XIX
"What did you say? I couldn't hear you," Christine said, almost politely. She had misheard him, surely. Christine turned her head, searching for the source of that odd sound. A sound like harsh breathing, ending in a shrill keening. He was joking surely. Raoul's countenance was stony, lips pursed in a grim line.
"It was my fault. He was trying to protect me." That noise! Where was it coming from?
"Méchant and Madame made a deal with the Commune. Gunpowder for gold. They needed me because I knew about the cave underneath the Populaire. I found it by accident, on my way to meet a customer one night. Méchant took me with him to deliver the powder, and Erik followed us." Raoul's voice broke around the name. His face crumpled like paper, thin shoulders hunched, flinching away from the blow he knew would come.
"Those anarchist bastards attacked and he was so brave, he killed some of them but then . . . but then . . . Méchant shot him! Shot him right in front of me."
Christine blinked, a slow, crushing horror descending on her. The noise was coming from her. Like seeing a wound, pain bloomed beneath her breastbone. Pain like she had never known before. Papa's death had been blunted by shock, fear, and the lingering naiveté of youth. No such delusions shielded her now. The cowering being within her soul howled. Christine's hand flew, striking Raoul stingingly hard across the face. A flurry of clawing hands and wild, furious grief.
"No! No! You're lying!"
Christine clung to that one last thread of hope, sanity . . . Raoul's blank expression did not alter. Instead, he tugged a silver chain from over his head. Erik's locket bobbed on its chain. Christine watched, mesmerized, as it spun in a lazy circle. He said he'd lock me away in his heart and keep me safe. I don't feel safe. What happens when his heart stops beating? Christine snatched the locket from Raoul, still warm from his body heat as it had been warmed by Erik's. If she kept it safe, if she kept it warm, he couldn't be dead.
He couldn't.
"Christine?" Raoul's voice was as irritating as a yapping dog. Vivid loathing cloaked her, a thing woven of her hatred for the Madame, Méchant, Bruno, and Claire. It would keep her warm; keep her warm when he was dead and cold.
"If it weren't for you . . ." Her voice wobbled and broke; she left the end of the sentence unsaid. They both knew the truth of it. Christine shouldered past him into the brothel, the locket warm against her heart.
XXX
Pain. Cold. He hurt. He hurt so bad. Raoul? Where are you, lad? Christine? Vaguely, he was aware of movement, a sense of free fall . . . Icy shock struck him like a blow and he flailed in the bitterly, horribly cold river, its current a deep, hungry pull. Inarticulate fear shredded his nerves; the most primitive need for air filled his being with strength. He punctured the slick black surface with a sucking breath, managing to tread water for a handful of seconds, before pain dragged him under.
God, his chest! His arm didn't work! His arm . . .
Air, oh yes. Erik fought for space to think around the fear, around the cold, around the pain. His legs kicked, his left arm cradled to his chest as his right paddled on. Oh Thomas, this is what you felt. This cold bludgeoning your brain with only the primal need to get away, this gut-twisting fear that you will never have enough air again. Erik swore he would be as brave as his boy.
So he swam, even though pain formed a second heartbeat in his chest, even though his limbs grew sluggish as his body sucked the warmth toward the vital organs. His vision began to narrow, his breath stuttered in his chest. Slimy stone walls rose on either side of the river. He clawed for purchase, his own hands stiff and disobedient to his will.
He was too weak . . . he couldn't hold on . . .
A hand shot out, grasping his wrist. Erik's eye traveled up the thin, dirty sleeve to a familiar face. Relief surged through his tired being.
"Nadir."
xx
"There. Found it. Right here," a blunt fingertip prodded the source of his pain, just below his collarbone. Thank God, away from his heart or thick vessels, might've punctured the lung though, that would explain the short breath, the stabbing pain . . . Christ, was his shoulder broken?
