Chapter Eight �What do you mean, you left the costume there?� Elan hissed in agitation, turning to hurry out of the ballroom as Narcissus continued trying to whisper to her. �No, Billy! You idiot! We aren�t framing him, for Christ�s sake!� �You might want to, rather than be caught yourself.� William grabbed her arm roughly, pulling her towards a wall where less people were chatting. �She passed out, Elan! You gave her too much laudanum! I don�t know just how much, but she passed out!� Elan�s face paled. �How the hell am I going to get blamed if she�s seriously hurt?� She challenged then, her eyes narrowing on his face. �You�re the one with the vial of morphine up your sleeve.� William reminded her coldly. �She could be in a coma, for all I know. Hell, Elan, she could be DYING!� �Then go get the costume!� �Hell no! If they find the costume and think he did it, I�ll be off Scott free.� One too many people were looking at them curiously because of their agitated voices, and Elan forced herself to quiet down. �I�ll get it myself.� She muttered, and stalked out of the room, pausing when he blocked her path. �Move it, Billy!� �When do you follow through on your end of the bargain?� He demanded. His eyes were hard on her, startlingly cold. Elan had never seen him like that. Apparently following through with their little scheme had made his lust not only rise, but stick around. �Whenever I wish.� She spat, and shoved by him. She moved down the corridors and out through the back door of the building, searching around for the bench where William had supposedly left the unconscious Allyriane. Several yards off he saw her, lying across the curved stone bench, her costume an utter mess of torn fabric. �God, you really did do a number on her.� She muttered, going to grab up the costume from where it lay on the floor. She hurried back inside, and tried every single classroom along the way back to the ballroom to find a door that was unlocked. The music room was unlocked, and she hurried to dispose of the costume, throwing it into a surprisingly large trash bin. With a sigh, she turned to walk out, and was surprised to see William standing there, staring at her. She froze under his gaze. Something must have been awakened in him that night, because when he came towards her, she actually felt a bit afraid of him. Yet when his hand came up to touch her cheek, it was with the same gentleness she�d always known to be in him. �If you don�t mind, I�d like you to pay up now.� He told her in a low, dangerous voice that brooked no argument. �If I wait any longer, you might change your mind. And I won�t let you change your mind this time, my dear Elan.� �Billy . . .� She whispered. �We can�t be caught here!� �No one is going to come looking for us.� He reminded her softly, and leaned down to press a light kiss to her mouth. ///////////////////////////--------------------------------------////////////////////////////////////// Charles groaned as he rolled onto his side in the dormitory. His side burned like the sting of a white-faced hornet. Slowly lifting up his shirt, as he struggled to sit up, he looked at the red welt surrounding the small scab of a puncture wound. What the hell had happened to him? He couldn�t even remember being attacked. Obviously, something had happened. He remembered William leaving for the ---- The masquerade! Lifting his head sharply, he saw that it was nearly ten o�clock. He�d been expected there at seven-thirty! Standing, he shuffled over to his closet in search of his Don Giovanni costume. No costume in the closet. He searched every possible cubby of the room, and still couldn�t find it. With a groan, he decided he better hurry down there before Allyriane thought she�d been stood up entirely. He just hoped she was still there. Hurrying downstairs, he found that the ballroom was actually quite empty. That seemed nearly impossible. The party didn�t even end until eleven-thirty. Yet there were still a few remaining people there. Chaperones, and students who lived in the school, and the like, stood around looking teary-eyed or simply distressed and grim. He looked over to see Susan with her beau, dressed as Romeo and Juliet. Susan was crying loudly on her beaus� shoulder, and he moved over to try and find out what was wrong. �Chagney, where have you been?� She asked, wiping at her eyes as he approached, using the handkerchief her beau offered her. �I haven�t seen you since the Virginia reel.� �The . . .what?� He was startled. �I haven�t been down here at all. I can�t remember exactly what, but something happened in my room. I must have fallen asleep at my desk.� He did not mention the swollen wound on his side. �My costume is missing though.� �That wasn�t you?� She replied, her eyes wide. �Oh, God, Charles! So you don�t know??� �Know . . .what?� He asked, now very worried at her sad expression. �Where is Lyre? Did she go home?� �Oh, Charles . . .� She whispered, sobbing harder once again. �Lyre is in the hospital . . . She was brought there an hour ago!