Christine is not anything likewhat I expected.Her rage continues.

Ch 55

Christine infuriated me to the point of speechless stupor. A loathsome river flooded my mind and washed away each defense I would have made against her. All I did was stare at her, fuming in silence, slowly dying inside.

"You should be dead," Christine seethed. "You should be dead somewhere—anywhere, dead and unnoticed, rotting away like a corpse. You deserve nothing. You never did, you never will."

"For God's sake, Christine, come with me," the vicomte pleaded.

"What did you say to him?" I whispered.

"What a nightmare for that poor child. All of these years! All of them! Left in a house without escape, without love."

That was an insult I would not tolerate.

"You abandoned him as an infant! How dare you even insinuate that I never loved him! I was the one who wanted him—"

"Erik, don't do this," Julia begged. "Let's just leave."

Christine knew nothing and I would be damned if she said another word. "I loved him more than anything in the world! Everything I did for the past nine years was done with him in mind!"

I did all I could to control my voice. Those girls were in their bedroom undoubtedly listening through the door. This was what they had experienced all of their lives. This was what I had wanted for nine years and what the little vicomte had fought to keep. None of us had won. There was nothing to gain and it had never been clearer than at this moment.

Despite the weapon in her hand I stepped forward. Julia, with her good hand wrapped around my coat, snapped forward with me. "I loved him more than anything. I still love him more than anything, even you. No, more than you. I love Alexandre more than I ever loved you."

"I would ratherhave drowned him than let him suffer. If I had known you were there—"

"You always knew I was there with him. You knew since I wrote you—and don't say that you never saw my note because you did! I know you did!"

"What a curse you have been to me all these years! First my son, then my daughter! You are worse than a plague! But you will never do anything more, not when they come for you, and they will come for you. You'll never find them—either of them. They do not belong to you! They are mine! Mine and only mine!"

She was a rambling mess, a miserable, incoherent woman. I stepped away from her with a flare of pity beginning to smother my hatred. Something had happened to her. Was this…my doing?

"What have you done to Alexandre?" I asked.

"Don't say his name! He rejects you!" she continued to yell. "He will never come near you. No one would be blind enough, no one would ever be foolish enough to love you! Look at yourself, look at your frightful, sinful self. Now he will never have to look at you again! Now he will join Suzette."

"What have you done to Alexandre?" I asked again. She was mad, yes, but I couldn't believe she was capable of murdering her own son.

"Taken him away where he will be loved at last," she answered cryptically.

"When did you last see him?"

"Eight years ago."

I tried again. "When did you last see Alexandre?"

"Four nights ago…three nights ago….an hour ago."

The vicomte grabbed Christine in a way that looked every bit as bad as it sounded. She gave a gurgled cry as he knocked her to the ground and pinned her on her back. Christine struggled like a feral animal foaming at the mouth, biting and snarling. He pinned her wrist to the ground and the glass shard came loose from her grasp.

As Christine fought him, the vicomte looked to Julia and nodded toward the door. His plans of finding Alex were all but gone. He couldn't leave his wife. Not like this, in this strike of pure madness.

Again he showed her the bottle in his hand as he stroked her hair and spoke to her in a voice barely above a whisper. She nodded at last and murmured something in return.

He was drugging her. Laudanum, I thought, the cure for everything. She drank the contents down willingly and opened her mouth when she was done to show him she had swallowed all of it.

"That's it," the vicomte said to her. "Close your eyes and rest awhile. You'll be safe in bed when you wake."

"And Suzette?" she asked.

"Suzette is with the angels."

The words didn't seem toregister as she only giggled as though it was some marvelous jest. The drug was taking effect, gripping her tightly and calming her faster than I could have thought. Christine's movements became lethargic, like a wind-up doll whose song was about to end. She would be out cold within moments.

"And Alexandre? You won't let them find our son, will you, Raoul?"

"I don't know where he is, Christine. Tell me, darling, tell me he's not with Suzette." His voice broke when he whispered to her. "Tell me he is still alive."

"Alive? Yes, he's alive. He told me he was never loved and then I told him to go to the lake—the dark lake. I told him I didn't know the way but that there was an angel there—a glorious angel who sings. He told me he would wait for the angel. He was very happy, very happy indeed."

The vicomte allowed her to sit up. She draped her arms over his shoulders and began to weep. Through her tears only a few words she spoke were clear. She said her husband's name, three names which I assumed were her daughters, and then she said my name as well.

"Tell them I am sorry," she whispered.

Her head fell back and she was asleep. The vicomte cradled her in his arms. He wept as well with his face buried in her dark hair.

An odd silence fell over the room. With the help of the nanny, who looked nonplussed by the situation, Christine was carried back to the bedroom. Julia and I stared at the wall for a moment. I was in such shock I didn't realize at first that Julia was crying.

What a miserable wretch I felt like when I turned and saw Julia standing there, bleeding and trembling. She didn't notice me watching her. Her attention was focused on the laceration.

Like a child fearing reprimand, I stepped toward her and took hold of her wrist. "Let me see," I said quietly.

"She—she cut me."

Julia didn't protest as I pried her fingers away from her wrist. I turned her hand over and examined the cut across the meaty pad of her hand. It didn't appear deep but the wound stretched from the tip of her thumb to the top of her wrist. The wound had already started to heal around a sliver of glass.

"I'm sorry," I whispered as I pulled the sliver out and took my handkerchief from my overcoat pocket. She made no remark and barely flinched as I wrapped the wound with a makeshift tourniquet.

"Does it hurt?" I asked obtusely. I wanted desperately to help her in some way. Pulling glass from her hand only made her bleed again. She had done everything for me. The least I could do was show some competence.

Her head struck me in the chest, her free arm wrapping around my back. "No, it doesn't really hurt. I thought she was going to kill me," Julia cried.

If I had held her any tighter I would have swallowed her up in my embrace, melding her heart and soul with my own. I would have assumed all of her fear and all of her pain and freed her from this shared hell.

The only thing I could think to do was kiss the top of her head. She tilted her face up and looked at me with moistened, reddened eyes and I kissed her forehead.

"I'd like to leave now," Julia said blankly. "Before she comes back."

Julia pulled her hand from mine and stared at the door. Gone was the assertive woman who kept me in line with a simple glare. She was terrified of Christine. I couldn't blame her.

I nodded and started toward the door with Julia still clinging to my side. The vicomte emerged from the bedroom the moment we reached the front door. He said nothing as Julia walked into the hall. What could he possibly say? He couldn't ask to come with us in search of Alexandre, not after what had happened.

"How long will she sleep?" I heard myself ask.

"Well into the morning," he replied.

"Then she won't notice you stepped out for the night."

The look in his eyes was somewhat similar to Bessie's expression when she saw me take out her leash.