"I must remove it and clean the wound. Try to be still." Nadir's voice was calm and steady, but trimmed with an edge of doubt. Erik had a moment to appreciate the humor in it before the knife descended, and all he knew was pain and blood. Erik could only see Nadir's face above him and the reflection off his spectacles in miniature of the horror that was his chest. Erik's voice howled and broke around the gag stuffed in his mouth, hands scrabbling and feet thrashing against the leather cuffs that bound him to the kitchen table.
Tears mingled with the sweat on his naked face. The room blazed with candlelight and stank of blood and the sharp whiff of alcohol. The knife screeched against bone and spots appeared before Erik's vision. Then a brief respite: the pain dulling from a slow, sharp carving to a pulsating throb. The Persian's features were hard and closed, dark eyes squinting intently. A pair of forceps appeared in those deft, gloved hands.
"I can see it. Take a moment to breathe," he murmured. Erik jerked his head in a sharp nod, breaths whistling through his nose.
He had a hazy recollection of Nadir pulling him from the river and warming him in a tub of lukewarm water. His gore-caked and river-soaked clothes were summarily burned and he lay clad in a pair of Nadir's old sleeping trousers which hung several inches too short. Only a few swallows of brandy blunted the pain; the rest was to be used as disinfectant. Erik passionately hoped he passed out before that phase.
"All right. I will start again," Nadir said gently, brandishing his forceps. Erik clenched his teeth as the forceps descended, like two cold, needling pincers. Not so bad, just a feeling of pressure . . . then hot, shooting pain down his arm as the forceps slipped. Nadir cursed steadily in Persian.
"Almost. Bear with me, my friend." Erik nodded again, unfurling his fists.
The forceps jabbed again then pulled. Oh God, it was out! He watched Nadir brandish the wet red slug. A tight smile stretched his lips.
"I even got the bit of your shirt it caught on the way in, see?" he smeared a dark bit of something onto his finger.
"If we hadn't got that, it would have gone septic for sure." A terse flick sent the slug into a dish with a faint tink. Nadir trained his spectacled gaze onto Erik.
"It still might, Erik. Méchant's men threw you essentially into an open sewer. I'll clean it as best I can. All we can do after that is pray." Erik knew the dangers of infection better than most. The odds were against him in this. He nodded, flicking his fingers in a gesture that meant 'get on with it.' Speech was beyond him at the moment. Disinfection by way of boiling brandy was not a prospect he relished. Nadir poured and Erik fell into a sizzling white hell.
Erik woke tucked in a sparse camp bed, a sling looped around his left arm and his chest wrapped in what appeared to be the beginning stages of mummification. The crackling, devouring pain had crumbled into a steady simmer. He touched his chest. Where had his locket gone? Had he lost it in the river? The thought filled him with sorrow. Christine . . .
Erik squinted at the weak sunlight streaming in through a dirty window. Wherever they were, it was not at Nadir's home. The Persian sat in a rickety chair, peering at the pages of the book spread on his lap. Upon closer inspection in the morning light, Nadir was a changed man. Gone was the long-striding, energetic horseman who debated and squabbled with him. This man was feeling every minute of his forty-three years of life and more, with dark, baggy circles crouched beneath his eyes, his old clothes hanging off him like a scarecrow, his whole posture and attitude one of weariness and defeat. Only that wary strength in his eyes reminded Erik of the old Nadir.
"You owe me an explanation, my friend," Erik rasped. Nadir looked up, dark eyes magnified by his spectacles. He closed the book and folded his hands on his knees.
"So I do. Where would you like me to start?" Erik paused, considering.
"Why didn't you answer my letters?" Nadir's lips pursed.
"I have not been to my home in several weeks, Erik. Soon after our last meeting, I received a tip by one of my contacts and went to investigate Méchant's holdings." A glittering anger filled the older man's liquid black eyes.
"My contact had been turned. Méchant's men were waiting for me. They beat me and threw me into the river." A harsh laugh left Erik.
