"Did you honestly think I would discard Christine life because of my hate for your pitiful self?" Erik snapped. "No. But know that if you ever-"he spit the last word- "barge in here and threaten Margareite again, or accuse my of such a horrendous crime, I will not hesitate to kill you. As it is I stay my hand for Christine's sake. But Christine cannot save you if you wreak havoc upon my life again." Raoul nodded humbly, but stiffly, as if it cost him great effort, then welcomed himself to the large velvet chair that had often held Margareite and Erik. Erik's jaw twitched in annoyance, but said nothing.
"And know that if you ever take Christine out from beneath me again, I will thrash your deformed-"Raoul began, but Margareite took a menacing step forward, growling, Raoul's knife securely in hand, but at her side. Erik did not worry, sure that she would not use the weapon. She enjoyed causing genital pain far too much to use the blade. He was also sure that she was not so violent a person as to use it unless in danger herself. Raoul looked at her, bit down upon his insults and continued- "body from here to kingdom come."
"I would not have stolen her out from beneath you if I had thought your young years could care for her." Erik held up a leather-clad hand to silence Raoul's outraged protest. "I did not know and love drove me back to the state of mind that I was in during all that happened six months…momentarily." Raoul's face turned to a snarl again, his tangled, drying hair causing him to look slightly ferocious. Margareite slunk back farther behind Erik, but the Phantom man held his ground without fear. He could best this young fop easily and he knew it.
"And far longer before that!" the Viscount snapped. "Surely that madness did not disappear with the fire?" Erik locked eyes with him, cold odium slicing out of his crystalline eyes and into Raoul's darker blue-grey orbs. Both held the want- near need- to kill the other, but both held their anger reined loosely, neither ready to submit to the other.
"It hides far in the back of my mind Viscount, and your tone is pushing its existence back into the foremost of my mind. Do not tempt me to allow the scale to tip," Erik said vituperatively. "I can find Christine well enough without your help. A moment ago, you asked me to help Christine despite our differences. I assure you that I will- with or without you. Preferably without," the word was bitter, grudging, "But I fear Christine may well never forgive me for your death." Raoul took a deep breath visibly whipping down upon whatever retort had flamed within his mind. He closed his eyes for a moment; when he opened them again they held a tired, overly-worried man's soul that wanted nothing more then his love back and to live in peace. Erik wondered fleetingly if Erik wished no more then the same; the difference lay in plain view for Erik: he would not live happily with Christine.
Lamar accommodated the girl in his personal chambers, having traded all of his week's pay for her life, thus leaving him with no money for her own apartment, hotel room, or even new clothes. He had lent her his calf-length coat which had dragged slightly behind her feet on her, to hide her nakedness, however. She was silent the entire time, as he had been. He had learned long again not to speak aloud his real plans or reasons on the streets, even when he thought himself well away from ill-meaning ears. One experience too many had taught him that until he was completely alone, he was not safe to speak, and even then sometimes it was not. Once in his room however, he nodded to his bed and locked his door, turning to face her to find the girl curled in a terrified ball at the head of his bed. He sighed, knowing that she expecting him to force himself upon her.
He strode to the closet and pulled out a shirt that he rarely wore (it was unflattering upon him) and a pair of pants and laid them at the end of the bed, gesturing for her to take them. She stared at the articles of clothing warily, unsure of his point. Her eyes traced from the cloths to him, stopping momentarily at his crotch, then moving onwards. She stared at him wonderingly, curious, but skittish; she reminded him of a fawn looking upon something new for the first time.
Charlotte slid her eyes along the man's legs to his crotch and stopped, peering for some sort of sign of an arousal. Surly he had one by now if he had planned to use her? But despite the searching look she allowed her experienced eyes; she saw nothing hard pushing at the material of his pants. Was he perhaps too small for the erection to be obvious? She nearly giggled in ruthless amusement at this thought. She had come to amuse herself with cruel person jokes about the men's bodies. No, she decided as her eyes trailed up his body and meet his gaze uncertainly, he was far too large a man to be that out of proportion. He frowned slightly at her blatant stare of the general area of his manhood, but said nothing, watching her. She stared back at him, unsure of what he really wanted.