� He turned and ran out of the room without even thinking. He didn�t have any money on him, as he had not expected he would need to call a cab. Yet luckily one of the professors, the music professor, was just about to climb into a cabby. �Professor Austerlitz! Wait!� The man turned sharply at the sharp cry of the young Vicomte, watching as he ran down the steps of the school. �Charles de Chagney!� He huffed, looking more than angry at what was going on around him. �Where have you been? Don�t you know what�s been going on, boy?� �No, Sir.� He replied honestly. �Please, where are you going?� �Don�t you know that your little French lady is in the hospital?� Professor Austerlitz always had been the kind of man who thought people should know everything when he wanted them to know it. �I�m going to see if she�s going to be all right. Her parents were sent for fifty minutes ago!� �Sir, someone stole my costume, and I think they may have attended the Masquerade in it, posing as me. That�s the most I can gather. Something happened to me in my room, and I just woke up from it . . . whatever it was. I can�t recall just now. I hope it will come back to my memory. Tell me, what happened to Lyre?� The man stared down at Charles, his face becoming concerned and sympathetic. �Come on, lad. I�ll give you a lift.� He offered, and they climbed into the rig together. �She was attacked, Charles.� The tone of the professors� voice worried Charles, and he felt a lump forming in his throat. A fit of panic nearly seized him, but he forced himself under control. �Attacked?� He whispered. �What do you mean, attacked?� The man only shook his head. ///////////////////////////////-------------------////////////////////////////////// �Stay here, Izzy. I�ll go in, all right? You stay here until I come back. Just sit here, and try to rest.� Those words were so easy to speak. Yet it was far from easy to take his own advice. Erik had been reading the evening paper when the knock came to the apartment door. A fellow student of his daughters� had been sent to give him the terrible news of how Allyriane had been found on the property behind the school, looking quite beaten up, with her clothes torn as though something far worse than a �regular� physical assault had occurred. When he�d arrived at the hospital, the doctor had confirmed that terrible suspicion, and then added to the weight on Erik�s shoulders by saying she was unconscious because of some drug. The symptoms had pointed to different drugs, yet she had definitely taken something. Leaving his wife in the trustworthy hands of the doctor, Erik made his way carefully into the hospital room where his daughter lay unconscious. She�d been cleaned up fairly well by the nurses, and didn�t seem as badly hurt as he had truly expected. There was a purplish bruise on her left cheek, and the mark of fingerprints on her upper arms, and wrists. The worst of the damage, however, he had already been told, lay beneath her clothes, and even beneath the skin, where no one would detect it simply by looking at her. She wore a frilly cotton nightgown, which Isabelle had brought back after the hospital staff requested it �Oh, Lyre . . .� He whispered hoarsely, sitting on the edge of the bed, and lifting her small hand into his own. He had hoped that no such tragedy would ever happen to a woman he loved. Yet here he was, staring at the delicate flower he�d watched grow, in every since of the word, for nearly seventeen years. The blossom she�d become so battered and bruised . . . The murderous rage he had felt when first being told about what happened had passed. There had been nothing he could do about the events that had already occurred, although he had certainly come close to destroying every bit of furniture and equipment in the hallway. There would be rage again, he was certain of it; rage that would have no ending, until the blood of the man, or men, that had hurt his daughter was spilt. He�d nearly killed the young Vicomte de Chagney when he�d arrived with Allyriane�s music professor. He�d thought he was the one guilty of the crime, for the student who had come to fetch him at the apartment had said she had disappeared with a man in that costume. Yet after Charles had spoken to him in the hospital, Erik had sensed no lie in his confusing story. No, Charles couldn�t have been guilty. Not with the tears he tried so desperately to hide in front of the crowd around him, threatening to spill down his cheeks at any moment. �Lyre, I am so sorry.� He whispered, stroking the back of her hand gently. �I should have found some way to protect you. The headmaster of the school asked me if I might chaperone the masquerade. They needed the help. But I couldn�t. I thought you would think I was sheltering you too much. I didn�t want you to feel suffocated, going to your first party with my keen eye constantly on you.