Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(76)

Blood. Fresh blood. Not his, either.

He rubbed the rest of the blood from his hand with the hem of his banyan, and the cold horror of the last few minutes faded into a glowing coal of anger, hot in the pit of his stomach.

He’d been a soldier most of his life; he’d killed. He’d seen the dead on battlefields. And one thing he knew for a fact. Dead men don’t bleed.



FETTES AND CHERRY had to know, of course. So did Tom, as the wreckage of his room couldn’t be explained as the result of a nightmare. The four of them gathered in Grey’s room, conferring by candlelight as Tom went about tidying the damage, white to the lips.

“You’ve never heard of zombie—or zombies? I have no idea whether the term is plural or not.” Heads were shaken all round. A large square bottle of excellent Scotch whisky had survived the rigours of the voyage in the bottom of his trunk, and he poured generous tots of this, including Tom in the distribution.

“Tom—will you ask among the servants tomorrow? Carefully, of course. Drink that; it will do you good.”

“Oh, I’ll be careful, me lord,” Tom assured him fervently. He took an obedient gulp of the whisky before Grey could warn him. His eyes bulged and he made a noise like a bull that has sat on a bumblebee, but managed somehow to swallow the mouthful, after which he stood still, opening and closing his mouth in a stunned sort of way.

Bob Cherry’s mouth twitched, but Fettes maintained his usual stolid imperturbability.

“Why the attack upon you, sir, do you suppose?”

“If the servant who warned me about the Obeah man was correct, I can only suppose that it was a consequence of my posting sentries to keep guard upon the governor. But you’re right.” He nodded at Fettes’s implication. “That means that whoever was responsible for this”—he waved a hand to indicate the disorder of his chamber, which still smelled of its recent intruder, despite the rain-scented wind that came through the shattered doors and the burnt-honey smell of the whisky—“either was watching the house closely, or—”

“Or lives here,” Fettes said, and took a meditative sip. “Dawes, perhaps?”

Grey’s eyebrows rose. That small, tubby, genial man? And yet he’d known a number of small, wicked men.

“Well,” he said slowly, “it was not he who attacked me; I can tell you that much. Whoever it was was taller than I am and of a very lean build—not corpulent at all.”

Tom made a hesitant noise, indicating that he had had a thought, and Grey nodded at him, giving permission to speak.

“You’re quite sure, me lord, as the man who went for you…er…wasn’t dead? Because by the smell of him, he’s been buried for a week, at least.”

A reflexive shudder went through all of them, but Grey shook his head.

“I am positive,” he said, as firmly as he could. “It was a live man—though certainly a peculiar one,” he added, frowning.

“Ought we to search the house, sir?” Cherry suggested.

Grey shook his head reluctantly.

“He—or it—went away into the garden. He left discernible footmarks.” He did not add that there had been sufficient time for the servants—if they were involved—to hide any traces of the creature by now. If there was involvement, he thought, the servant Rodrigo was his best avenue of inquiry—and it would not serve his purposes to alarm the house and focus attention on the young man ahead of time.

“Tom,” he said, turning to his valet. “Does Rodrigo appear to be approachable?”

“Oh, yes, me lord. He was friendly to me over supper,” Tom assured him, brush in hand. “D’ye want me to talk to him?”

“Yes, if you will. Beyond that…” He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the sprouting beard-stubble on his jaw. “I think we will proceed with the plans for tomorrow. But, Captain Cherry, will you also find time to question Mr. Dawes? You may tell him what transpired here tonight; I should find his response to that most interesting.”

“Yes, sir.” Cherry finished his whisky, coughed, and sat blinking for a moment, then cleared his throat. “The, um, the governor, sir…?”

“I’ll speak to him myself,” Grey said. “And then I propose to ride up into the hills, to pay a visit to a couple of plantations, with an eye to defensive postings. For we must be seen to be taking prompt and decisive action. If there’s offensive action to be taken against the maroons, it will wait until we see what we’re up against.” Fettes and Cherry nodded; lifelong soldiers, they had no urgent desire to rush into combat.

The meeting dismissed, Grey sat down with a fresh glass of whisky, sipping it as Tom finished his work in silence.

“You’re sure as you want to sleep in this room tonight, me lord?” he said, putting the dressing-table bench neatly back in its spot. “I could find you another place, I’m sure.”

Grey smiled at him with affection.

“I’m sure you could, Tom. But so could our recent friend, I expect. No, Captain Cherry will post a double guard on the terrace, as well as inside the house. It will be perfectly safe.” And even if it wasn’t, the thought of hiding, skulking away from whatever the thing was that had visited him…No. He wouldn’t allow them—whoever they were—to think they had shaken his nerve.