XXI
Bruno should have been back by now, she thought. The parlor was deserted. All of the girls were locked in their cells, but whether to protect Madame's precious workforce from more incursions by mad-eyed grooms or to keep them from escaping, even Madame d'Avrigny was unsure. Probably a mix of both.
So now she watched, sloppily drunk, as flecks of snow pelted the window. Had she been sober, her gnawing unease would have found release in pacing. As she was, she couldn't even totter to her sumptuous bed without injuring herself. Acid seemed determined to eat away her insides. Should she send for Cook to bring her something? Madame dismissed the thought muzzily. The sot was probably snoring by the fire, anyway.
Her be-ringed fingers wrapped around her tumbler, its rim marred by the scalloped smears of her rouge. Hmm, her tumbler was empty. One more drink would settle her nerves. By the time she was finished drinking, Bruno would be back. Nodding to herself she upended the brandy bottle. A pitiful puddle of golden liquid filled the glass. Not enough. It was never enough.
She had just brought the glass to her lips when the sound of the door flying open and slamming into the wall startled her.
"Bruno?" she called, her voice quavering.
"Guess again." God, even hoarse and laced with hate, his voice was a thing of angels. She contemplated the glass and, deciding it would be best to have one last drink, drained it. Madame blinked slowly at Erik de Chagny, standing with one arm braced on the wall. The other leveled a revolver at her. Wasn't that funny? Twice in one day!
All she could think to say was: "I thought you were dead." A knife-thin smile touched his full, finely-sculpted lips. He looked like hell. The black mask had seen better days, splattered with . . . something. His white shirt and black trousers were torn and blood trickled from the wounds on his torso. Madame glanced down at her good carpet and found muddy boot-tracks and an abbreviated blood trail.
"I am quite alive Madame, which is more than I can say for your companion."
Madame sagged in her chair, weeping sloppily. Who would protect her now? Who would make her feel good?
"Where is she?" Uttered with his angel's voice, it was like a jolt of icy water.
"Gone," she said, hiccupping. A profound change settled over him. He seemed to sway, as if about to topple.
"No," he whispered. Green eyes shone like chips of jade. The arm holding the revolver never wavered. His face spasmed into a rictus of denial.
"No! You're lying!" The hammer mechanism clicked. Madame sniffled.
"It's true! He took her this morning!" she protested. The full line of the Vicomte's lips thinned.
"He? Bruno?"
"No, Raoul."
"Raoul? Where did he take her?"
"I don't know!"
"Where?"
"I swear to God, I don't know! He just took her at fucking gunpoint and left! More trouble than she was worth, that one."
"No." His voice was like the crack of a whip and Madame shrank in her chair, shrank under that unholy light in those unnatural green eyes. The next words were spoken in an intimate, soft-voiced whisper: "You don't have the right to speak of her. You are as much the architect of her misery as Bruno was. You should suffer the same fate."
Fat tears slid down her cheeks, ruining her cosmetics. Madame shut out his vengeful face and the raised weapon by burying her face in her hands.
"It was business! She was my property! It's not like I forced her to work!" Her girls were lucky, living with silks and fine food and brandy. So much better than Sophia's own hard-bitten life of dirty fucks in squalor. They should be fucking grateful!
"No, you used Bruno for your dirty work, you hideous cow, you festering sore on the arse of humanity!"
Hideous? He thought she was ugly? Madame blubbered into her handkerchief.
"Don't kill me!"
"I should." Erik de Chagny in motion was like watching a dancer, all liquid grace and restrained power. His magnetism was undiminished by the blood, dirt and straw covering him. He took one step toward her, then another.
"I should." The black revolver was such a tiny thing, would it hurt when he pulled the trigger? Madame Sophia cringed away, weeping like an inconsolable child.
"Please, please . . ." Time dragged on in slow, stretching agony.
Madame was looking at the gun, not the man, so she did not see the slight tick in his face, the almost imperceptible shiver racing over his frame. The gun fell as if his arm was weighted with lead.
"Hell will find you soon enough without my tarnishing my soul to speed you to it. Now, give me the key." At this unexpected reprieve, Madame blinked.
"The key?" There wasn't any money in the strongbox. Impatience lit his eyes.
