by Colette Gale
She whirled and bumped into the wall, and felt him coming after her again, easy and calm as if he were indulging a playful toddler. The wall was behind her, and to her left the corner of the room where she would be trapped—and to her right, a narrow space through which she might pass.
Philippe was grinning wider now, and he canted to one side, giving her an even larger space through which she might slip past. “Come now, Christine. I had expected more from you than to see you cowering in the corner. Why, you are making this no fun at all. Erik would be quite disappointed in your lack of ferocity. After all, you are the only thing standing between him and a very unpleasant trial and execution.”
She ducked and dashed toward freedom, staying as close to the wall as possible, but his arm reached out when she’d nearly gotten past. He grabbed her wrist and used her momentum to jerk her toward him, pulling her off-balance so that she fell into his person.
He grabbed her other wrist and pulled her arms straight down, bringing her body flush with his. Christine knew he wanted her to struggle, that her helplessness aroused him, but she couldn’t stop herself. She tried to kick out under her heavy skirts, but succeeded only in driving her foot between his wide-legged stance and falling toward his body even more.
His greedy smile filled her line of vision as he swooped down, pulling her closer by her arms, and seeking her lips with his. Twisting her face away, Christine struggled to pull free even as his mouth slid across her jaw and cheek. Hot, moist breath blasted her skin as he mauled her face, nipping at her tender earlobe, then sliding across her jaw as he forced her backward with the brunt of his mouth until he at last covered her lips with his.
She tried to bite him, tried to kick out, but he crushed his mouth harder against hers, laughing into her as her foot swung clumsily, harmlessly between his legs. She tasted blood, felt the invasion of his slick tongue and the sharpness of his teeth at the edge of her lips as she tried to twist away.
Tears streamed from the outer edges of her eyes, and her arms and wrists had gone numb from his relentless grip. She jerked at the hips, slamming into the bulging arousal that was horrifyingly evident even beneath the many layers of clothing between them, and felt his groan of pleasure when she did. At last she pulled free from the kiss, turning her face away, and felt the scrape of teeth and the slickness of his lips and tongue over her cheek.
Suddenly, the grip on her arms loosened, and she was falling backward, tumbling to the floor. She landed sharply on an elbow and a hip, her hand slapping so hard on the wood that her fingers tingled. Tangled in a mass of skirts, Christine rolled frantically to one side, watching the shiny black boots as they stood, planted wide, just out of her reach, and she tried to scramble to her feet. Her gown was not made for fighting or running, or any sort of quick movement, and she tripped again as her foot caught in its hem.
“You seem to be having quite a bit of trouble with your gown, Christine,” Philippe said. His voice was still easy, but she heard the deeper gust of his breath. When she dared to glance up, she saw that his lips were full and moist and red, and that his blue irises had shrunk as his pupils swelled. “Perhaps I can help you with it.”
He dived toward her, and she felt the tug on her skirts, and then heard the tear as he yanked the fistful of fabric away. The front two pieces of her gown came loose, and the lace and tulle from her crinolines tore in a long, white froth. She felt the weight lifted from her legs, now nearly bare, covered only in stockings and a light lawn chemise, and when she twisted away, the fabric tore even more.
Christine rolled on the floor, her skirts pulled from her bodice, her feet able to move more freely. Using the cabinet next to her, the one with the long, slender, pointed objects of ivory, to pull herself up, she turned and saw, not Philippe lunging at her again as she’d expected, but him standing there, watching her, a large frothy mess hanging from his fist.
The door was just to his right. He hadn’t locked it. If she could just slip past him…Christine looked in the opposite direction and saw a large, studded club, leaning against a chair leg. She pretended to stumble, throwing herself toward the club, and she managed to grab it before she fell.
Hearing him behind her, she pushed to her feet, clutching the nasty weapon, and swung blindly as he lunged toward her. Amazingly, it connected with flesh—she didn’t see where, for she was already turning toward the door. Without looking back, she darted toward freedom.
