Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the Patriot, Halloween, swamp thangs, devil dogs, or boo-hags.

1. A Lodging for the Night

"There you are, Tavington!" An unwelcome presence gave the commander of His Majesty's Green Dragoons a genial, self-satisfied smile. "And here we are, right on time!"

William Tavington straightened in the saddle to regard Major Lord Frederick Cavendish. Useless spawn of the Duke of Devonshire, come to America to see the world and have a bit of adventure. Seconded to the Lord General's staff to keep him safe and out of the way. To his credit, Cornwallis had tried to find something this noble scion of the peerage could actually manage, but his patience had at last worn thin, and he had palmed him off on Tavington.

"Lord Frederick shall be your liaison officer," he had declared firmly. His eyes had met Tavington's, and the message was clear: nothing must happen to the wretched little snot, and there was to be no appeal of this sentence. O'Hara, standing behind them, and overjoyed at his own escape, had sniggered at Tavington's discomfiture, but quickly turned the snigger into a politely muffled cough. The wretched little snot himself had been quite flattered at the appointment, and had a Green Dragoons uniform tailored within a day. An extraordinary uniform, festooned with gold lace, and with skin-tight, non-regulation white breeches, which outlined his manly parts indelibly.

Tavington had allowed him to tag along on some routine patrols, but had mostly kept him in camp, making inspections and drilling with the Dragoons. His Lordship felt himself a man among men, and was blissfully unaware of his uselessness.

This had gone on for half of September and most of October. Feeling that he had done his duty -- and then some-- Tavington had asked for, and been granted, a week's furlough, his first in years. He was off for Charlestown , to enjoy every pleasure Perdita's charming establishment offered. He had thrown his shaving kit and some fresh linen into a saddlebag, not anticipating needing much in the way of clothing. He was in the very act of mounting his horse when Cavendish now made his appearance on a splendid dappled grey, accompanied by a black slave dressed as a Turk in gaudy silks. Tavington blinked.

"You're coming with me?" managed Tavington, frozen with horror.

"Oh, yes! Wouldn't miss it for the world. Have written orders and all, you know. Lord C. said I was to go with you and see the real Carolina ." He smirked, and winked broadly at Tavington.

Intolerable effrontery! Tavington sat his horse in a state of stupefaction, inwardly cursing all members of the House of Lords and their family connections.

Lord Frederick eyed Tavington's single saddlebag with wonder. "Is that all you're taking? Certainly mastered the art of traveling light. If you like, you can pile a bit on Ali Baba's nag!"

"Ali Baba?" Tavington lifted his brows.

"My new valet," said Cavendish, visibly expanding. "Isn't he a sight? Bought him for a song. Had a tailor whip up something for him. Gives a fellow a bit of dash."

Tavington looked beyond to the big black man, sitting impassively on his horse. "His name is Ali Baba?"

Cavendish gave a high whinny of a laugh. "It is now!"

Tavington looked again at the servant. His broad face, under the huge green and gold turban, had not moved a muscle. He was evidently experienced in the art of showing no emotion, even in the presence of a silly ass like his new master.

They rode hard. Tavington had hoped riding hard would prevent conversation. There was no escape, however: Lord Frederick's grey was splendid, and Lord Frederick's one talent was the horsemanship he had practised from earliest childhood. He matched Tavington easily, and generously shared his insights about America and the Americans, the rebellion, the slave trade, the superiority of Irish horses, his designs on several eligible heiresses, his colonelcy in the Dragoon Guards his father was to purchase for him, his family's importance, the unfortunate lack of first-class claret in South Carolina, and the strategies he had devised that could end the war by Christmas.

As a result, they made excellent time. Under the lowering sky, they cantered down the road together, while the dead leaves fluttered down.

He wasn't lost. He never got lost. The fog had thickened around them, reducing visibility to a few yards. They must have missed the fork in the road, and now they were on some sort of bridle-path, instead of the Charlestown highway. Tavington cursed the useless map.

Cavendish was chewing on his fingertips again. Disgusting habit. He was trying to read the map upside-down, and trying to be inconspicuous about it as well. His big grey snorted, and seemed edgy. Tavington's own Xanthus was alert. Maybe he's caught the scent of some predator.

"Here," Tavington snarled impatiently, shoving the crumpled mess at Cavendish. "Look at it all you like. We passed Wakefield miles ago, and the bloody map must not be to scale, for there can't be five miles between Wakefield and the river."

Lord Frederick's face fell. He pored over the map, trying to make some sense of the wretched thing. His lips moved as he silently read off the names of the towns nearby.

Tavington tried to orient himself. If only it would clear! The sky was impenetrably overcast, hiding the sun, hiding the stars too tonight, he predicted. Mist was rising in the stubbly cornfields, and here they were in the middle of nowhere, in the chill of October, and night coming on. He pulled out his compass. They were apparently still going in roughly the right direction, but had lost the road. Ali Baba, too, seemed uneasy, his eyes rolling whitely as he searched the landscape.

"Do you know this area?" Tavington asked him.

