Paladin59

The butcher's knife hit the table with a sickening clunk that caused Karl to flinch with apprehension. Wordlessly, Erik held up four sections of rope he had cut just before he bent down and ripped open Karl's shirt sleeves. He fastened one strip below Karl's right elbow, then one on his other arm.

"Do you know what I'm doing? I want you to bleed," Erik said under his breath as he bound Karl's hands above his head and secured the larger section of rope to the leg of the smokehouse table, binding him so that he couldn't escape his new prison. "But I don't want you to bleed to death until I command it."

Roused from his unconscious state, Karl tossed his head from side to side, struggling to comprehend what was happening to him. His nose was smashed, his mouth a bloody cavern of cracked teeth and bruised gums. Each breath he took was labored, grunts of agony that would never equal what Sophia had endured.

"You will bleed from your arms, your legs, your groin, your head; from every inch of your body before I allow you to die, you miserable bastard," Erik said through his teeth. He bound the third rope around Karl's leg so tightly that Karl jumped.

"It's been a long time," Erik continued, "since I've cauterized a wound. The stench of burning flesh is quite distinct. You will discover that you become quite familiar with it in the coming days. Soon enough you won't remember the smell of cured meats."

With Karl suitably restrained, Erik rose to his feet and selected a paring knife. He turned the instrument over in his hand and ran his thumb along the sharpened edge.

"You will learn how to scream," Erik promised.

Complete calm washed over him, a feeling of his body and mind separating. He remembered the feeling, the dulled anxiety of watching his hands work and seeing his flesh tinged with crimson. Erik's stomach tightened, his nerves on end as he considered distant days, images he never expected to live again. Forcing himself to forget, he ran the knife blade across Karl's forearm, instantly garnering a distant but familiar sound.

The music of pain. Erik held Karl's arm outstretched, restraining him further as he made a long, straight incision from Karl's wrist to his elbow, carefully keeping the wound away from major veins.

With Karl's arm opened, Erik stood again and picked up a bag of salt. Sprinkling a bit on the table, he coated the bloody knife in coarse granules then made a second incision along Karl's left arm and watched him bleed. When Karl began to struggle Erik elbowed him in the face, then rose to retrieve a fire poker from his home.

The flick of a warm, wet tongue against his palm caused Erik to turn. He stared at the contented furry face, its tongue lolling from an open maw. The distinct difference of what Erik felt inside, the turbulent, threatening hatred was in stark contrast to the loyal hound's greeting. There was still blood on Fidelio's snout, but the beast was more concerned with pleasing his master than cleaning his face.

"Guard," Erik said to Fidelio as he rose to his feet, leaving the knife on the table. "This will require more firewood and instruments."

The cold hit Erik's face immediately and the crisp air filled his insides. A peculiar sensation rattled through him until his eyes settled on Sophia's home. The guilt—for that was what had threatened his plans—ebbed. He could not allow Karl Turro to slink away unpunished as he and Philippe had previously done. Karl had proven himself malicious and vindictive, and to allow him his freedom only invited further grief.

With his eyes fixed on the bloody trail through the snow, Erik knew that, if given the chance, Karl Turro would kill Sophia.

His morose thoughts were broken by the sound of a door closing. Lifting his eyes, Erik saw Citrine walk into the night and took a step back.

"I've seen you already, Monsieur!" Citrine shouted as she trudged through the snow.

Erik swallowed hard and wiped his hands on his trousers, attempting to remove the blood from his fingers.

With a frown, Citrine approached. "You should return inside. It's much too cold out here, especially since you're still recovering from pneumonia."

Erik looked away, the stinging cold against his exposed face beginning to burn. Suddenly aware of himself, he lifted his trembling hand to cover what he could and felt his palm stick to his cheek. The sensation made his stomach turn. He wanted no part of Karl Turro on Sophia or himself.

"Monsieur, where is my dog?"

Citrine's question caught him by surprise and he turned to study her. "Your dog?"

"That is correct. I want my dog back."

Hearing Citrine's voice, Fidelio stuck his head through the open door and whined, drawing her attention.

"He needs his face cleaned up, Monsieur," Citrine said sternly as she gathered her skirts and marched through the snow. "Look at him. That wicked man has hurt my dog."

Erik turned to face Fidelio, who had fresh blood on his wet nose. With his thoughts on Sophia, Erik hadn't noticed that Fidelio was stained but not with Karl Turro's blood. Turro had punched Fidelio with such force that he drew blood from the hound.

Citrine moved to stand closer to Erik and shook her head. "He hit him in the nose," she said sadly, shaking her head. "But Fidelio didn't let go, did he?"

Erik made no reply. He crouched down and stuck out his free hand, but Fidelio stayed his ground, obeying his master's first command. He felt Citrine still standing at his side, and for a heartbeat the dream that had first roused him in the night came to mind.

Brushing the thoughts aside, he called to Fidelio and the dog bounded over, his body wriggling all over in delight as Erik scratched his furry chin. Erik remained silent as Citrine walked away from him, her feet crunching the snow. As he attempted to look away, he saw her peer into the smokehouse at Karl's body, bloody and strewn across the floor. His lips parted, the words he wanted to say unable to coalesce in his mind. At last Erik realized there was nothing for him to say. He was a killer, a torturer, a beast just as he was always told from the time he was old enough to comprehend.

With his fist balled around a clump of Fidelio's gray fur, Erik suspected that Citrine already understood—and if she didn't, she had better not question her employer. She had not seen the worst of him and he had no desire for her to see what he was truly capable of doing.

"Come, Monsieur, you need tea and a bite to eat," Citrine said as she joined him once more. She stood over him, her close proximity snapping him back to life as he studied the apron and shawl before his eyes.

The burning rage he felt was culled by her presence. Erik didn't understand why he suddenly felt as though he could no longer stand outside the smokehouse. With a curt nod he turned toward his home with Citrine beside him.

"You should return to Sophia," he said gruffly.

Citrine's hand brushed against his arm. "Monsieur, I think you should return to her as well."

Erik froze at her gentle caress, unsure of whether she had meant to touch him or not. His hands balled into fists, the discomfort of blood binding his fingers together sickening him.

Deep down inside he felt the calling of a dangerous man, a life he had attempted to ignore and leave behind. But now it was resurrected and he saw himself split, the juxtaposition of who he had always been and who he wanted to be now.

As he stood with his back to Citrine, Erik felt the battle welling inside of him. He was a monster hiding behind finely-tailored clothing. If Citrine dared to look into his eyes she would find a dark, soulless gaze, one that held only abominable hatred and the desire to kill.

His thoughts made him sick to his stomach. There was no doubt that he wanted Karl Turro dead, but he knew just as well that these hands, these murderous hands, would damn him to a life of solitude.

"Monsieur, come with me," Citrine said, her voice low and soft.

Heart racing, Erik pulled away, but Citrine grasped his sleeve, signaling her concern for him. Her thumb press firmly into his upper arm, her fingers clinging to his bicep as his gaze settled on the smokehouse. If he shook her away there was no going back. It angered him that Karl Turro's life could condemn him, but as he stared at the wooden structure, the doorway filled with darkness, Erik had no desire to return to a world of endless night.

Without another word, Erik allowed Citrine to lead him to Sophia and Philippe's home, grateful for the choice he was allowed.