Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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2. The Riding

Tavington was lost in blissful dreams.

He was happily arrived in Charlestown, and had been made welcome at Perdita's famed house of ill-fame. How lovely the girls were! It was hard to choose, but in the end he did not have to.

They were taking turns with him. Dolly, lush and luminous, was on him, smiling dreamily. She leaned in for a kiss, cloud-soft breasts pressing against his chest. Wet, slow, ardent, her mouth clung to his; and she looked down at him and was Becky. Becky rode him a little faster, and the world contracted to the throbbing pleasure where their bodies joined. His heart beat with the rhythm of her plunging hips, and she drew the kiss out longer, pulling at his soul. He opened his eyes, and Molly, plump and winsome, was sucking at his lower lip, as her delicate muscles flickered around his manhood. No, it was Perdita, her dainty ironic sneer intact, even in a moment of passion. His eyelashes brushed hers, and he looked into darkness, and it was Belle.

He flinched a little at her presence. She should not be here. She pushed the other girls aside, and drew the ragged cotton dress over her head in a single movement, casting it aside as meaningless. Her small breasts, a little slack, swayed as she slid onto him, and an intense contraction made him moan. She rode him hard, and her lips took his as she drew on them insatiably. She was so delectably wet; her tongue probed his mouth voraciously. At the quivering edge of the precipice, he surrendered, and the uncontrollable spasms sent him spiraling into blackness.

Tavington opened his eyes with an effort. He was unbearably thirsty, but too sleepy to do anything about it. Some cool, white rays of light shone through the cracks in the tiny,shuttered windows and the doorframe, creating long white bands on the floor and walls. He wondered what time it was. No, I'll go back to sleep. So tired…

Cavendish was on the other side of the fireplace, snoring forthrightly. Tavington was too weary to throttle him. He licked his dry lips. God, he was thirsty. Was there any water in the cabin? Oh, bloody hell, I wouldn't even know where to look. Did I see a bucket? If I want a drink, I'll have to go find the well. It's less trouble to die of thirst.

Water. He tried not to think about it, but now it was the only thing on his mind. It took a fierce act of will, but he sat up, and gradually overcame the dizziness. His clothes were disarranged. I must have been restless in my sleep. I don't seem to have awakened them, though. The fire had burned to glowing embers, but the light from outside showed him the way to the door, as he managed to get his feet under him, and staggered up.

At the door he fumbled, trying to remember which side was hinged. He found the latch after two tries, and pushed his way through to the open air.

The clouds and fog had vanished, leaving a mysterious moonlit world full of sharply defined shadows. It was still oddly silent, but for the soft call of an owl in the distance, and the chirping of crickets. He swayed, and shut the door quietly behind him. The cool air began to clear his head, and he found he could see fairly well around the place.

The well must be in back. He could vaguely remember Ali Baba coming from that direction with the bucket for the horses. The shed loomed up to his right, but there was no sound. The horses must be as tired as he. Another wide, squat shed he presumed was the corncrib, where the slave was sleeping. Beyond that was the tall, thin silhouette of the privy.

Yes, there was the well, behind the horse shed. The well was nothing more than a cover over a hole in the ground, with a rope and bucket beside it. Tavington pushed the cover away, and let the bucket down until he heard the faint, echoing splash that told him he had found water. He hauled it up, squatted down, and cupped his hands to drink thirstily. The night breeze blew over him, chilling his wet hands, and the splashes on his jacket and breeches. He took two more long drinks, and splashed some water onto his face. The dull, sluggish haze of exhaustion dissipated. He carefully replaced the well cover and looked around him, trying to get his bearings.

However difficult in the fog, the path was absurdly clear now in the moonlight. In the morning, they would simply retrace their steps to the fork in the road. Tavington walked down toward the path, around the corncrib, to see better.

The swamp, its cypresses rising from the boggy wet like the pillars of a cathedral, was alive with furtive whispers. A fish splashed now and then. Tavington eyes flicked over to the sound, and he noticed something long trailing on the ground near the water. Curious, he approached it, and reached down to see what it was. It was soft and delicate: a long piece of fine cloth. Silk! He held it to his eyes, and caught the metallic reflection of the shining threads.

It was, unquestionably, Ali Baba's ridiculous turban. Tavington absently rolled up the silk, stuffed it into a pocket, and turned back to the corncrib. Inside, moldering corncobs filled the place with a sweet dusty scent; but of the slave, there was no sign. He must have run away.

