Unmasqued: An Erotic Novel of The Phantom of The Opera (37 page)

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 clamlike 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 long 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.

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 eyes showed 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.