"Yes the key, you fool woman! The key to her room." Why would he want in her room? Didn't he hear her when she said the stupid Swedish whore was gone? Didn't he believe her? Instead of waiting for her produce said key, de Chagny yanked Madame to her unsteady feet and dragged her in the direction of the cells. Coordination and equanimity robbed from her, she bumped into walls and tripped over rugs in his wake.
"Which door?" he growled. Madame pointed, offering the key. De Chagny snatched it from her and opened the door. He stopped short.
"Is this the same wallpaper as in the Rose Room?" Madame frowned at the nonsensical question. He asked about the wallpaper?
"Y—yes. Yes, it is," she answered, eyeing him warily. The Vicomte gave a curt nod.
"That answers quite a bit," he murmured.
Shaking himself, de Chagny moved about her room, snatching a tiny book from the pillowcase and tucking it in his pocket. Madame watched dumbfounded as he knelt on the floor and peered under the cot, as he peeled up the mattress, then knocked over the small stand.
"Where is it?" he snapped, radiating malevolence. Madame shrank back, raising her hands in feeble defense.
"Where is what?"
"Christine's father was a violinist. She said you let her keep his instrument. It is a slender defense of your humanity, but I would have it regardless. Where is it?"
"Oh," Madame felt nearly weak-kneed with relief, "this way."
Her room held her magpie's hoard of the girls' treasures that she held for safe-keeping. The troublesome Swede's violin was among them: a battered thing in an equally hangdog case. De Chagny tucked it under his arm gently. Madame sank into her office chair, consoling herself with a fresh tot of brandy. His bow to her was one of mockery.
"I will not pretend I don't loathe you with every fiber of my being, but you have been accommodating." A snake of coarse rope looped around Madame's wrist. She stared at it, wondering where it had come from. An affronted squawk left her as her other wrist was also snagged. Hard, remorseless green eyes watched her struggle against the bonds tying her to the chair.
He strode from the room, and Madame stared at the empty doorway dumbly. A key screeched in a lock, then another, and another.
And for the first time in a long time, Madame Sophia d'Avrigny knew true terror.
XXX
Raoul had padded the bed of the wagon with hay and old horse blankets—judging from the coarse texture. Her mangled wreck of a face couldn't smell a thing. He wrapped her in a sort of sling so that she was suspended a few inches over the bed of the wagon. It was surprisingly comfortable, and muted most of the wagon's jostling. One of her musty blankets had slipped, though, and snowflakes landed and melted into icy tears on her battered face. The wagon lurched to a stop and she heard the crunch of Raoul's boots on the snow-covered road.
"I can't hear myself think over your damn teeth chattering," he groused, but his hands were gentle as they tugged the blanket more securely around her. Christine reached out with her good hand toward his voice and encountered a bony knee. A weak twitch of her fingers beckoned him close and she felt the warm puff of his breath on her cheek.
"Huh . . . baaa?" the words emerged tortured from her damaged throat. Oh God, her voice! Had it broken along with her body as Bruno beat her? Would she ever sing again?
"How bad?" Christine nodded slowly, painfully.
"Uh, Bruno beat you up pretty good." Gently—very gently—his hands peeled back her warm, scratchy cocoon of blankets, cataloguing her injuries.
"Two black eyes swollen shut, a broken nose, a jaw out of joint—let me fix that, deep breath and-"Christine cried out, flung out clawing hands as Raoul grasped and pressed . . . her jaw clicked into place with a sick pop. Some of the pain abated and hot tears leaked from the corners of her ruined eyes.
"Sorry, sorry . . ." he petted her hair, "open up your mouth now, let me see." Christine obediently wiggled her jaw back and forth, the pain in her mouth ebbing to a dull throb.
"Your teeth tore up the inside of your mouth, and I think you lost a molar." Well, that explained why she tasted blood.
A wet glugging sound and two rough, wet fingers pressed into her mouth, swiping along the inside of her cheeks and gums. Christine gurgled, choked on the burning sting of brandy. She swatted at him, resenting the rough treatment.
"We have to keep those cuts clean. Whenever one of the horses would turn up lame or injured, I'd fix them up. I know a thing or two about tending wounds. My arm, for instance. It wasn't broken, just pulled out of socket. Easy enough to fix. Now is as good a time as any to fix you."
