Paladin67
"You mean to plot his death?" Philippe asked once Monsieur Belmont finished speaking.
Everything he'd read in the paper concerning the opera house disaster came rushing to mind. For weeks—months, really—he'd attempted to block out the thoughts that their Monsieur Belmont was the Phantom of the Opera. Now it seemed impossible to ignore. The only part Philippe didn't understand was how this supposed heartless monster had come to care about and save Sophia.
"As far as I'm concerned, he's already dead," Erik replied.
"Natural causes," Philippe replied dryly. "The result of first being beaten and then freezing to death."
"As natural as your sister's injuries…and your own," Erik growled.
Philippe held his hand over his mouth, refusing to look his employer in the eye. Sleep had brought his blurred, angry thoughts into focus. He hated himself for his sensibilities, but it seemed someone needed to maintain rational thought.
"Monsieur, it is not that I believe he deserves to live…"
"But you will allow him to live," Belmont spit. Angered, he clutched the arms of the chair and began to rise to his feet. "And allow him the opportunity to kill your sister the next time?"
"If need be, I will take Sophia away from here and he'll never be able to find her again," Philippe challenged.
Furious, Erik glared at Philippe, his hands visibly shaking. His lips twitched, most likely with unspoken threats. If Monsieur Belmont truly was the dreaded Phantom, why didn't he voice his threats? Philippe wondered.
"I would prefer not to hang," Philippe stated softly, clasping his hands. "And you yourself may find that murdering a man such as Karl Turro brings you closer to a noose. It seems you avoided death in Paris. Dare you chance it here?"
Monsieur Belmont froze, staring Philippe hard in the eye. If nothing else, Philippe knew he had his employer's attention.
"I read the papers carefully," Philippe said under his breath. "My aunt never said anything outright, but I've had my suspicions since the day you arrived. A masked entity, an extortionist in an opera house…a masked composer with his pockets filled suddenly arriving here. A half-wit could have assumed as much."
Monsieur Belmont had visibly paled, his breaths coming harsher. Philippe couldn't tell if he was angered or anxious, but he knew by the tense stance the composer had taken that he was prepared to leave at once.
"There must be a reward," he said under his breath.
"Nothing worth more than my sister's life," Philippe replied. He stared hard at Monsieur Belmont, finding the initial fear in the estate owner's eyes had ebbed. "My words are by no means threats, Monsieur. Given all that has happened, you needn't worry about gendarmes searching your land."
With his jaw clenched tight, Erik nodded and settled back into his chair.
Philippe adjusted the pillow behind his back and sighed. "Paris does not concern me. My concerns are for this moment and nothing more. You must understand that if anyone suspects that you left Turro's body by the overseer's house, there will be severe consequences," Philippe loudly whispered. "Not only for you, either."
"Then Sophia will explain—"
Philippe shook his head. "She would never tell what that…that bastard attempted to do to her. No woman would disgrace herself in that manner…take the blame…"
Monsieur Belmont grit his teeth and forced a nod. "Then I shall be very cautious indeed."
"We will both watch our steps," Philippe sighed, silently praying that Turro would already be dead by the time they returned to the smokehouse. "I must change out of these clothes. Give me a moment and I will have Gabe saddle the horses."
Rising to his feet, Monsieur Belmont strode toward the bedroom door. He kept his back to Philippe, his head bowed.
"Does she know?" he asked.
Philippe gingerly tested his legs. "She's never said a word to me. Reading, Monsieur, is often difficult for her, and I believe it is better for her if she is not troubled with…such outrageous news. She's an innocent young woman. I do hope she retains her incorruptibility, if you will."
"The smokehouse," Erik said, glancing over his shoulder. "Fifteen minutes."
-o-
Gabe was waiting outside the door for Philippe, who was still attempting to blink away the fuzzy edges of his vision.
"What are you doing here?" Philippe snapped.
"Monsieur Belmont said to make certain you didn't crack your head open on the stairs," Gabe answered quite snidely. He had his arms crossed and an apathetic expression on his face.
"Here," Philippe said, handing Gabe an envelope. "See that this is delivered immediately."
Gabe glanced at the address before he tucked it into his shirt pocket. "Shall I walk down with you?"
Answering with a glare, Philippe set off on his own.
-o-
Erik could barely harness his breathing as he stood in the kitchen and stared at the back door.
Philippe knew everything.
This wasn't supposed to happen. Fleeing—because that's exactly what he was doing—was supposed to bring anonymity. But apparently that would never happen no matter how far he traveled.
It horrified him that Sophia would discover his past. Every man made mistakes, but he'd created more than the mere follies most men make. He'd created disasters -- deadly, despicable "accidents" in the opera house…and many more before. No matter what he did for her now, the past could not be ignored, and Erik had a feeling it would not be forgiven either.
Hearing Citrine's voice, Erik forced himself to stand taller and consider the task immediately at hand. Karl Turro.
In the back of his mind, Erik knew that Philippe was correct.
