by Colette Gale
Without explanation to Erik, she hurried back to where she was crumpled on the floor. “You! Wake up!” Her voice came out again, rougher than the pebble-strewn floor on which she knelt. She crouched next to the bag of bones, shaking it until it stirred.
With a groan, the woman opened her eyes. Carlotta had to give the woman credit: She recognized her right away and as soon as Carlotta figured out how to unlock her, she staggered to her feet.
Swaying, she grabbed the wall. “Erik?” she managed to say. ‘‘Christine?”
“Come,” Carlotta rasped.
Erik was watching as they came around the corner, and hope lit his face as they rushed toward him. Giry took the keys from Carlotta after watching her fumble with the fingers of her useless arm and had his ankles unlocked in a trice. But now they had to reach his wrists, high above their heads.
Carlotta fell to her hands and knees, propped up on her good arm, and leaned against the wall next to his leg for support, making of herself a stool on which Giry could stand. The other woman did not need to be told; she was smaller and slighter than Carlotta.
Erik groaned in pain and relief when his first wrist was released, and Carlotta crawled to the other side, sweat beading her forehead, pain screaming throughout her body as she steadied herself, ready for Giry to climb on her again. This one seemed to take longer; it was agony for all of them…but at last, she heard the clink of freedom, and felt the sudden lurch of Erik’s body next to hers.
He didn’t fall, but he staggered away from the wall, nearly collapsing on his knees. Tears of pain clouding her vision, Carlotta used his empty chains to pull herself to her feet.
“Thank you,” Erik said to her, now standing upright with a slight sway. She noticed that he kept the bad, scarred side of his face angled away, even though he met her gaze. He began to rub his wrists and test his feet, obviously trying to get his body to work properly.
“You do not have to hide your face from me,” Carlotta told him in the voice that did not belong to her. “I’ve seen much worse.” It was an unfamiliar sense of compassion that prompted her to speak unnecessarily in the horrible voice.
Erik looked at her in disbelief, one of his hands going automatically to touch his tortured skin. “Thank you,” he said again, letting his fingers fall away. From the expression on his face, she knew he meant this perhaps more than he’d meant the previous thanks. He turned to the Giry woman. “But now…Maude? Are you badly hurt?”
“Not so badly as you, I’d say,” she replied, and Carlotta agreed.
The handsome side of his face sported a long oozing scar, and what was left of his shirt and trousers was split with obvious whip marks. Bruises colored his high cheekbone and around his good eye, and she’d seen the massive purple and green marks on his torso when his hands were still raised. Still, despite the fact that he was battered beyond comprehension, he had a body that she would have enjoyed exploring as much as she’d enjoyed Guy’s. It was no wonder Christine Daaé had spent a week alone with him, and had returned hollow-eyed and quiet.
“I am much better than I would have been after another day at Philippe’s hands,” Erik said, starting to move away from the small alcove of a prison. “I am alive, and free. But now…I must find Christine,” he said, even as he was using the wall to support his weight.
“I can show you the comte's private chambers,” Giry told him, but she looked as though she could barely stand herself. Indeed, she clutched at the wall with white fingers and knees sagging.
“Unfortunately, I am well aware of their location,” Erik replied.
Carlotta eyed the labored breaths he was taking, and noticed the trembling that accompanied his every move. “You’ll be no match for him in your condition; we must plan a better way. I wish to see him dead.”
Erik paused at the edge of the wall, turning to look back at her. The expression on his mangled face was frightening. “You will.”
~*~
She couldn’t stop writhing and twisting, despite the fact that she was spread-eagled and helpless. The cuffs on her wrists and ankles just barely allowed her to twitch and jerk, and as Philippe bent to her, pinching, sucking, stroking, grasping, Christine fought, uselessly, to get away from his touch.
And she tried to escape into the recesses of her mind, away from the reality…remembering Erik’s touch, the love and reverence in his hands and coming from his lips…not the repulsive possessiveness of the comte.
When he bent between her legs, his fingers closing over the tenderness of her spread thighs, and his hungry mouth latched on to her, she screamed and writhed, tears streaming from her eyes. It was an invasion, a horrific invasion, and it was unbearable.
But she had no choice but to bear it; the sliding, thrusting rape with his tongue and teeth was relentless. Christine’s cries ebbed into keening sobs as she twisted and turned her head, bucked her hips until his fingers dug into the soft skin above them to hold her down, so that he could all the better ravage her.
When he lifted his face, his lips full and glistening, she knew the worst was yet to come. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he settled between her legs, pulling on her hips to bring her bottom just to the edge of the table, her knees slightly bent, and then belted her into place. The leather strap fitted over her hips so tightly she could not move and she began to struggle with renewed fear, whimpering.
He looked down at her, breathing hard. His eyesshowed no blue; they were black and glittering and frightening. His hands began to move at his waist, his eyes focused on hers.
Suddenly, there was a loud crash, and Philippe looked up, behind her head. Christine could not see what had happened from her position, but when the comte's face turned ashen, hope lifted within her. “You!” he choked.
“Get away from her,” came Erik’s voice, and Christine nearly cried with relief. She was saved. Somehow, somehow a miracle had occurred.
