XV
Erik's leave-taking left her bereft with a cold wind whistling through the hole punched in her chest. All she wanted to do was cocoon herself in the bedclothes that smelled of him and their pleasure and sleep the day away. But the brothel was busy this morning and scarcely three quarters of an hour after Erik left, Madame was guiding her toward another customer. She battled down a choking panic. Too soon! Any girl booked for an entire night was allotted half of the following day to rest. She needed time and space to breathe . . . the brothel's walls quivered. Or was that her?
The features and build of this monster were indistinguishable to her. Her body sashayed and simpered and fluttered its eyelashes while she screamed and wept and howled for Erik inside the privacy of her own mind. She watched from a distance as the man led her to the room, divested her of her clothes and smeared oil on himself, then her. Dimly, she was aware of an uncomfortable pressure, a repetitive jostling. Sounds, smells, movements composed something she should react to . . . why was that, again? Numb with her nose clogged with the noxious smells of roses and sweat, Christine grasped for something that held meaning, something she could throw herself against.
"Erik." She wasn't even aware she'd spoken aloud until pain exploded in her left cheek, her head snapped back under the strength of the clout.
"Ah ah, little slut. It's Pierre." A harsh voice rasped. A hard hand dug into the soft skin underneath her jawline, the part of him inside her exhibiting a great deal more interest.
"Say it for me, kitten." Christine blinked, her left eye watering and tender skin beginning to swell.
"Pierre," she repeated hollowly. The jostling was harder as he approached his release.
"Say it!"
"Pierre," she said, without inflection. Mid-thrust, the monster shivered on top of her in throes of his release. The same hard hand patted her head.
"That's it, kitten. I suppose it's easy to get 'em jumbled up, eh?" Christine rose and dressed mechanically, his sticky leavings painting her thighs.
Madame swooped over to them as they descended the stairs. Her eyes flickered over Christine and settled on the bruise that made her eye burn and throb. Her smile was brittle.
"I hope your experience was satisfactory, Monsieur Grossier." The monster uttered a coarse bray of laughter, squeezing Christine's rear with hard, square fingers.
"She's a fine filly, Madame. Thank you. Just needed a light tap to keep her in line. No trouble, I assure you."
He paid the Madame with a flourish and was gone. It was only as the door closed, shutting out the cold, fresh air and sunlight that Christine realized why she had reason to be afraid. The manic gleam in the Madame's eye did not bode well, nor did the strange tic under her left eye. Was she having some sort of apoplexy? Talon-like fingers painted blood red sank into Christine's arm, dragging her down the hall to her cell. The force of her shove sent Christine careening onto the cot.
"What did you do, you stupid cunt?" she hissed, flecks of spittle flying from her mouth. Christine shrank back against the wall, raw, jagged terror filling her belly like shards of glass.
"N—Nothing, Madame! I promise! Please . . . please don't-" the stuttered sentence ended in a yelp as Madame's open hand flew, striking her hard across her bruised cheek. Pain studded with stinging needles of sensation rippled across her face.
"Stupid, stupid girl!" snarled the Madame, "You're lucky Bruno is away on my business or I'd have him flay you alive!" Christine whimpered, curling into a shuddering ball. I don't like it here. I want to go home. I want Erik.
"I'm so sorry. I'll never be bad again, I promise! Please don't tell Bruno. Please!" pure hysteria painted Christine's voice, the blind, desperate fear that had swallowed her waking and sleeping hours before Erik had come rose again, choking, shredding her.
Madame was no longer listening. The older woman was pacing the tiny room like a tiger in a cage, muttering to herself: "What will he do? What will he do?" Christine bit her lip to keep from babbling. What will Bruno do? Madame halted suddenly, turning a hard, baleful eye on Christine's huddled form.
"You ungrateful slut. I pulled you out of that festering shithole before you were raped to death and threw you into the lap of luxury and this is how you repay me? I should throw you to Méchant's rats. You'd think you've been fucked by a train." Her expression suddenly calmed, so quickly that Christine doubted her sanity.
"No, I think I'll let you stay here and think about what you've done."
With that, the Madame swept from the room in a sweep of rose-colored silk and lace, snatching the candle from the stand as she went. Christine flew from the cot as the door slammed and the lock clicked shut. Leaving her in darkness.
