Unmasqued: An Erotic Novel of The Phantom of The Opera (34 page)

Bringing both of her feet to the other side of the wall, she launched herself over and ran toward him.

“My, what a welcome surprise.” He swept off his hat and Christine staggered back in shock. “But I hope you are not leaving so soon.”

“No!” she cried, and turned to stumble away, but Philippe was too fast for her. He raced up on Cesar and swooped an arm down to snag her around the waist, lifting her to slam her belly onto the saddle in front of him. The wind knocked out of her, Christine gasped for breath as she tried to slip from under his grip.

“A case of mistaken identity, I presume, based on your reaction,” he said, his hand grasping the back of her neck and holding her in place as her stomach jounced painfully against the saddle. “Forgive me for interrupting your plans, but I would not want you leaving the château so soon, my dear.”

She could not squeeze away from under his hand, but with the bit of breath she had left in her, Christine managed to say, “Erik?” She knew something had befallen him. How else would Philippe be riding Cesar?

Philippe had wheeled the white horse back around and Christine
was able to lift her head enough to see that they were going toward the gates at the back of the château.

“Your beloved Erik is unable to help you now.”

No.

Christine squeezed her eyes closed, blocking away the gloating in his voice, the satisfaction in his words. Philippe would have no qualms about it, none at all…but, no,
no
…she wouldn’t believe it. Not yet. Not until she had proof.

They galloped to a halt near the same servant door through which Christine had emerged only moments before. Without loosening his grip on her neck, Philippe slid off Cesar and moved to clamp a stifling hand over her mouth as the other closed around her arm.

She fought and kicked, but he was taller and stronger than she by far, and he easily maneuvered her into the building. Once inside, he stopped in the narrow back hallway, and still gagging her with his hand and keeping her pulled up tightly against his body, he fumbled around with his other and produced a gleaming knife.

“Now,” he said, breathing heavily, “you’ll not make a sound, or I’ll cut your pretty throat. I’d hate to damage such a lovely songbird, but as with Carlotta, I’ve no qualms about doing so if necessary. Walk this way.”

He released her mouth but held her upper arm with a grip so tight that her fingers tingled, and with the other hand, he held the tip of the knife to her throat. Christine walked as he directed, but when she thought to turn toward the chamber she’d occupied, he steered her in a different direction.

“No, my dear. I have much more comfortable accommodations available for you now where the walls are thick and padded. It is in my private quarters.”

Her stomach pitched and a wave of fear swept over her. He
must have seen her wide eyes and panic-stricken look, for he smiled. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know we won’t be disturbed.”

For a moment, Christine thought she would prefer the knife slitting her throat to the certainty of being locked away in the
comte
’s private chambers, but then she remembered Raoul. He, despite the obsessive light in his eyes, at least meant her no harm. He wouldn’t allow his brother to hurt her; he wanted to marry her.

Philippe wouldn’t dare to keep her from him. He wouldn’t dare hurt her. Much. Christine’s stomach churned, but she swallowed back the nausea. And, if there was a chance that Erik was still alive, she would find out. She’d endure anything, make it through anything, if there was a chance to see him again.

But when Philippe opened the door to his chamber and thrust her in so hard she stumbled to her knees, Christine felt another wave of panic. She saw things that made her want to take the knife to her throat herself.

A row of ugly-looking whips, neatly arranged on the wall.

Three abnormal pieces of furniture: one in the shape of a Y, one X, and a board slanting from ceiling to floor—each with dangling cuffs.

A tall pole, studded with spikes, and decorated with two cuffs hanging far above her head.

A table with metal and wooden implements in long sleek shapes, pointed lethal ones, and round studded ones.

And a naked young woman chained to the wall, legs spread, mouth stuffed with a large white ball, and bulging eyes.

Christine couldn’t breathe, and the room began to close in on her. She heard a low chuckle, then the clink of metal, and she let herself slide into black.

“I so hate to be the bearer of bad news, my dear brother,” said Philippe as he stood in front of Erik. “But I don’t believe it’s fair to allow you to hold on to lost dreams. You see, the woman you love, the one you’ve risked everything for, has made a most pragmatic choice.”