� He was blaming himself again, just as he�d blamed himself for Christine�s death. Neither of the events could have been prevented. He had not known what was going to happen. He�d had no inkling that anything could be wrong. Yet he still found fault in himself. The man who had once been able to solve anything now found himself quite helpless and blameless for the wrongs done in the world. He found ways to blame himself, though. There was no way he could keep from not blaming himself. The guilt he felt was so great, simply because he knew the horrible thing that had just happened that night would haunt his daughter for the rest of her days. Not only through nightmares, but also through the whispering of gossip, and the snobby remarks of the fools who always thought the woman was to blame when a man raped her. �Lyre . . .� He closed his eyes, allowing himself to weep for a moment. His daughter had been hurt, and there was nothing he could do to change it. There was nothing that could make her forget it. He could do nothing to protect her from the maliciousness of rumor and ignorance. Unlike when she was a child, who could be led by the hand and soothed by the simple consolation of her father, Erik could not do anything for her anymore. As he watched over her, Allyriane seemed so still and quiet for over an hour. Yet one A.M approached, and she began to stir as the drugs she had been poisoned with started to wear off. She moaned quietly in pain, and tilted her head in the direction of the small oil lamp on a table to the right of her bed. Erik leaned over quickly, reaching down to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She flinched, and then opened her eyes slowly. Erik simply sat and stared down at her soft gaze as her eyes focused. �Papa?� She finally asked curiously, her tongue darting out from her mouth to dampen her lips. �Papa, what are you doing here? Where am I?� �We�re in the hospital, Cherie.� Erik whispered softly, �Do you remember the Masquerade, amoureux?� �The Masquerade?� Her eyes narrowed a bit, and she tried to remember. Images slowly began seeping into her memory of dancing with the statue of the Commendatore from �Don Giovanni�. She remembered feeling dizzy and going out into the night air. She remembered fumbling . . . arguing and screaming. Violence. She suddenly felt sick. She had been dizzy and disoriented at the time, so the images were a bit fuzzy. Yet they were there. Closing her eyes, Allyriane nodded slowly. �I . . . I remember Papa. Could I have a drink of water? I don�t feel well!� Erik leapt to his feet immediately. Turning, he moved across the room to where a porcelain bowl and pitcher full of water had been left. Grabbing up a glass from beside the oil lamp on her bedside table, he filled it with the water, and then helped his daughter to sit up as she sipped it carefully. She grimaced from the taste of the warm liquid, but it still helped her to feel less like vomiting. �Amoureux, I need to ask if you know who hurt you.� His voice trembled slightly, as did the glass in his hand as he moved to put it aside once more. Allyriane opened her eyes again and looked up at him. How her eyes haunted him in that moment. The horror of what had happened to her sinking in. Yet she was incredibly strong, and very brave. She didn�t start to cry. Her eyes didn�t even mist over with tears. �I . . . think I remember pulling off the headset.� She replied uncertainly. �It wasn�t Charles. The hair was too dark. Yet . . . he was in Charles� costume, your costume. I don�t know . . . I couldn�t see his face.� �Hush, ma petite.� He soothed softly, leaning down to kiss her forehead. �I already know that it wasn�t Charles. He is outside with your maman. He told me that his costume was stolen. Although he couldn�t remember when he first came here, it seems he was attacked in his room. Someone was trying to set you both up.� She shook her head, feeling sick again. Yet she did not ask for water this time. She swallowed the foul taste of disgust and shame welling up in her. Her fingers tightened around Erik�s hand, and he returned the grip reassuringly. �I will try and remember his face, Papa.� She promised in a hoarse whisper. �Could . . . could Charles come in? I want to see Charles.� Erik felt a stab of jealousy. She no longer wanted her beloved father there to comfort her. She didn�t ask for him to sing to her, and make the world feel right again, as she might have after some horrible nightmare. Instead, she asked for Charles, the son of his former rival, and the young man who was trying to lure her away from her family. Still, he nodded, and stood slowly. �Do you want to see him alone?� He asked softly. He was her father, and he knew she would have to grow up sooner or later. Yet this was too soon for him. She was his one and only child, and her innocence had passed too quickly. She�d grown up too fast. �If that�s all right?� �Of course, my darling.� He breathed, slowly releasing her hand, and turning to walk out of the private room. Charles and Isabelle both looked up at him anxiously, as they sat close together on a bench against the wall. Charles had his arm in a comforting manner around the mother of his girlfriend. Isabelle had a wrinkled and nearly ruined silk handkerchief clutched in her hand. �Is she awake?