Why give her fresh clothes? The brown, long coat she could understand. He had led her to the higher parts of town where her nude body would have been frowned upon, but now? Why now? What was the point when surly he would strip them off with the rough hands that others had? Neither the Kingrea Group, nor Red, once she was within his private, personal ownership, had allowed her clothing .It was pointless, the demeaned. Nothing could hide the hidous skeptical that was her scarred and marred body. Her only jewelry was the pearly bracelet about her slender wrists, the left of which had been broken and healed at an odd angle, but she found, was still usable. She stared at the clothes, then lifted her eyes to the man again, asking a silent question, terrified of the consequences of speech.
"The clothes, mademoiselle," the man said, his voice, which had been flint-sharp in Red's presence had softened to a warmer tenor. "You are welcome to put them on."
He frowned when she stared at him simply, perceptibly fearful of making the wrong movement.
"Mademoiselle, I do not seek to harm you," he said gently. "I and the Sergeant of the police, but I am not twisted as I led Red to believe. I will accommodate you elsewhere when I can find someone to take you in and treat you properly." The girl gazed at him with utter confusion in her eyes. He sighed again, lightly; perhaps engaging her in conversation would ease her fear. "Do you not speak, Mademoiselle?" No answer. Her big eyes bored into him, fear shining through, hate seething unused behind an abused body. The large orbs were almost mahogany colored, but not quite. They were curious, but skittish, reminding him of a fawn encountering something for the first time, ready to escape if the new object turned out to be threatening. But there was something else there; a secret hid behind those large eyes that told him she had a personal thought that amused itself in the privacy of her mind. "I will not punish you for speaking. Perhaps you could tell me your name? Surly even one in your position has a name?"
"One of my positions?" she bit out, cursing herself as soon as the words left her mouth. Her sharp witted tong had always been the cause of unsexual beatings, her sharp, crude words angering rather then arousing the men. She was a double-edged sword the men had said. 'beautiful as a newly sharpened blade, her tong just as sharp.' Her body tensed, waiting for the blow that she was certain awaited her. The man- Lamar, as Red had called him, stiffened in surprise but did not seem over-come with anger yet.
"I meant no offense, I assure you,' he said quietly. "I meant only to say that you must have a name, even if it is not often used." She eyed him apprehensively before answering awkwardly,
"My name is Charlotte."
"Charlotte," Lamar said, rolling the name around upon his tong. "It is a lovely name. It suits you." His kind tone gave her a new level of courage to speak.
"And what's that s'pposed to mean?" she asked sharply. Lamar shook his head.
"I meant it naught but that I like the name, Mademoiselle," he said evenly. "You needn't be coarse with me."
"Men are with me," she answered shortly.
Lamar remained easily calm-rather compassionate. He knew that behind her defensive words was a wounded girl seeking only to protect herself.
"I am not one of those men," he assured her. "Please, I am offering you my hospitality and my clothes- the least you could do is accept the offer." She glared at him.
"You s'pect me to be puttin' on fresh clothes when I'm streaked with dirt and stink like a cursed pig?" Lamar started. He had not thought of that, though he supposed he should have. He nodded.
"Please forgive my carelessness," he said. "I shall call for a bath at once. I will have it brought up and leave you to bathe and dress. Call me when you are finished." He stood and exited without any farther preamble, closing the wooden door softly behind him.
A bath was brought in quickly, warm water from a container poured into the wood barrel to warm the cool water already within. The servant bowed politely, excusing herself. Charlotte stood and stripped down immediately, slipping into the warm bath with clumsy eagerness. How long had it been since she had had a bath? Four months? And even then, it was a half-done job, a wet cloth rubbed against her sore, bruised skin to rid at least the worst of the smell. The warm liquid seeping into her skin tingled pleasantly, the dirt dissipating into the water around her.
She sat for a moment, simply enjoying the pleasure of soaking, then began sudding up with the bar of soap the maid hand led beside the barrel. She washed her body with leisurely strokes, taking extreme pleasure within the feel of it all. After a time however, the heavenly water began to cool, and her skin rose in small goose bumps. Standing, she reached for the towel also left and dried herself, fascinated by the way her skin glowed a cool crème where before it had been a dingy off-white color, tinted with dirt and sweat. How amazing it felt to be clean!
After drying herself thoroughly, she donned the large shirt that Lamar had set out. She opened the closet door to peer into the mirror she had clanked when he opened the wooden doors and nearly laughed at her appearance. The white-ruffled shirt came down to her knees, hardly lifted by the small breasts of a thirteen year old girl. The neckline was wide upon her shoulders, one side threatening to slip off, but did not.
