Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(94)

This one was squirming languorously over the top of Grey’s foot; he had to restrain a strong urge to kick it away and stamp on it. What the devil was it about him that attracted snakes, of all ungodly things? He supposed it could be worse; it might be cockroaches. Instantly he felt a hideous crawling sensation upon his forearms and rubbed them hard reflexively, seeing—yes, he bloody saw them, here in the dark—thorny jointed legs and wriggling, inquisitive antennae brushing his skin.

He might have cried out. Someone laughed.

If he thought at all, he wouldn’t be able to do it. He stooped and snatched the thing and, rising, hurled it into the darkness. There was a yelp and a scrabbling, then a brief, shocked scream.

He stood panting and trembling from reaction, checking and rechecking his hand—but felt no pain, could find no puncture wounds. The scream had been succeeded by a low stream of unintelligible curses, punctuated by the deep gasps of a man in terror. The voice of the houngan—if that’s who it was—came urgently, followed by another voice, doubtful, fearful. Behind him, before him? He had no sense of direction anymore.

Something brushed past him, the heaviness of a body, and he fell against the wall of the cave, scraping his arm. He welcomed the pain; it was something to cling to, something real.

More urgency in the depths of the cave, sudden silence. And then a swishing thunk! as something struck hard into flesh, and the sheared-copper smell of fresh blood came strong over the scent of hot rock and rushing water. No further sound.

He was sitting on the muddy floor of the cave; he could feel the cool dirt under him. He pressed his hands flat against it, getting his bearings. After a moment, he heaved himself to his feet and stood, swaying and dizzy.

“I don’t lie,” he said, into the dark. “And I will have my men.”

Dripping with sweat and water, he turned back, toward the rainbows.



THE SUN HAD barely risen when he came back into the mountain compound. The smoke of cooking fires hung among the huts, and the smell of food made his stomach clench painfully, but all that could wait. He strode as well as he might—his feet were so badly blistered that he hadn’t been able to get his boots back on and had walked back barefoot, over rocks and thorns—to the largest hut, where Captain Accompong sat placidly waiting for him.

Tom and the soldiers were there, too, no longer roped together but still bound, kneeling by the fire. And Cresswell, a little way apart, appearing wretched but at least upright.

Accompong looked at one of his lieutenants, who stepped forward with a big cane knife and cut the prisoners’ bonds with a series of casual but fortunately accurate swipes.

“Your men, my colonel,” he said magnanimously, flipping one fat hand in their direction. “I give them back to you.”

“I am deeply obliged to you, sir.” Grey bowed. “There is one missing, though. Where is Rodrigo?”

There was a sudden silence. Even the shouting children hushed instantly, melting back behind their mothers. Grey could hear the trickling of water down the distant rock face and the pulse beating in his ears.

“The zombie?” Accompong said at last. He spoke mildly, but Grey sensed some unease in his voice. “He is not yours.”

“Yes,” Grey said firmly. “He is. He came to the mountain under my protection—and he will leave the same way. It is my duty.”

The squatty headman’s expression was hard to interpret. None of the crowd moved or murmured, though Grey caught glimpses from the corner of his eyes of the faint turning of heads, as folk asked silent questions of one another.

“It is my duty,” Grey repeated. “I cannot go without him.” He carefully omitted any suggestion that it might not be his choice whether to go or not. Still, why would Accompong return the white men to him if he planned to kill or imprison Grey?

The headman pursed fleshy lips, then turned his head and said something questioning. Movement in the hut where Ishmael had emerged the night before. There was a considerable pause, but, once more, the houngan came out.

His face was pale, and one of his feet was wrapped in a bloodstained wad of fabric, bound tightly. Amputation, Grey thought with interest, recalling the metallic thunk that had seemed to echo through his own flesh in the cave. It was the only sure way to keep a snake’s venom from spreading through the body.

“Ah,” said Grey, voice light. “So the krait liked me better, did he?”

He thought Accompong laughed under his breath, but he didn’t really pay attention. The houngan’s eyes flashed hate at him, and Grey regretted his wit, fearing that it might cost Rodrigo more than had already been taken from him.

Despite his shock and horror, though, he clung to what Mrs. Abernathy had told him. The young man was not truly dead. He swallowed. Could Rodrigo perhaps be restored? The Scotchwoman had said not—but perhaps she was wrong. Clearly Rodrigo had not been a zombie for more than a few days. And she did say that the drug dissipated over time. Perhaps…

Accompong spoke sharply, and the houngan lowered his head.

“Anda,” he said sullenly. There was stumbling movement in the hut, and he stepped aside, half-pushing Rodrigo out into the light, where he came to a stop, staring vacantly at the ground, mouth open.

“You want this?” Accompong waved a hand at Rodrigo. “What for? He’s no good to you surely? Unless you want to take him to bed—he won’t say no to you!”