Erik said nothing; he reacted not at all. Not a hitch of breath, not a flicker of an eyelid. Most of all, he dared not lift his face to meet his brother’s eyes, for fear the man would see the deep hatred there and cut him down right at the moment. He had to prevent that. As long as he lived, there was the hope of escape and finding Christine.

“She’s come to her senses and decided that her fortune would be better served by aligning it with the
vicomte
instead of the bastard Chagny brother. They ran away to marry early this morning. So, you see…there is really no reason for you to hold out any further hope. You can crawl back into your dark dungeon and wallow there for eternity. Oh! But forgive me.…You already are in a dark dungeon, aren’t you?”

He laughed and Erik gritted his teeth, felt them grind dully near the edge of his jaw. His arms were numb from the tight metal around his wrists, attached sturdily to the stone wall above his head. His legs had been treated in the same fashion, manacled near the floor so that he had to alternately stand on his toes to relieve his arms or hang by his wrists to rest his feet. His mask was long gone and the fact that his face was naked only increased his sense of vulnerability.

He’d been this way since late last night, not long after Maude left the small cottage. Perhaps a quarter of an hour after her departure—which gave him the hope that she’d gotten safely back to the château unseen—the door burst open and five burly men stormed in, attacking with fists and feet and clubs.

Even then, Erik would have escaped but for a sixth man waiting outside the window he tumbled through, hands grabbing for his hair, ready with a large stick to slam across his shoulders with a force that sent him driving into the ground. Moments later, in a whirl of blows and kicks, he succumbed to the pain and the world went black.

When he regained consciousness, he found himself here, chained in the damp cold cellar of Château de Chagny. He recognized it immediately; his initials had long ago been carved into the stone, remnants of days spent here when he angered his father or brothers.

A bitter thought, that he’d come so far only to return to this hell.

This was the first he’d seen of Philippe, although he’d been brought food and water—in an effort, he supposed, to keep him strong for the pain that was sure to come.

Erik wasn’t altogether certain how many hours had passed, but from the numbness in his arms and the roaring pain encumbering his body, he knew it had been many. The pain always waited, gathering its forces, after a beating like that.

“What is it, dear brother? Have you nothing to say? No gratitude to me for taking you back in, now that you’ve been left by your true love?” His voice sneered at the last words. “She very much enjoyed her stay here; Christine was quite vocal about it. Ah, yes, we quickly moved to a first-name basis, my dear brother. She spread her legs so quickly, I thought the breeze would put out the candles.” He laughed.

And then Erik heard it. The sound that still had the power to set his stomach to roiling. The light, sharp crack.

“It’s not befitting the son of a
comte
, even a bastard, to keep his eyes downcast in servitude. Even with a face like yours.”

This time, the whip snapped near his ear and it was all Erik could do to keep from flinching. But he did.…With a grim sense of smugness, he didn’t move. That first time, or even the second, third, fourth…even when the bite of the sleek leather cut into his arm, his thigh, his ribs, his good cheek.

“Still stoic as ever, are you, dear brother? Or have you fainted?” There was the barest hint of annoyance in Philippe’s voice; it was betrayed by the harsher, more stinging whipcrack that he laid across Erik’s torso. This time, he couldn’t contain a low groan.

“Ah,
bien
, still conscious, I see.”

Erik braced himself for another stripe from the leather, but whatever Philippe’s intention, it was interrupted by the arrival of another person.

Awash in the reverberating pain and his own dull confusion, Erik didn’t hear their whispered conversation. When Philippe returned his attention, Erik heard his words with relief. “It is your good fortune that I’m called back to my guests. Sleep well, my brother. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Philippe moved soundlessly away, and Erik hung, miserable and aching, sweat and blood dripping from his skin. He pulled on the chains, with the only result low clinks and clanks and more strain to his muscles.

At last, he gave in to his body and allowed himself to sink into oblivion, for only there would the pain ease.

B
efore Christine opened her eyes again, she remembered where she was. Even in her sluggish state, she knew. Dread made her heart thump sharply as she opened her lids and looked around, afraid of what she would see.

But the goggle-eyed girl had disappeared and she was alone. Unfettered. Sprawled on a large bed she hadn’t noticed before.

