed into a shuddering heap. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and arousal and blood, a sickening combination which made her vomit repeatedly until her stomach was empty and hot bile burned her throat.
One sticky red hand clutched the crucifix around her neck as she rocked back and forth, her raw voice rasping out a jumbled combination of traditional Catholic prayers, vehement curses, choked sobs, and desperate pleas for forgiveness, directed at no one and everyone. She did not regret taking the sick bastard's life; in fact, she hoped that even as she cowered here he was face-to-face with Satan himself. To be perfectly honest, she was concerned only for her own skin at the moment. An eternity in Hell was obviously not appealing to her, but neither was being caught by the local police and hanged from the twisted oak tree in the center of town square.
Emily did not know how long she huddled in that terrible room, sobbing until her tear ducts were dry. She passed in and out of consciousness for awhile, but eventually managed to pull herself together.
They can only hang you if they know it was you who killed him. Calm down. Take deep breaths.
She closed her eyes, soothing the flames of her soul with cold, calculating reason. Raoul's name pushed itself to the forefront of her mind, and she whispered it reverently before opening her eyes again. Considerably calmer, she slowly climbed to her feet, pressing one hand against the wall for balance. She didn't dare look over at the gory mess on the bed; she kept her eyes focused on the door and slowly made her way over to it. Everything was perfectly still beyond the thin slab of wood. Taking three deep breaths, she quietly pushed the door open and peered around the edge.
Raoul was still fast asleep on the couch, his head turned away from her. Smothering a sigh of relief, she tiptoed down the hall to the first door on the right, painfully aware of the creaks and moans of the hardwood beams beneath her feet. The bathroom door was thankfully open already, and with a final glance at Raoul she darted inside, closed the door and locked it. Her heart was still beating viciously beneath her stained palm, and her stomach was clenched into an angry knot. Trying to keep as tight a rein on her emotions as possible while her body spiraled out of control, she staggered over to the sink, clutching either side of the metal rim to keep herself upright. She lurched into dry heaves for a few minutes, and tried her best not to become frightened. When the spell died out she turned on the tap and quickly shoved her hands into the clear stream. The water at the bottom of the basin turned a diluted red, but gradually, as she wrung her hands raw, it began to fade back to its natural color.
It was like washing her sins away, she mused, taking comfort in the morbid analogy. When her hands were clean she splashed the cold water up and down her arms and chest, then dunked her entire head beneath the faucet. Rivulets of red dripped from her hair, and she scrubbed her scalp mercilessly until she couldn't tell whether the blood was Charlie's or her own. Whipping her sopped mane back over her shoulders, she quickly shed her remaining clothes and put them in the sink.
Soon she was spotless, not a single speck of red to be found on her slim, pale body. It was freezing in that little bathroom, but she didn't care; her mind was too occupied to take notice of something so petty as temperature.
If there was one thought that anchored her to sanity, it was that she had to take care of Raoul, or he would surely die. Charlie was out of the picture now, leaving the road clear for her to spend the rest of her life as Raoul's doting wife… but there would be consequences if she stayed in Brighton long enough for the investigators to start looking into the boisterous, well-known fisherman's mysterious absence. Her hands were clean, and she could easily dispose of the body… but too many fingers would point to her as the obvious murderess. She was a whore, and quite frankly the local government wouldn't give a squirt of piss to keep her from hanging. They had been trying to rid Brighton of "ungodly riffraff" such as her for decades.
She and Raoul needed to leave Brighton as soon as possible. In fact, it would be better to leave the country entirely.
Before he died, her father had told her that they had family in Moscow. Unfortunately, Emily didn't speak a single word of Russian.
The choice was obvious, really. The boat ride over to France was affordable— only a few nights at the bar would cover passage for her and Raoul— and her "husband" spoke fluent French. Granted, they would probably have to travel inland a bit, just to be safe. She had always wanted to visit Paris, and so many criminals-in-hiding were living there anyway that she wouldn't have to worry about being discovered.
It was settled, then. Tonight, after Raoul was fast asleep again, she would go out to the tavern. It was Tuesday… all of the regulars would be down at Tom's, drinking themselves half-blind. She would wait until they were likely to be good and drunk, because it would be far easier to talk them into paying a ridiculously high price. If she played her cards correctly, she could have enough money saved up to catch the first ship out to Perros-Guirrec on Saturday morning.
Her nerves were considerably soothed by this new plan. It was entirely plausible; she could do this. Breathing evenly, her pulse slowed to a steady throb, she slipped back into Charlie's bedroom, not even flinching when she caught sight of the gruesome corpse in her peripheral vision. She changed quickly into clean clothes and moved calmly back into the kitchen, picking up a clean knife and continuing to make supper as if she had never been interrupted.
A/N: Dun dun dunnn! Emily and Raoul? In Paris? Oh nooo!
-cackles-
I love stirring up chaos right when everyone is all happy and peaceful. –drops bomb-