� �She wants to see you, Charles.� Erik said with almost no emotion. �Before you go in there, I want to ask you something very important. Do you know anyone who would want to hurt her?� Charles stood, watching Erik for a very long moment. He was deep in thought. Finally, his eyes narrowed. �The only person I can think of is not . . . physically capable of doing such a thing.� He finally replied coolly. �Unless she bribed someone else into doing it for her.� �Who is she?� Erik grabbed Charles by the shoulders immediately, his eyes fierce. �Who would she bribe?� �Her name is Elan.� He said quickly. �Yet I don�t know who she would . . .� His eyes widened suddenly, and he too looked ill. �Mon Dieu . . . There is a young man she�s close to . . . and to be honest he was the only one close enough to me during my attack to have been the one to pull off the deed. I mean . . . He would have come running if he�d heard me struggling unless it was he. He�d only left the room moments before.� �His name, Charles!� The young Vicomte grimaced in pain, as Erik�s fingers dug painfully into his shoulders. �William Sanchez. He also has access to needles and drugs. His brother is a doctor. Not here, but in the next town.� Turning, Erik stormed off down the hallway, pursued by two police officers who had been sitting with Charles for the past hour and a half, trying to get a statement out of him that made sense about the attack, which had occurred in his dorm room. Charles turned quietly, and made his way with stooped shoulders into Allyriane�s room. It was relatively dark in there, except for the lamp at her bedside. Moving inward to look at her for the first time, and see how badly she was injured, he let out a sigh of relief. It was not half so terrible as he had imagined it would be. Still, the girl had been raped. Was that not the worst thing that could happen to any woman? �Charles . . .� She smiled up at him weakly, obviously in pain. Yet she reached out for him, despite the strain it caused in her shoulders. He moved a few steps closer, but didn�t approach the bed. He loved her so much. Yet the only thing that kept going through his mind was that she had been raped. It was something that he, as a man, could never imagine suffering. He, just as Erik did, blamed himself for what had happened to her. Yet his concern and pain went deeper than that. He actually felt a little bit angry that someone had dared to touch her, to shame her with this horrible situation. Everyone would know what had happened within the week. All of Boston would know that Allyriane was a shamed woman. He didn�t care what other people thought about her. Society usually shamed the woman who had been assaulted, rather than the culprit. Charles did not do that. Allyriane had nothing to be ashamed of. She was the victim of cruel jealousy and malice, nothing more. Still, he found it very difficult to look at her. How was he, personally, going to deal with all of the questions and whispered rumors? There was no way to escape what people might say about the Comte de Chagneys� son. It was something he�d never realized he could be afraid of; his very own reputation. That wasn�t all. Charles was unable to feel as though the looks that Isabelle, Erik, and now even Allyriane, gave him, were filled with bitterness and hatred and accusation. How was a man able to face that when it felt as though an entire family blamed him for the tragedy that they were all victim to? �Charles . . . please?� He realized that he�d been standing there for long minutes, but he still couldn�t go over to embrace her. There were tears standing in her eyes now, for the first time since she�d awakened to remember the horrid truth. He wanted so much to go forward and kiss them out of her eyes. Nothing would have made him happier. But he could not do it. �You�re all right, Lyre.� He whispered finally. �I thank God for that. I just wanted to see that you were all right.� It was such a filthy lie. He saw the confusion and pain that entered her eyes as he backed away. He was forced to turn around so she could not see his own pain and torment. He would have to work things out in his mind if he were ever going to be able to look her in the eye again. �I�ll write, Cherie.� He promised her in a quiet voice that barely reached her across the room. �I promise I�ll write.� �Where are you going?� She sat up in her bed quickly, panic gripping her heart. She remained sitting up, despite the dizziness that swept through her brain, and the pain all through her body. �Home.� Charles murmured. �Home to New York. I�ll write.� As the door swung shut behind him, Allyriane collapsed onto the bed in tears, sobbing strenuously. So she would indeed suffer the fate of shame after all. Charles, dear sweet Charles, did not even want her now. He could not bring himself to so much as take her hand. If Charles could not love a ruined young woman, then certainly no other man on earth could either. |