Alarmed, Tavington hurried to the horse shed, but found the sleeping horses undisturbed. He reached out to pat Xanthus, more to reassure himself than his mount, but stopped. There was no reason to trouble the animal's sleep. But it puzzled him. If the slave were going to run away, why not take a horse?

Well, perhaps he thought the chances of making noise were too great.

Now thoroughly awake, Tavington went back to the corncrib. The shaggy horseblanket was there, and a worn saddlebag with the slave's pitiful belongings. Why would he leave his only possessions? Tavington took the bag out into the moonlight and made a quick inventory. A tinderbox, a knife, a spare bootlace, a worn razor, some hardtack wrapped in a cloth, a shirt. These were things that any man would take with him.

Tavington looked narrowly at the path through the swamp. It was useless to try to find the slave in the dark, and it was no business of his anyway, if the fellow were tired of Lord Frederick Cavendish. Tavington was pretty tired of him, too.

He walked carefully back to the cabin, alert for any uneven ground. He would try to get a little more sleep.

The light from the opened door spilled inside, revealing the fireplace, but his eyes were too adapted to the bright moonlight to make out anything hidden in shadow. He shut the door, carefully found his blanket, and lay down again. Resolutely, he shut his eyes, but his body did not seem to want to sleep. He tried emptying his mind, a trick that often worked, and after a time he slipped into a light doze.

He could not have slept long, for his eyes opened again, and he was aware within seconds of a repulsive, rhythmic, slobbering sound that impinged on his consciousness. Soft it was, but persistent. Tavington tried to imagine what it might be, and sneered; his first thought was that Lord Frederick was quietly relieving some tension. Disgusted, Tavington shifted in his blanket to muffle his ears. I am not taking him to Perdita's. I absolutely refuse.

Lord Frederick started snoring again, but the wet, rhythmic noise continued; and Tavington lay still, realising that his first thought could not be right. The sound was coming from Lord Frederick, not from one point, but rather from his whole body. Is that woman having a go at him? In his sleep? Tavington experienced a combination of envy and relief, and surreptitiously turned his head to see the bed. It was empty.

The snoring paused. There was a sudden snort, and Lord Frederick whimpered. It was a very muffled whimper. Tavington rolled his head to that side, and could make out only a dark shape, too large for his companion, moving quickly in a distinctive humping motion.

Cavendish's whimpers had become distressed, and he was struggling. What was the woman doing to him? Carefully, Tavington reached for the poker by the fire, and stirred the embers to life.

Flame and sparks illumined the room. Cavendish's eyes, enormous and frightened, met Tavington's. His lower face was hidden by the lips pressed to his, sucking wetly at his mouth. Then Tavington took in the shape that covered Cavendish, and he cried out in shock and disbelief.

Red and glistening, the skinless thing on Cavendish clasped the helpless man close in a mockery of passion. The whole body surged back and forth, the hips grinding sluggishly as if already sated. Its dead black eyes met Tavington's, but it did not detach its mouth from Cavendish; rather it sucked faster, jaws working, slurping noisily as if desperate for every atom of the man's breath.

Striking with all his skill, Tavington brought the poker down on the creature's spine. It howled and arched its back in pain. Tavington saw its face for one terrible instant, the puckered sphincter of the mouth stretched wide, a circle of small, lamprey-like teeth exposed.

"Help me, Tavington! For the love of God!" Cavendish screamed, pinned motionless. The thing's mouth captured his again, and gobbled at him furiously. It moved on Cavendish relentlessly, horrible greedy grunts issuing from its bloody-raw throat.

Tavington hit the creature again and again, but it only rode Cavendish the faster, whining like a starving thing. The man's eyes rolled back in his head in mortal terror, and the air was thick with the heavy smell of voided bowels. Tavington brought the poker down on the back of the creature's head, and the wet skinless flesh splattered away from the bone.

The creature reared up, enraged, and with unnatural speed turned on Tavington. It struck at him with one hand, and Tavington felt fire course down his arm. A knife? No, oh God! Claws! He reeled back, and drew his sword, while the creature lunged.

Tavington slashed crosswise, catching the thing along its glistening, muscular side. It howled again, and tried to slash with the other hand. Cavendish lay motionless and moaning on the floor.

"Get out of here, you idiot!" Tavington shouted, and went for the creature with all the energy he possessed. It clawed at the stone above the chimney and threw an iron pot at Tavington's head. Tavington parried it, and it fell with a clang. Cavendish, still moaning, had struggled to his hands and knees and was crawling to the door.

The creature launched itself on Tavington, and they crashed into the wall by the bed. Tavington shortened his grip on the sword and plunged it all the way into the unnatural flesh. It wriggled, impaled on the blade, and the two of them thrashed together, falling to the floor.