“You are in no position to give orders,” sneered Philippe, turning from Christine. “You can barely walk, you miserable beast.” He stalked away, over to the array of whips hanging on the wall, but before he could reach them, something barreled across the room, knocking him to the floor. Erik.
Christine could barely see what was happening, but she heard the grunts and punches, the slapping of flesh to the floor, the slams of feet and boots on the walls and furniture. She saw arms raised in blows, a shoulder, the rearing, then ducking dark head of her beloved followed by the glint of Philippe’s lighter hair, all accompanied by the sickening sounds of battle.
All at once, there was a heavy thud that jolted into the bed on which she lay, and suddenly Philippe was leaping to his feet. He whirled toward the line of whips, his fingers closing around the longest, thickest, blackest of them all as Erik struggled to his feet next to Christine.
“Erik!” she cried softly, wanting more than anything to reach to him, to touch him and assure herself that he was alive, and here…but of course she could not—she could not move, and she could not distract him from what was surely the battle of life and death for them both.
He spared her a bare glance, but that was enough for her to see his face. This face, his warrior face, she’d never seen before. This face was more horrible, more twisted and dark, and it fairly burned with determination and loathing.
She could see them now; they were standing, braced and facing each other, and Philippe had his ugly whip.
“You always seem to come back for more of this,” he sneered with a flick of his wrist. The leather cracked through the air, so loud and sharp that Christine gave a small, involuntary shriek as it snapped next to her, laying into Erik’s flesh.
She saw it close, right in front of her eyes. Saw the way the thick black striped over his muscular arm, the way he jolted, and the wide red cut it left in its wake. Tears clogged her throat. How could he bear it? How could he fight such a weapon?
The whip cracked again, but this time Erik moved. She saw the leather flick angrily around his wrist, and saw the way he
grunted, accepting the pain, but gave a great jerk at the right moment, pulling on the leather that had wrapped around him. Philippe’s eyes widened in shock as he was pulled off-balance.
Suddenly, the whip became the rope that bound them together. Philippe did not release the handle, pulling and twitching it, and Erik held his end, the leather still draping over his muscular wrist. They struggled, Erik dragging on the leather as if reeling in a fish, and Philippe drawing away, trying to loosen his weapon, his face tight with fear and hatred.
At last, the comte released the handle, whirling back toward the rest of his weapons. Erik stumbled a step back at the sudden release, but he kept his wide-legged stance and, with a great swish of movement, pulled the whip toward him.
He didn’t wait for Philippe; there was no mercy in his face. The black whip snaked out, just as his brother turned, holding a smaller one with several tails, and cracked into Philippe’s arm. He howled in pain, but did not release his weapon…but before he could raise his arm to strike, Erik brought his own whip around and caught him on the other side, the other arm.
He’d said nothing during this entire time, and Christine saw the way his fingers trembled; his knees staggered when he moved. Sweat and blood mingled over his body, glistening on his dark skin where the shirt had been torn away. He breathed with effort, nearly gasping at times, but he didn’t waver. He didn’t miss.
And when his whip flashed out again, this time, it wrapped around Philippe’s upper arms. For all the comte's skill with the whip, he was not so skilled at defending himself from one.
Erik jerked, and Philippe came toward him.
Then Erik released his whip, and in a quick, smooth movement that happened in the blink of Christine’s eye, he had the black braid coiled around his brother's neck, crossed at his throat. One end of the whip in each hand, Erik pulled.
From her place on the table, still bound and belted, Christine watched Philippe’s face turn red, his fingers grasping futilely at the two strong hands that pulled relentlessly at the whip. He wasn’t yet choking; Erik was playing with him…
“Erik, no!” she screamed, watching in horror. “No! You’ll be no better than he!”
Erik looked at her, his face still a hideous expression of darkness. “He deserves it,” he told her. But she saw that the whip had loosened slightly. “I could snap his neck with one movement.”
“No, Erik. No. You cannot. You will become a murderer in truth…not only in legend. Don't do it.”
With a sudden movement, he released the whip, and Philippe staggered away, hands clutching at his throat as he tumbled backward.
Erik turned at last toward Christine, quickly unbuckling the belt that had held her in such a vulnerable position, and one of her ankles, before Philippe pulled himself to his feet and came after him again.
Christine screamed, but Erik had already turned to face him again. This time, Philippe had something long and silver that glinted in his hand, and though he was struggling for breath, a thick line of red welting over his throat, he came after Erik like an enraged bear.
Erik ducked and Philippe whirled past him, nevertheless managing to slice through his trousers with the knife.
Christine watched, her heart choking her, and at first she didn’t notice the movement behind her, beyond the fracas between the two brothers. But when Raoul came into her view, moving silently and quickly, she gasped and would have cried out if he hadn’t placed a hand over her mouth.
A tight hand.
“Quiet,” he said, quickly unfastening her wrists. He removed his hand from her mouth and, grasping one of her arms, moved to unlock the foot that Erik hadn’t been able to release. “Come with me,” he said, pulling her none too gently off the table and toward the door through which he’d come.
“Erik!” she screamed. “Help!”