"No, please Raoul . . ." she moaned, or tried to, instead it emerged like "Nah . . . plea . . . raw . . ." Christine tried to twist away, but only succeeding in tangling herself in the blankets in her makeshift hammock.
"Now, now Christine. It'll be fine. I'll be quick. Do you want some brandy first?" The command in his voice was immutable.
Tears of frustration and misery clotted in her lashes, sobs whistled noisily through her broken nose. She hated him. She hated him for his harsh, unlucky life, she hated him for his relentless need to keep her alive, but most of all, she hated him for not being his brother.
"There, there . . . drink this," Raoul crooned, cupping her head. A hard rim bumped against her teeth. It was swallow or choke, so Christine swallowed. Brandy burned a path down her throat and built a small fire in her belly. Raoul made her drain half the flask before mercifully releasing her.
"One shoulder's out of joint," hands touched her wrist, testing the joint. Hot knives of pain speared through her.
"A sprained wrist, along with two broken fingers and . . ." his hand pressed on her tender ribs, drawing a squeak from her, "good, I don't think they're broken. Just bruised. Christ, you're black and blue all over! And . . . oh."
"Uh?" she repeated, alarmed by his tone.
"The locket. You still have it." Her good hand clawed at her chest and found the locket's warm shape.
"Mine!" she insisted.
"Of course, Erik would have wanted you to have it." Another whimper tore free from her.
"Don, don plea." It hurt too much to hear his name. It hurt more than when Bruno's fists made her bones snap. His name became a chant in her mind: Erik . . .Erik . . .Erik . . . Erik . . .
"Christine, I know . . ." Raoul heaved a sigh, "I know you hate me for . . . for what happened. But just let me help you. Let me try and fix it." Earnest passion filled the words, and it roused only the stirrings of pity. The grief was too fresh, the wound too deep. When she didn't reply, Raoul cleared his throat.
"Well, think about it at least. Now, let's fix you up."
Either the brandy had begun to work, or Raoul truly did have some skill with healing, because resetting her shoulder and fingers were only moderately painful. His prescription for her battered face was a fat sack made from his torn sleeve filled with snow.
"It'll clear up the swelling quick," he murmured. It actually felt good. When it was over, he bent and she felt the rasp of his chapped lips on her sweaty forehead, coarse hands wrapping her in her cozy sling.
"Where do you think we should go? Erik's Paris house is much closer, and our sisters are there. Erik wanted us out of city, headed for Reims. He gave me some money, and we have plenty of food. Where should we go?"
Christine fought against the heavy blanket of brandy and pain weighing her thoughts, striving for light and clarity. The words 'our sisters' pierced her viscerally. Raoul had never met his half-siblings, yet he claimed kinship with them with a fierce, pugnacious undertone. Having sampled the love of family, he was loath to surrender even the most tenuous link. Could the two of them go there and find succor, Erik's whore lover and the family's black sheep bastard brother? What about Erik's wife? Christine shuddered away from the thought.
"Awa'," she said, nodding.
"Away? I guess that's best. It'll give you time to get better. Reims it is." The wagon bed quivered as Raoul swung down and stomped up to the driver's bench.
"Hang tight, Christine. We'll be safe soon." Safe? She thought drowsily. Erik had promised to keep her safe in his heart. The least she could do was keep him safe in hers.
XXX
Erik swung astride César with a groan. Nadir had promised to head for the Château with his new paramour Elaine as soon as she returned from the Opera. As for Erik, there was no rest to be had. He would not stop until he found her. It was only now as the last of the adrenaline ebbed that he could grieve.
Oh Christine . . . Christine . . . why did you do it?
Had she sought death out of despair, or grief? Or was he a narcissistic bastard for thinking it had anything to do with him? Perhaps it was. Perhaps she had grown to love Raoul. At the moment, Erik could not conjure jealousy, only a deep abiding ache. If he could only know she was safe, that she was well, he'd be content. She was free now . . .
First, he had to find them. Raoul was a clever boy; he would put the money Erik had given him to good use. It should be simple to overtake them, or even ride ahead to the cabin. A grim smile touched his lips. Nothing had been simple, not when the world intruded between him and Christine. A frigid winter's night, a determined groom and a day's distance separated them. Erik touched his heels to César's sides and the stallion surged into a liquid smooth canter, the bitter wind whipping tears from his eyes.
A/N: Short chappie, I know, but more up soon!
R&R