"No! No, please! Please, Madame! Please!" Christine howled, beating her fists on the unforgiving oak. Once, a century ago when Christine still believed Madame to be an angel of mercy, she had confided a secret fear of being left alone in darkness. How long she wept and pleaded and prayed for mercy, she didn't know. Sleep swooped in to rescue her from her disintegrating sanity.
XXX
His father's condition was worsening. He saw it in the doctor's tense expression, heard it in the wet rasping of his father's breathing. From his vantage point in the foyer through the thin glimpse the cracked door offered, he saw Elise and Jacqueline standing pale and wan in their Papa's sickroom. Whatever his failings with his sons, Michel de Chagny adored his daughters and they adored him. The tableau was blocked as Claire's grey-swathed form gathered the two girls close and both turned to her comfort with a grateful cry.
Even Jacqueline, ever trying to act according to her age and station, buried her face in Claire's bodice and wept. He knew from punishing lessons that his comfort to Claire was unwelcome. Even in the wake of their children's deaths. Especially then.
Deep in his chest, Erik ached for Christine. His anchor and comfort. Maybe he could go, just snatch one hour with her, just one hour, and then he would be strong enough to watch his father die, strong enough to bear the weight of Claire's focused censure, strong enough to bear the mantle of Comte. He imagined holding her and felt a bone-deep longing rise in his chest. Erik had donned his coat and crossed the room before he had even realized he was moving.
"I need an hour. I'll return soon."
Cocooned in shock, they didn't even notice his leaving.
XXX
The protesting pins and needles of her sleeping legs woke her and her tender palms sought the hard planes of the door to orient herself. Weariness enshrouded her like a heavy grey blanket, her throat burned with thirst and her stomach reminded her plaintively how long it had been since the pea soup with Erik. She crawled onto the cot and dragged the scratchy blanket over her. Her fingers fumbled along the cool floorboards, stumbling into the small pewter jug of water beside the bed and found it half-empty. She drained it. While it did not slake her thirst, it was better than nothing.
The small blue book under her pillow offered solace. Her fingers traced the inscription on the inner cover: 'May all of your songs take flight. With all my love, Erik.'
"Erik," she breathed his name like a prayer into the darkness. Her fingers skirted the edge of her hurt, the hot, tight skin under her eyebrow, the tender, burning edge at her temple. Christine burrowed under the blanket, seeking the solace of her dreams. He was always there singing songs in her head.
In her dreams, he was always there.
XXX
Erik swung down from César's wide back and settled him with an absent pat. A swift detour to Nadir's flat had found it empty. Riding through Paris's streets revealed hints of dissent, poor neighborhoods flying the blood red flag of the Commune. While wealthy families such as Erik's and infamous establishments such as the Madame's showed no lack beyond threadbare silks, the lower classes scrabbled simply for enough to feed themselves. The emperor Napoleon was the direct author of their suffering, and as such, no member of the aristocracy was safe to travel abroad unarmed.
Méchant's stable yard was deserted. The cobbles ended abruptly, crumbling into uneven gravel and sad, grey mud packed firm by the battery of dozens of feet and hooves. The wind howled, causing a rusted hinge to screech. Some firm, quiet instinct told him to remain quiet as he entered the stable's cold, dim interior. His hand found the hilt of his knife. It always sat easier in his hand than the revolver, though his skill as a marksman was nearly as renowned as his skill with a rapier.
The stalls were dark and yawning, smelling of musty straw and old manure. Faint grunting and scuffling at the end of the aisle caught his attention. Cat-quiet, Erik crept closer.
"-has had enough, has he? We'll make certain he's sucking cocks like the rest of us, eh?"
The stall door burst open and a young man staggered forward, trying to regain his footing. The instant Raoul's bloodied, frightened upturned face penetrated his mind, Erik sprang into action. One fluid leap and he scaled the partition and saw his brother's tormentors—three of Méchant's men already reaching for Raoul's prone form.
"Three on one? Let's even the odds a bit." Erik snarled. The biggest one, equal to Erik's own height and enough muscle to be arrogant about it was the first to charge. Erik dodged the wild punch, seized the extended hand and brought the forearm down over his knee, snapping the bones. The idiot howled in agony.