And then she realized she wasn’t alone. Someone had awakened her.

“Madame,” she whispered in amazement. “How did you find me?”

Madame Giry had a guarded look on her face, and she held a finger to her lips. “Rose told me,” she whispered. “She is one of the few who have access to these quarters. It is a secret that you are here. I brought you this.” She handed her a warm, wet cloth and Christine used it to gratefully wipe her face and hands.

“What of Erik? Philippe said he was dead!” Christine asked as she washed.

Madame shook her head. “He is in the dungeon. The
comte
has made him his prisoner. He is hurt, but by no means dead.”

Her heart swelled with relief. “Thank God he’s alive! How badly is he hurt?”

“Come, quickly. I will take you to him while the
comte
is busy with his guests. We haven’t long, and you must be back—”

“Back?” Christine reared away in fear. “No, if I leave here, I won’t come back! Erik and I will leave.”

“I hear he is in chains; no one knows where the key is. No doubt in Philippe’s pocket. Rose has dared to bring me here, and will guide us to the dungeon—but is too frightened to do more to help us. If you do not come back here and pretend you know nothing, you will not have the chance to find the way to free Erik. Do you understand?”

She understood. And…Raoul should return soon. If Philippe was busy with his guests for long enough, there would be no chance for him to come to her.

“Take me to Erik.”

Rose was waiting for them in the hall, her delicate features pinched with worry. Christine recognized her immediately as the girl who’d been hanging on the wall, with the ball in her mouth. It was no wonder she knew Christine’s whereabouts.

They hurried like silent wraiths along the corridors and through servant passageways down four floors to well beneath the ground, where it was damp and dark.

“He is down there,” Rose said, pointing down another flight of stairs that led into darkness. “Now I must go. I am leaving this place, and I will never return.” She disappeared back the way they’d come.

Madame gave Christine a little push. “I will wait here and signal you if someone comes.”

Christine barely heard Madame’s last words; she hurried down the rest of the stairs and around the corner—and there he was, manacled at wrists and ankles, sagging against the cold gray stone. Blood streaked his torn shirt and along the sinewy muscles of his bare forearms, drawn tight from their fastenings high on the wall.

“Erik…oh, my dear Erik,” Christine cried softly, rushing toward him.

He lifted his head at the sound of her voice, struggling to hold it upright as her hands cupped the sides of his face, and she brought her mouth to his lips.

They were dry, cracked, bloody, but it was Erik. She softened his brutalized mouth with hers, fitting to him as she stroked her fingers over his jaw and neck.

“Christine, no,” he murmured against her kisses, “you should not be here.” But his mouth mauled hers with tenderness, as though he knew he’d never taste her again, and she heard the dull clank of metal as he reflexively attempted to hold her. “He told me you’d gone off with Raoul,” he said, nudging her aside so that he could press his lips to her cheek and huddle his face into her neck, breathing deeply, shakily, and then releasing a long exhale in a low shudder.

“I thought you were dead,” Christine replied, pulling away from him and, despite Madame’s warning, tugging at the heavy iron cuffs, shaking and rattling them in search of a weakness. “He told me you were dead, but I would
not
go with Raoul. I never will, Erik. Even if you were gone.”

“Thank God,” he murmured, bending his face toward her. “I thought perhaps…it would be so much easier for you, Christine,” he told her. He brushed his good cheek along hers, rubbing gently like a cat, caressing her in the only way he could. Over the dampness
of the dungeon, amid the must and gloom, she smelled his familiar scent mingled with sweat and blood and breathed it in as their faces cuddled. “I cannot—”

“Do not say it,” she told him, pressing her fingers against his mouth. “I would rather live in the darkness of danger with you than in the sunlight with anyone else. You’ve taught me what no other has…how to really love, how to bring my music back…how full life can be. How not to be lonely.” She looked up at him, looked into both of his eyes—the thick-lashed one, the sagging, half-hooded one—and took both sides of his face into her hands again, feeling the scrub of his whiskers, the stickiness of oozing blood, the unyielding texture of mangled skin. “I love you, Erik. I’ll find a way to set you free.”