“Christine!” He glanced away from Philippe, and she saw the flash of the blade come down just as Raoul yanked her out of the room.
“They can battle to their death,” Raoul said, manhandling her down the hallway.
Christine screamed again, struggling to free herself from his tight grip, but he was too strong for her. Her fingers tingled, and her bare breasts jounced unpleasantly as he forced her along.
“Let me go!”
He spoke carefully, steadily, as if to a young child as they made their way down the stairs. “You belong with me, Christine. You know you do. Ever since we met years ago, I’ve needed you. Wanted you. My brother cannot have you. Neither of them. Now,” he said, pushing her into a small alcove, “cover yourself. We are leaving Château de Chagny and will be traveling to board a naval ship. We’ll be wed on board, and you’ll join me on my journey to the Antarctic for the rescue mission. We won’t return for years, and by then…my brothers, if they are still alive, will have forgotten all about you.”
He pulled out a gun and pointed it at her. “Now, let us go.”
TWENTY-FIVE
* * *
Erik watched in horror as Raoul pulled Christine from the room, and as he shouted, “Stop!” the slice of Philippe’s blade caught him along the torso.
Burning pain arched through his battered body, and he stumbled, dark spots alternating with bright lights to obscure his vision. It was getting harder and harder to stay upright, to stumble back into the fray with his gasping brother, who was now bent on slicing him to death.
But Christine…she was being taken by Raoul. He had to go after them.
Summoning all of his consciousness, every last bit of his strength, he turned and charged toward his opponent, heedless of the knife. If he didn’t stop Philippe now, he’d lose Christine. Again.
The knife raged through the top of his shoulder as Erik rammed into Philippe, but then the metal clattered to the floor as Philippe was propelled backward by Erik’s charge.
With a roar of victory, Erik shoved his brother again, onto one of the horrific pieces of furniture he used for torture. Philippe struggled, kicking and fighting, but Erik forced one of his legs down, lining up his foot with a cuff, even as fists pummeled him at his back and an arm slipped around his neck, tightening until those black spots swelled to fill his sight.
Focus…focus…He held the foot in place, straining to breathe, and at last—snap!—the cuff locked into place. Philippe screamed with rage, struggling anew, tightening his arm around Erik’s throat as he pulled at his hair.
Erik wrenched at the arm choking him, pulled it away just enough that he could swallow and catch a desperate breath, then released the arm again and fought to subdue Philippe’s other leg. This one was easier, because the other foot was already cuffed.
When Erik clipped it in place, he stepped away from the vee his brother’s legs made on the Y-shaped bed, and stood panting, sweating, bleeding. Philippe was already bending toward his legs, trying to unlock them, and Erik would give him no more time.
He smashed a fist into his brother’s face, stunning him enough that he could grab his arms and pull them up behind his head, lining them up with the main line of the Y.
Just as he was clipping them into place, the door opened again.
Erik looked up as Philippe cursed and struggled to free himself, but he had made the restraints so well that there was no way to escape.
Carlotta and Maude had at last come through the door; it must have taken them much longer to come up from the cellar and find their way to the private chambers. They looked at Erik, and then at the confined Philippe.
“Where is Christine?” Maude asked.
“Did you see her?” Erik said at the same time. “Raoul has taken her.”
The women shook their heads, and Carlotta moved toward Philippe, a determined look on her face. “So you have not killed him yet,” she said in her ruined voice, looking at Erik, who was trying to catch his breath.
Only a moment, only a minute, to rest, to try to fight back the waves of pain that threatened to lay him on the floor. But he could not give in. Not yet.
He had to
stop Raoul and get to Christine. But he was so weak…
“No,” he panted. “I saved him for you.”
Carlotta grinned and looked at the array of whips, the long ivory dildos, the knife, and then the helpless Philippe. “It will be my pleasure.”
~*~
Christine sat across from Raoul in a small carriage that rumbled along on the muddy, snow-patched roads. She was fully dressed now in a gown and all of the appropriate undergarments.
Raoul had played maid and helped her as their vehicle trundled down the drive of the château, Christine swaying and tipping as she tried to remain steady for him to dress her. He’d put the gun away once she was safely inside the carriage.
She didn’t know how long they’d been traveling. The sun had been low in the sky when they came out of the château, Christine wrapped in the blanket he’d given her to hide her nudity. Now the sun had been gone for quite a long time, and there was nothing to see but the very occasional lamp from a house they passed by.
Christine had no idea which direction they were going. She just knew that every turn of the carriage wheels took her farther and farther from Erik.
If he was still alive.
That last slash of the knife…she shivered. Philippe might have killed him.
And if Philippe had killed him, would he come after them? Would he come after his own brother, his true brother?
He would. She was sure of it.
Christine could hardly believe how narrowly she’d escaped the brutal rape Philippe had planned for her. A moment later…just a moment.
And how had Erik escaped the dungeon? She hadn’t had the chance to ask him.
She might never.
“Raoul, please, please let me go,” she begged again, breaking a silence that had stretched for a while.
“You belong with me, Christine. How many times must I tell you that? I am the only one who really loves you. I adore you! No one will take better care of you than I.”