The blood sang in his veins, the demons jeered. The second, a taut man peering at him through a curtain of greasy red hair came at him with a knife. They traded whistling slashes before Erik caught the man's knife hand. He twisted until the rusty blade fell from nerveless fingers. A sharp jab to the throat sent the man to his knees, gasping for breath. The third—smooth cheeked and wide-eyed—turned tail and ran. Erik swiveled toward the first attacker. With wicked skill, Erik grasped a fistful of hair and exposed the vulnerable throat, Adam's apple bobbing. The thirsty knife flashed, eager for the red-black spray of blood . . .
"Erik, don't!" Raoul's voice reached him through the cacophony of bloodlust. The burly young man in his grip whimpered, piggish eyes darting between Erik's savage mien to the face of his erstwhile prey. Raoul's pale face held a strength like steel and Erik felt a moment's fierce pride in him.
"He's one of Méchant's. There'll be questions," he said. The smile that touched Erik's lips was unholy. He tightened his grip in the boy's oily hair, the knife's edge kissing the tender skin peppered with downy beard. A thin stream of blood dribbled down to stain the ragged collar of his shirt.
"You're lucky my brother is here to grant you mercy. I would have happily slit your throat and left you for the worms to feast upon." Erik's voice was a terrible thing of dark, hungry purpose, a knife's edge as keen as the one pressed to the man's throat. Inspiration struck and he said slowly, "You will tell me all you know of Méchant. Everything," he breathed, underlining the last words with a flourish of savage menace. The boy whimpered, cradling his broken arm. Raoul, standing with one fist braced against the partition, straightened and looked down at the thing at his feet with disdain and quiet disgust. The pride in Erik's heart bloomed.
He was a worthy de Chagny.
Something was very wrong. He could feel it prickling along his skin as he crossed the threshold of Madame's brothel. The parlor was empty of lounging whores or scurrying servants, but familiar sounds of activity filtered down from upstairs. While he couldn't pinpoint the specific wrongness of the tableau save for a missing lamp darkening the room, he knew in his gut it had to do with his Christine. The Madame appeared in a whirl of an expensive lace shawl and jewel-toned silk. Kohl-lined eyes widened upon seeing him loitering in her doorway. Widened, not with their usual avaricious gleam, but something colder, something he'd seen too often in the eyes of the woman he loved.
Fear.
The look kindled something like panic in his chest, clawing like a mad animal at his lungs, his heart. With the skill of long practice, he smothered his true feelings and plastered on a smile.
"Good evening, Madame. Your presence is irresistible. I simply had to come back for more."
To a discerning eye, the short, curt bow betrayed his agitation, but Madame did not notice. The discerning ear would also notice the serrated edge to the words, ready to cut and rend. Madame was oblivious to these subtle cues, but he was not. Her hands were shaking: a minute, fine tremor. She reeked of apprehension.
"We are honored by your presence as always." Her voice was steady, but the simpering smile did not reach her eyes. Erik waved a gloved hand toward the dim, empty parlor.
"Is business suffering with all of the emperor's talk of war? I've never seen your establishment look so . . . shabby." Any slur on her décor, no matter how backhanded, was a sure way to garnish a reaction from the Madame. Predictably, Madame d'Avrigny stiffened with a stiff quirk of brow.
"It's laziness on behalf of my serving staff, Monsieur. You understand, I'm sure." The commiserating drawl dug under his skin.
"Yes, well. Would you be so kind as to summon Christine yourself, since you're so short-handed? You understand," he imitated coolly.
Her usual poise eroded, he saw the shiver of offense ripple through her, but she obeyed without demur. The clawing panic calmed to a low, hungry purr at the thought of seeing her, of having the whistling hole in his chest seal closed in wholeness. Erik paced the parlor in quick turns. The boy who had attacked Raoul sang quite beautifully with Erik's knife pressed to his throat. He should have resorted to violence far sooner. Nadir or no Nadir, he would rescue Christine before the week's end.
"Monsieur, the Green Room is ready for your pleasure," Madame's obsequious voice said from behind him.
Erik relished the sweet anticipation of turning and seeing her . . . twelve hours was much too long to be without her. Chocolate brown eyes met his with the same hungry, almost feverish intensity. God, she was beautiful. A deep, brimming well of contentment filled his soul. She was here. The dark parlor obscured the beloved planes of her face and the wide smile was odd, crooked. The fear folded back on itself and sat in a hard, cold square in his belly as Christine grabbed his hand and led him up the stairs.
A/N: Things are starting to heat up, kiddies! Let me know what you think!