Tavington's left hand slipped on something soft. A pile of crumpled cotton—the woman's dress, then something softer still and flabby, and then a handful of thick curling hair. The woman's skin! Tavington's gorge rose. A clawed hand gripped his arm, and the hideous mouth searched for his, brushing a brief kiss. Without thinking, Tavington kicked out with both legs, thrusting the creature away.

Cavendish had made it through the cabin doorway, still on all fours, mewling like a newborn kitten. Knowing he was out of danger for the moment, Tavington pressed his advantage, slashing down at the sprawled thing. Its bones were tough: such a slash should have severed the thing's arm. It attacked again. Tavington shoved it back, and it skidded into the fireplace.

Blazing logs scattered around the room. A burning brand spun under the bed, and set the trailing quilt aflame in a moment. Sparks flew into the cradle, and the churn. They ignited the forgotten hank of flax on the spinning wheel. Little fires were burning all around them, and Tavington hurled the creature back against the hearthstones, hacking at it furiously.

The thing tried to dig its claws into Tavington, and was rewarded with a terrible scrape of the sabre blade that removed the flesh from the top of its hand. It shrieked, and Tavington smashed its head back onto the stones again; the thing lay dazed for a moment.

Long enough. Smoke was filling the shuttered cabin. Tavington lurched away and made a dash for the door, slamming it behind him.

The cabin exploded into flame. Inside, a hideous inhuman shriek tore at the night. It screamed on and on, rocketing from one end of the cabin to the other, scrabbling at the door that Tavington held shut with all his strength. After what seemed like hours, the shriek died to a gurgle and then stopped altogether. The door grew hot, and Tavington stumbled away, brushing at his scorched uniform.

Cavendish had disappeared. Tavington stood there staring at the cabin as the roof collapsed in fire and a tower of sparks. There was a loud bang, and a few moments later, another. My pistols. Bloody hell. He went to look for his companion, and found him half-naked by the well.

Lord Frederick was feebly drinking from the bucket Tavington had left. The soiled breeches were cast aside. Saying nothing, Tavington went to the horse shed and found a bag of clothing. Bringing it back, he dropped it wordlessly at the man's side.

He sat on the grass nearby, his back to Cavendish as the shattered man dressed himself. The cabin was still burning. It was quite beautiful—a great bonfire in the silent darkness. The moon was in the west now: and the first glow of dawn lightened the east. They would get an early start. A very early start. And before long they would be in the civilised world and all this would be an improbable nightmare.

Cavendish spoke in a fretful, almost child-like voice. "I can't find Ali Baba."

Tavington pulled the wadded silk from his pocket and tossed it over. "A souvenir. I daresay that's all that's left. The thing must have gotten him first when it said it was going for firewood."

Lord Frederick threw the length of silk away in disgust. It fluttered to the ground, curled like a huge black snake. He whispered, "That woman—she was some sort of monster." He laughed weakly. "I've always hated those rubbishy Gothic novels."

Tavington grunted. "I hate them too. But that thing was not a woman. I found a woman's skin on the cabin floor. No doubt the thing killed the woman who lived here, and the flayed remains of the poor creature were long since tipped into the swamp."

Tavington tried to leave it at that. The woman's essence, nosed at by inquisitive, crawling things, was not something he wished to dwell upon. Nor was the thought of the empty cradle, and the vision of a glistening red thing, sucking gluttonously at a small mouth ---No!

Cavendish was still tentative. "Clever of you to think of burning the thing. It is dead, isn't it?"

"Dead enough for our purposes. I don't know of many disagreeable things that can't be sorted out by a good fire. If you like, you can wait until morning and comb through the rubble, but I for one shall be on the Charlestown road on my way to the fleshpots."

"I owe you my life."

Tavington looked at him without much respect. "Yes, you do. More specifically, you owe me a new uniform and a pair of good pistols. I'm sure we can find time to visit a tailor and a gunsmith in Charlestown before our return to camp."

"I shall certainly make those purchases before returning home. You have my word as a gentleman."

"Home?"

"Yes. My brother never liked me coming to this barbarous place, don't you know? One can't be selfish when one has a great family to consider. I shall write to Lord C. about my situation and take ship at the first opportunity."

Tavington faced the swamp, away from the craven liar, and his mouth twisted in a cold smile. Once again, he had survived, and the sensation filled him with fresh vitality. No, he certainly would not be taking Lord Frederick to Perdita's. But he would soon be there himself.

And he would be the one doing the riding.