"A popular modis opperandi of thugs, it seems." Nadir's lips curved in token amusement.
"I washed up near here and took time to recuperate in this ostensibly abandoned house. I tried to return to my home, but the Madame's man was there."
"Bruno went to your home?" Erik asked, a cold feeling settling in his belly. If Bruno could find where Nadir lived, then he could find Erik's home. Elise, Jacqueline, Claire, Christine, Raoul . . . who could he truly protect?
None, whispered his guilt.
"Yes. My housekeeper was dead. I could see her sprawled on the parlor floor, her head twisted nearly all the way around. I knew no help could be found with the gendarmes; your Madame has them well bribed. So there I was, unarmed, injured, and suddenly homeless. My injuries were more serious than I anticipated, and I spent several weeks abed with fever. Elaine, the owner of this house found me half-dead and nursed me back to health. This is her father's old house, and one she visits infrequently. She works as a seamstress for the Opera. It is through her that I heard the tales of ghosts and ghouls down below the Opera. I, of course, investigated and found a turning mirror that led down into the Opera cellars. There I found the Commune's armory. Ten thousand pounds of gunpowder, if there's a gram."
"Holy God. Someone must be told about this!" Erik said, the ramifications suddenly greater than the pitched battle for Christine and freedom. Nadir's head wagged sadly.
"I tried. I went to five separate districts speaking with detectives, gendarmes, commanders, anyone who would pretend to listen. When I tried to lead them down through the cellars, all the pathways were sealed off or booby-trapped. No further inquiry was warranted. This brings us to last night. Elaine heard whispers that there was going to be some sort of exchange at the Opera. I arrived far too late, only in time to see them throw something into the river. I followed it downstream and it turned out to be you." Erik lay there, digesting all he had been told.
"I am sorry you had to suffer so on my account, Nadir. Truly, I am. If I hadn't come to you for help . . ."
"Stop this, Erik. I chose to help you. Neither of us realized just how ruthless our enemies were," he said firmly, grasping Erik's hand with his own square, callused one. That hand, once capable of taming Persian stallions to bit and saddle, was now nearly fleshless, bony. Erik nodded, gratitude bubbling up from his chest.
"Thank you. For everything," he rasped. Those words seemed wholly inadequate now that Nadir was without home, occupation, or health.
"You are most welcome." There was no censure in his tone, and the silence afterwards stretched into one of companionship and camaraderie. At last, Nadir cleared his throat.
"So you must tell me how you found yourself against Méchant and the Commune all at once." Erik quickly related the details of his plan, Raoul's agonized duplicity, and the ensuing firefight.
"I must get back. Christine is waiting for me . . ." Erik braced his hands on the bed and tried to rise. His muscles screamed in protest and his bones melted into limp noodles. Nadir eased him back onto the nest of pillows, as Erik sucked in precious air through his teeth.
"You are in no condition to face down a psychopath and a vengeful Madame," Nadir scolded, "Christine is as safe as she can be."
"Raoul must think that I died! You cannot expect for me to simply lie here whilst they think me dead!" Nadir sighed.
"See to your family first, Erik. I beg you. Get them out of this wretched city while they still can. The lootings have gotten worse, and . . ."
"Enough!" Erik snapped, raking his good hand through his hair.
The twin shackles of love and duty pulled him in opposite directions. Nadir said Christine was safe. How could she be safe when she was in the clutches of that same vengeful Madame and psychopath? But now Erik was in the same position Nadir had been: wounded, unarmed, and without a plan or a hope.
What could he do?
XXX
Had it been real or a product of her fears? Raoul had disappeared like a wisp of smoke, maybe it had all been in her mind . . .
Her fingers found the locket and she knew. Oh God, she knew! He was dead and she was alone.