~*~
Carlotta crept along the narrow, jagged hallway at the back of the château—the passage that connected to the lowliest of the servant quarters. The lowliest of the servant quarters, where she, La Carlotta, had been banned for two days, barely conscious and hardly able to move. No one had dared nurse her other than to bring her clear broth and tea, and a bare crust of bread, so she had no use for any of them.
Her legs were still weak, her arms bruised and aching, one wrist screaming with pain, and her throat…she dared not think about it, dared not let herself think that she’d never sing again. Instead of the terror of having no voice, having had it squeezed from her by the violent hands of the Comte de Chagny, she made herself focus on the anger, the terrific, blinding, galvanizing anger she felt for the man who’d dare use her so. How foolish she had been to accept his invitation to the château after the Opera House had burned!
But there would be time to grieve and mourn later. Now she would have her revenge.
There’d been enough whisperings among the servants for her to guess what had occurred. Despite the comte's claims of secrecy, there were certain things that did not go unnoticed or unseen. Perhaps his pathetic brother might have believed that the comte had allowed Christine Daaé to escape, but Carlotta was not so stupid. After all, she had been there, watching him as he watched the girl through the small hole in her room. She’d seen the crazed light of obsession and salaciousness in his eyes.
The comte had been careful not to let the servants know where he kept the keys to the dungeon, but Carlotta knew. She’d seen him put them in a small cupboard in the room in which he’d tortured her after they’d spied on Christine. He thought she was unconscious when he hid the keys beneath one of the lewd paintings on the wall, but she’d been watching him through slitted eyes.
Yes, he’d hurt her, but she’d had worse at the hands of her father, growing up in the dirty streets of London. She’d learned how to feign unconsciousness, and how to bury her screams deep inside so he’d stop hurting her.
No one would have thought to look in that room, anyway, for it was not the chamber the comte usually used for his sexual activities. The room from which he and Carlotta had spied on the Daaé girl wasn’t used as frequently, although he’d outfitted it with a small clutch of instruments—as Carlotta had cause to know.
She saw no one as she walked awkwardly along the hall on trembling legs, then to the small door that led to the dungeons. She at least knew where the captive was, the man called Erik. It had been a shock to learn that the so-called Opera Ghost was actually the natural brother of the comte. Chagny’s vitriol and hatred toward the man had spewed forth during that horrible night she’d spent helpless and abused under his hands and body, and she’d learned enough to know that whatever sins Erik might have committed at the opera, the fact that his brother both hated and feared him meant that he was her most obvious ally.
~*~
Christine had the knob in her hands, smooth and cool, before Philippe’s grasping hand jerked her back. Not hard enough that she tumbled to the ground, but enough that she lost her grip on the metal and jolted backward. Another shove from him and she spun around, this time keeping her balance as there were no heavy skirts to set her off-kilter or trip her.
But he came toward her before she could celebrate that little victory, his eyes ferocious and his hands reaching toward her. “So you want to play with the club, do you, Christine?” he asked. "I'd be most happy to accommodate you. But first…” He didn’t grab at her arms as she’d expected; no, again, he surpri
sed her, his fingers sliding into her cleavage and rending away the triangle of her bodice in a loud tear.
Christine pulled away, whirling, but he came after her again. It appeared the game was over; her blow, however ineffective, had angered him. His footsteps were hard and fast behind her, his breathing more harsh. He grabbed at her shoulder, pulling her back with a head-jolting snatch, and suddenly she felt herself falling.
Unable to control a surprised screech, she tried to brace herself for the fall. But instead of hard floor, she found herself slamming onto something soft. Before she could roll away, Philippe’s heavy weight was there, over her, stretching her wrists above her, as she lay on the bed, or whatever it was she was on.