The slave seemed astonished at being addressed. Lord Frederick snorted, still struggling with the map. Tavington looked at the slave, awaiting an answer.

"I reckon I knows a little bit about it, Colonel sir," he rumbled softly.

"Well, then," Tavington said tightly, "perhaps you'd be good enough to tell us how to get back to the Charlestown road."

Ali Baba, his turban now soggy with the damp, looked at the ground. "Couldn't tell you that, Colonel. Sometimes the mist jest rises, jest like tonight, and then ain't nobody goin' to find his way out. If we keep wanderin' around, we could get ourselves lost in the swamp. Best we make camp, get a good fire goin', and wait for first light."

Lord Frederick was incredulous. "You are suggesting that we sleep on the ground?"

Ali Baba was firm. "Yes, my lord. You don' want to be lost in the swamp 'round here. They's bad things in the swamp."

"Rubbish!" exclaimed Lord Frederick. He asked, in a lower voice, "What things?"

"Well, my lord," began his slave, warming to the subject, "You got the devil dogs. They's black with red eyes, and they hunts in packs when the fog is right. And then they's all the swamp hants, of everbody ever died in the swamp. Then they's the boo-hags."

"Do you hear that, Tavington?" asked Cavendish. He asked his slave, "And what is a boo-hag?"

"Oh, they's bad, my lord, sir. They get on you and ride you all night, sucking the breath and strength from your body. If they gets enough, they might not kill you, but they'll come back for more 'til you get as weak as an old man, and then you die. And if they don't gets enough, or if they gets mad, they pulls your skin right off."

Cavendish managed a weak chuckle. "Oh really?"

"Yes, sir. You see they don't have no skin of their own. They steal a skin off somebody and they dress up in it 'til it's all wore out. Then they steals another. They has to take their skin off so's they can ride you, though, and then they's like raw meat."

"Oh," gulped Lord Frederick, "what a quaint story."

Tavington snorted a laugh. The silly fellow deserved a good scare, and no doubt when he was back in England , he could regale his fellow fops with tall tales from the colonies.

The fog was thicker now, with a cold edge to it. With no moon and no stars, it was going to be pitch dark. Tavington could see the slave's point. If they passed too close to the swamp, there was a good chance of one of the horses being caught in the muck -- possibly even breaking a leg -- and then they would be buggered.

He finally said, "We'll go on a little farther, but if we don't see any sign of a habitation soon, we'll make camp."

"Good God!" muttered the Duke of Devonshire's son.

It was slow going, as the shadows gathered around them. Xanthus shied at a frog's croaking, at a strange bird's whistling call. The other horses were just as nervous, and the ground was softer now. There were liquid sounds of unknown creatures stirring. They must be very close to the swamp.

Cavendish's horse screamed with alarm, and staggered, as it put its right foreleg into muddy water. It thrashed wildly, but Cavendish got the brute under control and urged him back onto firmer ground. As the horse pulled back, a hideous stench rolled up from the muck. The other two horses whinnied in distress and tried to back away.

"Ugh!" exclaimed Lord Frederick. Then he laughed, "Something is rotten in the Carolinas !"

Tavington did not smile. It was something dead, all right. Xanthus shied again, and it seemed the grey was trying to free itself from something clinging to its foreleg.

"You there! Ali Baba!" Cavendish ordered. "Get down and see what Shadow is tangled in."

Reluctantly, the slave dismounted, and groped through the mist for his master's horse. He stooped, and Tavington tried to see through the fog and focus on what they had stumbled upon.

Ali Baba gave a hoarse shout and staggered back. The stink was worse, sharp and sickening.

"What is it, man?"

The slave was silent, and then said fearfully, "It's a dead man, sir."

"My lord," corrected Cavendish, icily.

"Yes, sir, that's what I say. It's a dead man, and your horse put his hoof right through him. He been here a while, 'cause he's gone all soft and mushy like the swamp itself."

Cavendish was plainly frightened and disgusted; and snapped. "Well, do what ever you have to do. Just get Shadow clear."

In the end, Ali Baba lifted the trembling horse's leg, and seemed to be scraping down with his own. He pushed with his foot at the shapeless bulk in the dark, and it rolled away, sinking back into the ooze.

Tavington thought a moment. "We'll have to dismount -- all of us. It will be safer if we lead the horses. Be careful to stick to the path, though."

Tavington led them in single file. The path itself seemed firm enough. As long as he fixed his eyes on it, they went along fairly well. But there were so many unfamiliar sounds, and the fog itself rose in distracting plumes. It would be easy to forget the path, and follow some of the mysterious tendrils beckoning whitely. Tavington shook his head, and held fast to Xanthus ' bridle. It was a reminder of reality.

Time seemed to move very slowly, and it grew darker. Tavington was almost resolved on stopping, when he saw a flicker of yellow light. "Thank God!" he told the men behind him. "A cabin."

Within a few minutes, they had reached it, and the solid ground it was built upon.

"Well," observed Lord Frederick, as they came close enough to see it properly. "Here is some of the real Carolina ."

The cabin was a crumbling log affair, evidently a single room. There were a few small log outbuildings clustered around, but not a sound of human or animal. Still, a fire was burning inside the tiny house, proof of habitation.