No simple solution existed, unless Turro had frozen or bled to death. If they found him alive, however…
Karl Turro could very well walk away and give his word to never come near the Manor or Sophia again, but his word meant nothing. Then, having no guarantee of Sophia's safety, Philippe would take his sister away from the countryside, which for selfish reasons Erik didn't want.
Suddenly the air was punched from Erik's lungs as the irony of juxtaposition hit him. Allow Turro to live and Sophia leaves. Kill him and she stays…perhaps.
Choose your lover and it leads to his death, choose me and I'll set him free.
Erik's stomach knotted, bile rising in the back of his throat. Another decision, another calculation between life and death, love and loss writhed in his belly. Phantom or not, he would always be haunted by that night, by a situation that in retrospect was clearly a mistake.
This day would only prove to be another apparition looming at his back.
As much as he wanted to find Turro dead, a part of him wanted the bastard to remain alive and able to fight. Revenge, vindication, a sweet vendetta loomed if Karl Turro was strong enough to fight. Not a simple murder, a slice across the throat, a rope around the neck, but a good fight. He'd left Turro with a knife and the challenge of sawing through his bindings. If he freed himself and kept the knife, he was armed and justifiably dangerous. No longer a brutal murder, Erik thought, but a necessity. He didn't much care if it was a fair fight. Turro had lost his right to clean sparring the moment he attacked Sophia.
"Mine," Erik growled under his breath.
His property invaded, his life once again caught in a downward spiral, his precious Sophia brutalized. Those were his reasons to undo Turro, to terminate the threat that would otherwise loom in their lives. Erik glanced at the clock in the kitchen. It was time to draw the beast from its temporary cage.
He only hoped it wasn't too late.
-o-
Fidelio was restless.
As much as Sophia attempted to pet him and keep him at her side, the hound would have no part of it. With his rear in the air, he sniffed and scratched at her bedroom door until his incessant whining was too much to bear.
"You must have given up on me," she murmured, rubbing his head. "Have I not spoiled you?"
Fidelio sighed, plopping down hard to vigorously scratch his ear before he gave a full-body wriggle and set to scratching his way through the bedroom door.
Giving him one last scratch behind his ear, Sophia frowned, and decided that she trusted Fidelio's instincts.
"Return to your papa," she said before she opened the bedroom door and followed him down the hall. He slipped as he rounded the corner and before encountered Citrine.
"Oh, a typical man," Sophia heard Citrine mutter. "Spend the night with two ladies and then out in the morning you go. Out, you mutt. Go brag to your master, eh?"
Sophia stood in the kitchen doorway and shivered as Citrine opened the door to let Fidelio out.
"How do you feel?" Citrine questioned once she saw Sophia.
"Terrified."
Citrine nodded. "In pain?"
"Yes and no."
"I understand," Citrine said as she sighed and locked the back door.
Sophia made no reply. She didn't need to know more.
"Will it stop?" Sophia whispered, her voice breaking.
Citrine reached for a wooden spoon but stopped herself and strode instead to the doorway where Sophia stood. Wrapping her arms around Sophia, she held her tightly and kissed her cheek.
"There is no starting and stopping. Think of it as holding and releasing."
-o-
Philippe found Monsieur Belmont standing in the kitchen in his day clothes, his back bent and head down. He stood rigid, as though at any moment he would turn on his heel and attack.
"Shall I meet you here or at the smokehouse?" Philippe questioned, remaining a cautious distance away.
Belmont visibly jumped at the unexpected company. "It doesn't matter."
The edge in the estate master's voice had turned to doubt, though Philippe wasn't certain if Monsieur Belmont doubted himself or the task at hand. Perhaps both.
"Here, then," Philippe said as he turned to leave. He waited a moment for Monsieur Belmont to answer, but his employer made no attempt to move. With nothing else to add, Philippe turned and walked out through the front door of the house.
The moment the cold morning air hit his face, Philippe couldn't deny the torrent of loathing that he felt drawing him to the smokehouse. He had to know if Karl still breathed.
With a violent tug, Philippe heard the door crack at the bottom before it gave and opened. The physical exertion threatened to bring him to his knees, but unadulterated hatred kept him upright. The back of his neck pricked with a barrage of feelings that Philippe had thought was finally settled and smoothed away by rational thought.
Once the door was open, Philippe's mind went numb.
"Son of—" Philippe started, finding the smokehouse empty. The ropes had both been cut and blood stained the ground.
Heart racing, Philippe grasped the doorframe and glanced inside the dark confines before he pushed off the wall, fearing for Sophia and Citrine's safety.
He'd barely turned when his feet were taken out from beneath him. Blood spurted before his eyes and his neck turned wet and warm. Down on his knees, he reached for his throat and drew his hand away, his fingers stained with blood. He gasped, feeling the sting from his wound and the realization of what had happened. Unable to react, he planted his free hand in the snow and attempted to stand. What felt like a club hit him in the kidneys and forced him facedown. A terrible, beastly growl drowned out his thoughts as he turned from his belly to his back and attempted to make sense of the world around him before it went dark.