His hips jimmied between her legs, which somehow had become splayed beneath him, and he paused to look down at her. His mouth was twisted in a combination of pleasure and greed, one side tilted up and curled—reminding her of Erik for a bizarre, horrific moment. He breathed heavily, but it was not from exertion. As he looked down at her, pinning her with his violating gaze, one of his hands moved from where it had held her wrist, to slide down over her throat.
One hand free, Christine slapped and scratched, dug her nails into his other arm, the one that held her wrist so tightly her fingers began to tingle. But he ignored the pain; perhaps he reveled in it, for his pupils swelled and his free hand slid down…slowly, excruciatingly slowly, over her sweat-moist skin to cover her breast, thumbing her nipple back and forth contemplatively. Then he fitted his palm over the whole swell, like a lover, molding, lifting, squeezing through the protection of her corset.
Still she batted at him, struggling on, though she was becoming weary and out of breath. He moved his hand from her breast and slid fingers down between corset and skin and gave a sudden pull that nearly jerked her shoulders from her neck, making the edges of the corset cut into her skin. Her breasts fell free, but the corset stayed in place, rubbing against her tender skin.
Christine moaned, kicking in earnest from under his weight and grasping a handful of his hair as he bent to suck roughly on her nipple. She gave a hard yank, twisting and bucking beneath him, and Philippe pulled up suddenly, his eyesglinting angrily. Grabbing her free wrist, he pulled it above her head and captured it with his other hand, leaving her pinned by the arms, and one of his hands free.
“Now, my dear,” he gasped, pressing his weight into the vee between her legs, his face glistening with moisture, “kick and cry all you wish…It's better that way.” He bent to her breast, his breath rasping against her skin as he rammed his hips against her. She fought him when she felt his hand slide down between them, where he ground into her; she felt him pull at his breeches even as he kept her nipple between his teeth. The pain stung, down from her breast to the heavy weight on her, and though her legs shook from fatigue, and his grip above her head numbed her wrists, she roiled and rolled beneath him, gasping for air, tears streaming from her eyes.
His hand brushed against her sex; she felt the shift as his trousers opened and fell away; then his pounding cock was free against her chemise-covered thigh. His breath was out of control, his eyes closed and face tight with pleasure and concentration. He moved against her; she struggled to pull away, her legs and hips moving frantically against him, trying to keep him off-balance. Suddenly, he stiffened, stopped, and groaned against her chest. Something wet and warm seeped through the light fabric of her chemise, soaking through to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.
Puffing with exertion and release, Philippe lifted his head and looked at her. “Now,” he told her, “that we have that out of the way…let us move on to something more interesting. I’ve a mind to hear you beg.” He released her, stepping away to refasten his breeches, his eyes watching placidly as she rolled from her position and staggered from the bed.
He allowed her to reach the door again before his fingers closed over her shoulder and he pulled her back. Roughly, he dragged her across the room and shoved her into the narrow vee of the elongated Y-shaped bed. She stumbled backward, and before she could catch her balance he was upon her, thrusting her onto the structure so hard her teeth snapped together. Firm hands closed around an ankle, and suddenly it was clamped into place down on one of the legs of the Y.
Screaming and kicking anew, Christine struggled harder, but he was too strong. Her second ankle was locked in place and then she had only her hands and nails to claw and strike with.
But Philippe stepped away, around to the top of the Y, and grabbed her hair from behind as she bent forward, trying to free her legs. He yanked, and she fell back, her head slamming into the hard surface beneath. Stunned, she could only blink and fight feebly as he locked her left wrist into place, far from her head and other arm, in a terrible echo of Erik’s own position five stories below.
He left one arm free, and came to stand between her wide legs. She tried to twist and roll her hips, tried to close her legs, but of course she could not. He watched her for a moment, a delighted grin stretching his lips. “I do love to watch a woman struggle. It's not so unlike watching one find pleasure: the same writhing motions, the same groans, the same expressions.”
She tried to stop, tried to still her body, but she couldn’t cease fighting. She couldn’t succumb.
At last, reaching behind him, he produced a long blade and said, “Now, then, let us see exactly what you’ve been hiding.”
