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Chapter 16
Erik tried to steady his shaking hands as he took his Punjab lasso and hid it under his long black cloak. He was so overcome with anger that he could hardly focus on any task. He took a dagger tucked in away in his belt and then placed another smaller one in the top of his tall leather boots.
Whoever has Meg is not going to live through the night, he thought.
Erik swept out into the cold city streets of Paris. It was just after dusk and he would have complete cover of night soon. He headed for the La Havre Inn. He knew where it was although he had never been inside. Simply based on the looks of the people he saw going in and out, he knew it was a haven for drunken scoundrels and whores.
Erik had never employed the services of any of Paris' many women of the night, although he had entertained the idea more than once. A lifetime of celibacy sometimes led to intense carnal frustration. Erik knew that there were many of these women who would do anything for a few franks, even suffer the touch of a monster. But deep down he realized that satisfying his instinctual urges with a whore would only leave him feeling more empty than he already did. He wanted more than a moment of physical gratification. In his heart Erik yearned for intimacy and devotion that his deformed features would never grant him.
The city was blanketed with darkness by the time Erik reached the La Havre Inn. He decided to make his way to the roof of the smaller two story building behind the inn, so that he could see in all the rooms without making his presence known. It would be much easier to sneak up on Meg's kidnapper if the rogue did not know he was coming.
Erik saw light coming from four of the second story rooms of the dilapidated old building. He looked carefully as best he could in each one for any sign of Meg. Two of the rooms were being used for the sexual escapades of some of the most slovenly hookers Erik had ever seen. He watched one full figured, auburn-haired woman who was staring at the ceiling while a round sweaty oaf of a man had his way with her. He wondered for a moment what harsh circumstances could force anyone into such a deplorable life.
In another room Erik saw a drunken old man passed out on the floor beside the bed. He had either rolled out of the bed in his inebriated state, or had never quite made it there in the first place. The fourth room was occupied by an enormous unkempt brut-like man, who Erik could hardly believe was not some sort of abnormal giant.
And they put me in a freak show, he thought.
Unfortunately none of these rooms showed any evidence of Meg. Despite this, Erik continued to carefully watch the greasy ogre like man in the last room. The vile giant kept pouring whisky down his throat and the rest of him in the process. Erik watched as he rose and walked over to the narrow closet on the far side of the room. He looked around suspiciously and then slowly opened the closet door. Erik's view of him was temporarily blocked by the open door, and for a few seconds he couldn't see what the man was doing.
Erik watched closely as the man backed away from the closet and shut the door with his huge foot. When he turned to the side Erik could see that in the arms of this monstrosity was Meg's delicate little body. Her long blond hair hung from her head which dangled lifelessly in his massive arms. Erik felt his heart stop.
Silvain walked across the room and carelessly tossed Meg onto the dirty mattress that was strewn across the cheap iron bed frame. He grabbed the bottle of whiskey and came back to where she lay unconscious on her side. He gruffly grabbed her by the arm on flipped her over onto her back. Holding her nose, he tilted the bottle of whiskey over her mouth as she gasped for air.
In her dazed state Meg could feel the burning sensation as more warm liquor poured down the back of her throat as it had for the fourth or fifth time in the past few hours. Meg didn't open her eyes because she knew if she did she would see the face of the hideous man who had brought her to this hell. Several violent blows to the face had left her head pounding and spinning. The liquor continued to make her nauseated, and she could smell her own vomit that covered her hair and clothing. Her only relief had been when he had briefly locked her in a small, dark closet.
"Time to wakey, Love," she heard the man say.
He propped her head up against the iron rails of the bed and lifted her swollen eyelids with is coarse fingers. Meg could just barely make out the blurred image of his enormous head. She wanted to struggle, to scream, but she felt powerless to move her own limbs. It was as though she were a prisoner trapped inside her own stagnant body.
"Uncle Silvan has a lovely surprise for you, Pretty."
Meg's eyes fell shut again, and she felt herself on the verge of a comatose sleep. Then abruptly, she heard and felt the thundering smash of a fierce slap across her face. It felt as though her eye might explode inside her head from the force of the throbbing pain.
"I said wake up, you prissy ballerina. I don't like a girl who can't hold her liquor," Silvain yelled.
Meg used all of her strength to open her eyes just slightly in hopes of avoiding another agonizing blow.
"There we are, Pretty, now Uncle Silvain is going to have a bit a fun with you. I want to make sure you are awake to enjoy it."
Meg watched in blurred powerless horror as the foul beast unbuttoned his shirt revealing the sweaty bear like chest beneath. He grabbed her frail arm and pulled her up from the bed. With his free hand he began to tear at fabric of her tight rehearsal bodice. Meg tried to pull her arm away, but she wasn't sure if she had even mustered a movement.
She decided she must have, because her feeble effort was followed by another striking blow to the side of the already aching cheek. She felt the warmth of blood oozing from her nose and trickling down her lips.
"It's not polite to pull away from a man, Love," Silvain said.
He began to ferociously rip at her clothing again, and although she could feel his bulky hands groping at her tender flesh, Meg had no strength left to resist. She wondered for a moment if her life would end right here in this disgusting place at the hands of this violent beast. For a mere second she could see Erik standing on the roof with his dark mask and cloak swaying behind him in the breeze, and then everything faded to black.
Silvain dropped Meg and whipped around startled when he heard the door behind him slam open into the wall. Before he could even think about how to attack the masked man in black before him he saw something fly through the air at his head. Suddenly, he felt a solid noose tightening around his thick neck. Instinctually, he tried to wrap his fingers around the rope to loosen its tightening grip from around his throat. He fell to his knees pulling desperately at the noose and trying to get just one breath of air.
A heavy leather boot plowed his face into the wooden floor beneath him. The noose kept tightening, and Silvain felt a sharp pain as the boot of the masked man bore into his skull. He was sure he was about to meet his death, and then he felt the noose loosen ever so slightly. His face was pulled back from the floor by his grimy hair.
"You didn't think I would end it that quickly, did you swine?" a merciless voice said in his ear.
Silvain couldn't speak. His wind pipe was still blocked by the noose and he was overcome with fear.
Erik was consumed with blind rage. He wanted to draw out the execution of this despicable demon because he deserved to suffer for what he had done to Meg. His mind was running ramped with ways to cause him excruciating pain.
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft moan that escaped Meg's swollen blood stained lips. Erik felt as though he had been slapped in the face. He looked at Meg lying limply on the bed, bruised and beaten, and he knew he had to get her out of there.
"Consider yourself fortunate," Erik said as he smashed Silvain's face back into the floor. He drew the lasso instantly tighter around his giant neck. He felt him struggle in vain for a few more seconds and then collapse beneath him.
Erik quickly ran to Meg's side. He gently wrapped her in his heavy wool cloak, draping it over her battered exposed skin. He was sickened by the blood and bruises that covered her delicate face. He could feel that she was breathing, but he new that she was completely unconscious. She reeked of cheap whiskey, and her torn clothing was stained with vomit and blood.
Erik lifted her with great ease and within minutes he was carrying Meg's listless body through the shadows in the cold streets of Paris back to his underground sanctuary. Looking down at her, despite her awful state, Erik was overcome with a sense of relief that she was alive and that he had her in his arms. He vowed at that moment that he would never again let her go.