"You should eat something, Christine. We've customers booked all evening," Pauline murmured, leaning close. The older prostitute's breath smelled of brandy fumes and there was a smudge of rouge on her teeth. From her place draped on the edge of the parlor's low couch, Christine met Pauline's gaze. Whatever the other woman saw in her eyes made her recoil, her thin concern evaporating. No relief to be found in tears, no solace to be found in solitude. No, she must smile, dance to this ridiculous coquet's tune to please her rapists. A hell of brittle smiles and what dangled between a man's legs. For the rest of her life. Part of her disconnected in that moment, stepped back from the horror.
Time passed. Or, she thought so. She rose, danced to the tune she was bid, and slept. The workings of the brothel were almost comforting in their ritual sameness. Madame's casual spite and Bruno's cold malice could not touch her. No, a thick cloak of grey swathed and sheltered her. The red rage hadn't kept her warm, but crumbled to ash. Part of her welcomed its apathy, another part screamed and fought against its suffocating weight.
"Christine, I have quite the gentleman for you!" Madame's oily voice oozed. Christine obeyed, her grip limp and cold in his as she climbed the stairs.
Whether by accident or design, the Green Room was what the customer chose. Memories of a sublime voice, green eyes. He had a name and a bright, strong heart and . . . and . . . he was dead. The screaming part of her gibbered. She felt cold. Frozen.
As the monster peeled off her gown, the locket bounced between her breasts. It burned against her flesh, a brand that named her faithless and heartless. Of course she had no heart! Her heart had stopped beating in a courtyard watching her lifeblood stain the snow. Of course she had no faith. God had not seen fit to save her Papa or her lover, or offered her succor from the brothel's daily hell.
The thrust of the monster into her dry, unprepared body arrested her attention. Pain anchored her drifting mind, misery her mooring to reality. She watched him labor over her dispassionately. This was her eternity. An endless cycle of rape until her beauty faded and she died unmourned and unloved.
A thought struck, as swift and blinding as summer lightning. The suffocating grey dissolved in a surge of sweet, sweet relief. Yes, the relief to her life's sorrows, the answer to her unsolvable problem. It was so simple! It was so easy! Why hadn't she thought of it before? Laughter bubbled out of her, rusty and uncertain at first, then gaining strength. The monster's enthusiasm withered and he staggered back, clutching at his sagging trousers.
"What's wrong with you?" His slack-jawed look, revealing several rotted molars, was unbearably funny. Christine curled into a ball, prostrate with demented laughter. She pointed at his shriveled parts and howled like a loon. She heard the heavy stomp on the stair and knew her pain would soon end.
"She's mad!" the monster told Bruno, gathering his clothing and bolting from the room.
Christine laughter tapered into an absurd titter and she crawled up the bed to where he had lain his head, nuzzling the pillow lovingly. His scent of sage and musk and male had long been washed away, she could only smell strong soap and linen. Bruno's black eyes burned with the promise of retribution. A hideous smile split his thin lips. His ubiquitous knife gleamed wickedly at his side.
"I warned you about what would happen if you scared off another one, didn't I?" The voice that emerged from his throat was as harsh and ugly as her lover's had been smooth and beautiful. Christine couldn't stifle the giggles bubbling up like champagne.
"Ah Bruno. The Madame's dog, obediently trotting at her leash." The words flew free, light as air where once they had been burdened by fear. A subtle change shivered over Bruno's form, as if shedding an ill-fitting costume. What Christine saw in his eyes was all of the distilled hatred of a twisted, black soul.
"The last man who insulted me was in Spain. By the time I was done with him, his own mother couldn't recognize him," he whispered, drawing his knife. Christine sighed, admiring the blue steel edge. Bruno paused, considering. A deft motion slid the knife back into its sheath.
"No, we'll save that for later. First I think you need a good lesson. My father taught this one to my mother. Taught her so well, she died bleeding inside when I was ten."
The laughter gripped her again, in anticipation and the twisted hope of relief. Bruno's meaty fist struck hard, while she laughed. By the third blow, her laugh was nothing but a bloody gurgle. By the fourth blow, all she knew was darkness.
R&R