Starting with her left foot, he delicately cut away the flimsy slipper. With a long, straight slice from her foot, under the imprisoning cuff, up along her calf, over the bump of her knee, to the top of her inner thigh beneath the crumpled and stained chemise, he slit her stocking. It fell away, leaving her leg bare and chill, and with nary a scratch.
One hand closed around her leg and slid all the way from ankle to thigh in a possessive caress as Christine lay sobbing quietly, no longer struggling. Her free hand was useless; a tease. She could do nothing but flail with it, wipe her tears, clutch it over her chest, try to bat him away from between her legs.
He unclothed her other leg in the same manner, then stood again between her legs, this time with the knife in hand. Her breath caught as he bent to her chest, and she felt the insistent tugs as he skimmed the blade under the ties of her corset, slicing through them like a cobweb. The corset loosened and fell away in two clam-like halves, and now there was nothing left but her chemise.
The blade was cool and sharp against her skin, and he drew it slowly, so slowly she thought she would scream…but she dared not move, dared hardly to breathe…as he drew it slowly down between her breasts, down, down past her ribs and over the slight swell of her belly, nicking the edge of her navel, down, down to the rise of her mound and the fluff of sensitive hair that grew there…down and around, dipping between her legs, so close there to her most sensitive part, just a breath away, and then, a sudden fast, sharp rending as he sliced from there to the hem.
She heard him drop the knife, felt the parting of the chemise as it fell away, leaving her naked, bare, spread, with only one useless limb to cover herself.
His hands were on her then, everywhere. Shoulder to arm, down over the rise of her breasts, along her ribs and waist, cupping her buttocks, lifting her hips, they swarmed everywhere as she tried to cover herself, to push them away, to scratch and hit and punch. He remained always just out of reach, his hands heavy and hot, damp and groping, grasping, grabbing, probing, pinching.
At last he lifted them, grasped her free wrist, and snapped it into its place beyond her head. And now she had nothing with which to cover herself.
Nothing.
~*~
Down, down…the steps were agonizing to Carlotta’s injured legs and sprained wrist. She wasn’t certain how far beneath the ground the prisoner was kept, but she knew to keep going until there were no more stairs. There were spiders and cobwebs, rat turds, and, more than once, the skitter of tiny feet on the stone, the quick dart of little shadows at her feet. Carlotta gritted her teeth and kept going. It had been a lo
ng time since she’d been so low that she must make her way through such filth, but she’d not come so far that she’d forgotten it.
At last she came to the bottom of the steps and turned to follow a crude passageway. Just around the first corner she was startled by a figure crumpled on the floor, too small to be Erik, but she paused to look anyway.
The ballet mistress! So that was what happened to her. She appeared to be unconscious, but was breathing steadily, and would be of no assistance to Carlotta, so she hurried past.
When she came around the next corner, she knew she’d found her quarry.
He sagged between two iron rings set in the wall above his head, which was bowed in abject defeat. His knees buckled, his clothes filthy, torn, and streaked with blood. He didn’t move when she approached; perhaps he was unconscious too. But then—it must have been when her feet came into the view of his bowed head—he raised his face.
Her breath caught at the sight of his mangled flesh, but she did not hesitate. She had seen worse. Carlotta met his eyes, dark ones, weary but still filled with challenge, and held up the key.
“Where did you get that?” the man called Erik breathed, his eyes widening as she stepped toward him.
“Before he did this to me,” she gestured toward her arm, “I saw where he kept the key ring. In a place separate from his private chambers, in a room he used to spy on others like the Daaé girl.” Her voice came out warped, raspy, ruined, and devastating to her ears. It was the first time she’d spoken aloud to someone. Her hand went to her throat, and for a moment, she saw pity and then understanding flare in his eyes.
“Thank you.”
But when she reached up, she realized she would never reach his manacled wrists, and in that moment, she remembered the Giry woman.
