Happy spring! Thanks to everyone for their reviews and an extra special thanks to Teresa for editing and to all the NDBRs for commenting on the previews. Everyone, especially MadLizzy, helped me find directions for this chapter in particular. You ladies have no idea how much your feedback means to me.
Paladin68
With a curse Karl dropped the skinning knife, his hand too sore from being stabbed through to form a fist for long. Stumbling, he dropped to one knee and regrouped, a bloody grin of satisfaction touched his lips as he watched Philippe Dupree collapse and reach for his throat.
The damage was done.
Panting and barely able to stand, Karl had waited, had watched from behind the smokehouse as Philippe lumbered up. The gash to his forehead must have made him lazy and unaware of his surroundings, as the attack was far too easy, yet satisfying.
Karl started to stand, madly hoping he could climb to his feet and flee. No one would find him, he told himself, no one would touch him. He'd arrive home and his servants would care for him. By nightfall the gendarmes would know of his kidnapping and torture and the hideous beast that owned this land would be sent to his death.
His erratic thoughts were terminated with a skull-rattling thump that left him stunned. With a grunt Karl fell face first into the snow, his shoulder pinned. Before he could react, fiery pain pierced the back of his neck, the bite wounds he'd received the night before torn open once more.
It was that damned dog again, growling in Karl's ears as its massive jaws clamped harder, sinking into muscle and tendons. Karl growled in return, clawing at the animal's eyes and snout, grimacing and cursing as the beast held tighter and ripped through his flesh.
Karl fought to crawl forward, his hand pierced through by the fire poker groping for the fallen knife. He saw the blade glinting in the sunlight, its handle partially buried in the snow. One slice across the throat and the dog would befall the same fate as Philippe Dupree, whimpering as its life spilled onto the snow.
At last his fingers wrapped around the knife in one last, desperate stand.
If he were destined for hell, he wasn't going alone.
-o-
Erik walked out his front door and saw a streak of gray tear across the yard. At first he thought it was Fidelio coming to greet him, but the dog ran with its head down and back rigid.
He was in pursuit.
As Fidelio released a growl and disappeared behind the smokehouse Erik's gait turned from a walk to a trot, fearing Karl had indeed escaped. He rolled up his shirt sleeves, his heart racing as he rounded the corner and heard a groan at his feet.
Digging his heels into the snow, he discovered Philippe doubled over, his hands at his throat.
"My God."
The snow was stained with blood, as were Philippe's hands. Erik started to reach down, fearing Philippe had already bled to death when he moved, turning from his side to his back. His face was bone-white, eyes wild and fearful.
Karl garnered Erik's attention before he could examine Philippe. Turro released another strangled groan as he attempted to turn from his belly to his back while Fidelio continued to wrestle with his prey. Light glinted off something in Turro's bloodied right hand, and suddenly Erik spotted the skinning knife he'd ignorantly left behind.
"Fidelio!" Erik yelled, as he lifted his foot to kick Turro in the face and send him belly-first into the snow.
Turro's nose and mouth dripped with blood, his teeth loosened, cheeks swollen. He glared at Erik as he struggled to stand and fight.
"For months I've been trying to kill that worthless dog. That little whore took him in, that ugly Irish thing you keep in your kitchen. Worthless, filthy…"
Erik ignored Karl and crouched beside Philippe. "Take your hand away from your throat," he requested, an air of calm about him.
"Where are the girls?"
"In the house. Take your hand away from your throat. Now."
"I'll bleed to death," Philippe gasped.
Blood and death had never bothered him much, though his steady words were for Philippe's sake. Erik had seen men react to panic around them, outside influences proving detrimental to their situation. By the look of him, Philippe needed no more reasons for alarm.
Erik lifted a brow and grabbed Philippe's wrist, exposing the cut to his butler's throat. For the amount of blood and what Erik expected to see, he sighed in relief. The slice was shallow, shaving off a layer of skin rather than cutting an artery, which explained why there was so much blood. The wound had been administered to Philippe's chin rather than his throat, giving him a painful but not mortal injury.
"Am I dead?" Philippe questioned.
"You're too stubborn to die. Hold this to your neck," Erik said as he handed Philippe his handkerchief.
"My throat is cut."
"Your chin is cut," Erik corrected, packing a handful of snow in the handkerchief.
"But-but I saw the blood. He cut straight to the bone," Philippe stammered.
"Not quite," Erik muttered before he abandoned Philippe for the man who wouldn't live past the hour.
"I had her first," Karl snarled, spitting blood. "I took her first, gave her my seed. Trust me, you mangled bastard, she wasn't that good. But I'm sure you'd never know the difference."
Stalking toward Karl, Erik grabbed him by the shirt collar and pulled him up, his every intention set on breaking Karl's neck. With a grunt Karl glanced down and Erik followed his gaze, finding the skinning knife buried deep in Turro's belly. Turro still clutched the guard, his hand coated in a sticky layer of his own blood.
"This isn't over," Karl said through his teeth, his words slurred with pending death. Blood pulsed from the wound, his torn white shirt turning bright red around the protruding blade.
Erik didn't say a word. He shoved Karl onto his back and looked to Fidelio, who bared his teeth, tail wagging in anticipation of pleasing his master.
"Guard," Erik said sternly as he pulled the knife free, cleaned it in the snow, and returned it to the smokehouse. As he walked out of the building, he glanced at Karl, who was still writhing in the snow, before he turned his attention to Philippe.
His butler was as pale as a ghost and breathing raggedly. Without asking Philippe if he needed help—as he knew the stubborn ass would deny aid—Erik grabbed Philippe by the arm and pulled him to his feet.
"I can walk," Philippe said stubbornly.
"Highly unlikely," Erik muttered under his breath. He felt Philippe attempt to hold his own weight but failed as the realization of what had happened began to sink in.
"Where are we walking?"
"My home."
"No, I need to see Sophia."
Erik's pace slowed. "And further upset her?"
Stumbling, Philippe cursed and nearly dropped the handkerchief at his neck. He muttered something under his breath but kept walking, pausing only when they reached Erik's front door.
"Is he dead?" Philippe questioned without glancing over his shoulder. Blood and melting snow dripped down his trembling hand. "If he's not dead, then leave me here. I won't have him after my sister and Citrine."
"You're in no condition to stand guard," Erik replied, thinking it a shame that the knife hadn't nicked the tip of Philippe's constantly moving tongue.
"Someone must stand guard," Philippe argued weakly.
Erik glanced back at the body in the snow and the dog standing over its prey. Whistling, he called Fidelio to his side and the dog wasted no time in answering his master. The body in the snow remained motionless. It would need to be moved soon, Erik thought, especially if they didn't want to upset Sophia. From where Karl's body lay, he wasn't visible to Citrine or Sophia—as long as they remained at home. Judging by what Citrine had said earlier she wasn't concerned about Karl's livelihood. Though Erik couldn't expect her to mourn Turro, he assumed the sight of a body in the snow would cause her distress.
"If he's able to move he'll be after Sophia. Monsieur, you don't understand—"
"It's over," Erik replied before he ushered Philippe into the house and left him sitting in the kitchen with a towel replacing the bloodied handkerchief.
"Citrine will stitch your chin," Erik said as he turned to leave.
"Monsieur—"
"Stay here."
"Did you kill him?" Philippe blurted out.
Slowly Erik turned and faced Philippe. He shook his head, his eyes cold and hard. "He fell on the knife and killed himself."