She snatched the pants and pulled them on, glaring down at them grimly. They did not even touch her thin hips. Pulling them into an unsatisfied bunch at her side, she shuffled through the too-long legs and creaked open the door to find Lamar sitting to the left of the doorway.
"They're too big you biggot," she said testily. He looked up at her confused, but then his eyes widened in realization and his face spread into an amused smile. He chuckled.
"Please forgive me, I'd forgotten that factor," he said. "Assuredly I shall remedy this. May I?" he indicated a request to get through the door. She opened it, her full mouth in a pressed line.
He stepped through and rummaged within the drawers of his dresser before exerting something. He turned, as she closed the door and her eyes lay upon the thick belt that he held in his hand. A pure ice coal dropped into her stomach and she backed up instinctively, her heart racing.
No, no, no, she thought desperately. Please, not again. Please… flashes of memory blinded her as she skittered backwards….
"The bite of your tong should be dulled," a cruel voice said coldly. "Let's see just how long your spite holds up against the leather of my belt, shall we?"
She hit a chair, knocking it down as Lamar advanced. She noticed not that he did not hold the belt ready to strike.
The lash of the belt whipped down upon her back viciously, the buckle snatching small bits of skin from her back…
She tripped over the hem of the pants, causing her to fall, striking her head upon the wall.
The bang to the head seemed to knock the girl back into sense, her eyes no longer delirious, just frightful. Lamar kneeled before her. She shrunk back, her sharp wit seeming to have left her entirely. Her eyes remained fixed upon the belt that he held in his hands, revealing the source of her fear. He sighed, noting that the pants hand escaped they're wearer entirely, but grateful for the girl that the shirt was so overly-long, hiding the hair between her legs from sight. He had sighed one too many times tonight, each time to no avail.
"Charlotte," he said, making his voice as gentle as possible. "Here, see I hand the belt to you. I mean naught to hurt you with it. Do with it as you will." He kneeled and dropped the belt into her lap. Charlotte jumped violently, looking at the long object as though it would rise up and bite her as a viper would. He stood half- kneeled, looking at her patiently. Slowly, she reached into her lap, and he relaxed in relief, glad to see that perhaps she would see he did not wish to hurt her.
Instead, Charlotte looked at him with hate and a determined need to escape blazing within her dark eyes. She leapt to her feet with a frenzied movement, knocking past him. She ran for the door, but Lamar was upon her before she could wrench it open. He held her shoulders, attempting to stop her from running into the hallway that was filled with naught but men- half of whom, despite their jobs as police, he did not trust.
"Please, Charlotte!" he begged. "Don't-"
His words were cut off when, belt remaining in hand, Charlotte turned in a desperate motion and whipped the buckle around, catching his cheekbone painfully. He stumbled back more in surprise then pain, half expecting to find her escape through the door, but rather found her driving towards him, belt raised violently, ready to strike. Instinct gripped him to grasp her arm and twist the weapon from her grasp, but his heart told him otherwise. He turned his back to guard his front, instantly feeling the angry smack of the cold metal buckle biting deeply into his skin through the shirt. Again the belt struck, slicing the skin stretched across his spine, the bone promising an ache later. Again. Again. Again. Over and Over Charlotte beat him with the belt until he literally fell to his knees in blind agony, feeling the blood trickling down his back and sides. Even then she creamed blasphemous words and phrased as she swung the belt with all the strength she could, clenching down upon the chance to finally be the one to beat down another. Anger, hate, and pain drove her unsighted of Lamar's bent form, unaware of the tears that streaked his cheeks, of his teeth biting into his lip to stop himself from calling out and drawing attention. No, none of that did she noticed... all she saw before her were the men that had taken their wrath and wrapped her within it, binding her with pain and fear.
Finally, her weak body gave out the will the swing the heavy belt any linger and she fell to the wooden floor sobbing desperately, hating, fearing. Lamar gasped for breath through his choking tears of agony, his back roaring in pain, knowing that his shirt was surly permanently stained red with his blood. He sat for a time unmoving, biting his tong to keep from crying out softly every time his body shifted. Finally, his back became only a throbbing pain rather then a raging one and he managed, just barley, to force his body over to Charlotte's own huddled form, her sobs racking her body furiously. Wrapping his arms around her unresisting body, he let his tears of physical and emotional pain fall into her damp, blond hair.
"My niece," she whispered softly, painfully into her blond lock,. "My poor, beautiful niece."