Andrew hissed venomously, glaring at Red, touching the raw skin about his neck tenderly. Red looked at him from across the room, seated on a threadbare chair that squeaked with moth-eaten age. The strawberry blond man sucked at a cheap cigar heavily, contempt sparkling in his dirty green eyes.
"You let Lamar take the wench!" Andrew's voice was quiet, but dangerously so. "There was a reason I allowed her into your hands, you bastard!"
Red stared at him with an emotionless face, though his eyes gleamed. He flicked the cigar, ridding it of dead ashes and placing it back in between his ruined teeth. He did not answer for a moment, enjoying the pleasure of causing his brother strife.
"He offered more money then you did to keep her away from the others," he finally answered slowly. "It is no problem of mine if you 'ave problems with your business. Tha' besides, she was mine to begin with."
Andrew's mouth curled into an angry snarl, fist clenched. His knuckles ached for the impact of a good swing to Red's pathetic jaw. The man had no idea what more problems he had just caused by releasing charlotte into Lamar's care. His teeth ground fiercely as he thought of the consequences of this turn of events. The child had not been born in the business; her real position would prove dangerous if revealed.
"And you gave her to me," Andrew spat, body tensed. Red's blank face now spread into a wicked sneer.
"And then you gave 'er back to me," he said mildly.
"That bitch child carries her blood," Andrew said sharply. "You do realize what that means if that is discovered?"
"That you loose all money an' name?" Red answered sneeringly. Andrew's temper loosed momentarily and he stood, suddenly, striding forward and slamming his hands down on either side of Red, who had not flinched an inch.
"No, you dim-witted son of a dog!" he bit out, angry spit drizzling Red's face. "It means that if I am caught because of you, I will personally see your eyes picked out by hand, your tongue sliced out and your entrails spread on the floor by dogs. Do you understand?" Red's rotten teeth gleamed ugly yellow in the candle light of the room as he spit back at Andrew.
"I understand that you carry more secrets then I think you even be realizin'," he snapped. "She may be of her blood, but she is also of mine. I don't know what your connection is to her that Charlotte's life is so important to you, but I can be promisin' you that your life ain't worth even half a cent of Charlotte's and that's saying something, considerin' that I sold her for two hundred francs."
Andrew bit down violently on his temper, forcing the raging beast to bow its head. Killing red would do him no good. He already had enough blood on his conscience. He turned sharply on his heal, grasping his cloak and swinging it about his shoulders. He stopped at the door, pausing, then turned abruptly to face Red again, his face contorted.
"If you ever- ever meddle in my affairs without discussing them with me first," he hissed with a passion, "understand that I will reveal your connection to Marti." Red stood sharply, rage flowing through him with a will, growling. Andrew turned without another word and closed the door behind him sharply.
Red growled in his pure rage and threw the rest of the cigar at the door, hating his brother with all he knew how. That was quite a bit. He threw himself back into the chair heavily, thinking desperately.
Martelli. The bitch was the key to all of their problems, excluding Lamar. Her blood ran with the sweetness of the aristocracy; Charlotte's did as well. An odd connection the two had, that was definite. But what did he care what their connection was? All he knew was the need to keep the fact that Martello was his sister a secret from the others. Lamar knew, Andrew had made it all to clear that he knew. But the others?
There was a strict rule among the Kingrea Group that they take only those that would not be missed or traveled unaccompanied, and even those sparingly. If any of the others found out that Marti was his sister…he shuddered. The connection could mean death. A death possibly worse then the one that Andrew threatened.
Margareite hummed to herself quietly, coloring absent mindedly. Or so it appeared. In reality, she scratched down a scribble of complicated, uneven notes which she hummed to herself. In reality, she was anything but absent minded at the moment. Silent tears ran down her cheeks that only one peering at her face could see in the dim morning light. In reality, her careless child-like demeanor was crumbling inside of her.
It was all her fault. She should never have let Christine leave the Lair, never let her return to Raoul. If she had cried any more, begged more desperately then maybe, just maybe, Christine would be safe right now. But she wasn't. No. Christine was trapped by monster-males. Twenty of them at least that had brought themselves to a regular name basis with her. Well, the called her by her first name of choice; he had never used their names and had only known a few by accident; Red, Andrew, Michale, Rory, Francoise, Richard…
Not that she had ever had any draw to even want to know their names. The only draw she had was to fall into dark oblivion and never come out; anything to escape those creatures. They were like sick and diseased wolverines that were determined to slice out your life before you even had a chance to escape. And once they had you in their sinister claws…Margareite shuddered. Once they had you, they were like pit bulls intent on the kill. There was no escaping their wrath nor the feel of a thick (or sometimes rather small) rod of abhorrent skin between your legs and slam into your soul as a demon ravaged your body…
Margareite stopped the scratching of her quill, choked and blinded by her thoughts. She knew better then to allow herself to think upon her past. It always tortured her if she allowed herself to think too much. The skin remembered phantom pain between her legs, her neck recalling the harsh chaff of fraying rope around her neck, her thighs feeling the slice of the knife on their delicate flesh.
Margareite let out a short cry now, unable to keep her thoughts away from the haunting demon fingers that insisted on prying into her mind and reminding her viciously of the pain those monster-males had caused. Flickers of memory on her skin twanged and stung, rage swelling up inside of her desperately. She released another strangled cry, standing and throwing the quill with a will across her room at the wall, spattering ink onto the off-white paint. Snarling, Marareite ripped at the stack of papers before her, but upon discovering them too thick to easily rip, she flung them off the desk, splaying the sheets upon the floor. She looked down, desperate to find anything else she could throw in her anger-
Then stopped. She looked down upon a map beneath a glass covering, set into the desk; a map of Paris. Her breath came short, staring at the winding streets and buildings. There was the Opera House… where was the verge of the higher and lower parts of the city? Her eyes searched franticly, following the names of the buildings and streets. Every now and again, the men would take her out on the streets (they were those that were not quite wealthy enough to afford a fire-warmed room as others were) to receive their services, allowing Margareite snatches of glances at street signs.
Where was Toulouse Street? Her fingers rand swiftly over the glass surface, hand shaking. Where, where, where? There was Auch Street, but where was Toulouse? She bit her lit irritated, sure it was here somewhere… if she could show the map to Erik then she wouldn't have to speak it, or even write it! It would already be there for him, to lead him there! Where, where….THERE!
She had found it, heart thumping, the urge to jump up and down in joy lying upon her, but she held her feet to the ground. Maybe if she could tell Madame Giry to get to Erik and deliver the message… he would not have left his Lair just yet. He had visited her not five hours ago, her attempts to reveal anything having failed once again. But not this time. No. she would be able to help this time.