Ali Baba was hanging back, and Cavendish had quite lost his usual confidence. Tavington shrugged, and approached the cabin. "Hello the house! I am a British officer, and I require lodging for the night in the King's name!"

His voice was swallowed by the silence and fog, as if he had not spoken. Nonetheless, after a few heartbeats, the door creaked open on its leather hinges. A woman was silhouetted against the firelight.

She was nearly faceless in the dark. Bone-thin, barefoot, in a limp cotton dress that betrayed the absence of corset or petticoat, the woman stood looking at them, her hair unbound and hanging unbrushed and lank to her waist.

"I don't have room for you all in the house," she whispered in a voice that seemed rusty for lack of use. Tavington could not imagine her isolated life here by the swamp.

Cavendish came forward. "I am Lord Frederick Cavendish. My man can sleep outside, madam. Surely you will allow Colonel Tavington and myself to find room on the floor by the fire." Tavington sneered inwardly. Cavendish had recovered his self-importance. It's only a lone woman, after all.

"I'm afraid," she replied, her voice like wind in the underbrush. "I'm afraid to have strange men sleeping in my house with me. How do I know you won't do me a harm?"

Tavington shouldered past Cavendish and addressed the woman commandingly. "You have nothing to fear from us, but we must insist. Is there somewhere to shelter the horses?"

She pointed vaguely to a tumbledown shed in the shadows.

"Come on," Tavington said to the other men. He led Xanthus to the side of the shed, and then dug into his saddlebag for his tinderbox and a candle.

"Here," he said, giving Cavendish the candle to hold while he struck a light. Once lit, Tavington took the candle, dripped a little tallow onto a crossbeam, and set the candle there. The wavering flame allowed them to look about. The shed was tiny, and filled with dusty hay. It had not been used in some time. Ali Baba found a leaky oaken bucket, and went to find water for the horses, stumbling in the dark. Cavendish protested at tending his mount himself, but Tavington had no patience with him.

"Your servant is a valet, I believe? How experienced is he with horses?" When Cavendish could not reply, Tavington said shortly, "You may do as you please with your own animals, but I know nothing of the fellow and would prefer that Xanthus survived this adventure."

Caring for his horse always calmed Tavington, but watered, unsaddled, and thoroughly curried, Xanthus still seemed ill at ease. Tavington smoothed his horse's flank and bade him good night. Needing to escape from Cavendish's complaining chatter, he stepped out into the blackness between the cabin and the shed. It was unnaturally quiet.

How strange that the woman would not have a dog. There seemed to be no animals at all about -- no chickens, not even a pig, the mainstay of these poor swamp dwellers.

Ali Baba trudged past, his horseblanket over his arm. "I found me the corncrib, sir. I'll be sleeping there."

Cavendish's uninterested voice replied from the shed. "Be sure to bring me some wash water in the morning."

Tavington sneered, and went back for his blanket and his saddlebag.

Cavendish eyed him curiously. "What do you have there?"

"The rest of my rations. I suggest you do the same. The woman might not have anything for us to eat." He removed his pistols from their buckets and placed them carefully in the saddlebag as well.

Cavendish gave an incredulous laugh. Tavington looked at him impassively, and Cavendish retrieved his own ration bag with an air of one very ill-used.

Slinging the saddlebag over his shoulder, Tavington took the candle from the crossbeam, sheltering the flame carefully, and the two of them made the short walk to the cabin.

The woman was sitting on a three-legged stool, staring into the fire. The cabin at least had a wooden floor. Tavington had expected that he'd be sleeping on packed earth. The place had a faint sour smell, and was unswept and dank. On one side of the room stood a rough-hewn wooden table and four chairs. An unmade, sagging bed was in the other, the sort in which the straw tick was supported by ropes stretched across the frame. A few dusty pots hung by the fire place. A cradle held only a small, dingy quilt. A churn, a spinning wheel, a few crude tools completed the furnishings. Cavendish stared around him in amazement. He had plainly never imagined that any human being could be so miserably poor.

Tavington was more struck with the unused air of many of the belongings. The woman seemed not to have cooked recently. A good thing I have my own rations, he thought.

The woman said slowly, "The fire's burning low. I'd better get more wood."

Lord Frederick struggled with himself, and finally said, "We would be glad to fetch it for you..."

The woman was already going out the door. "No. I'll do it."

Tavington shrugged, and told Cavendish. "She probably wants to use the privy. Leave her alone."

She was gone quite a long time. Tavington chewed his cornpone slowly, and then bit off a chunk of dried beef. They ate in tired silence, until Cavendish spoke up.

"What's keeping her, do you suppose? Should we see if she is all right?"

Tavington grunted. "She wouldn't thank you for it. It's best we mind our own business." When the woman returned and made up the fire again, he would settle down to sleep.

She came in noiselessly, pushing the door open with a foot. Under her arm she had a bundle of firewood.

She knelt in front of the rude fireplace and the sparks crackled up as she added wood to the blaze.

Tavington asked, "May I know your name, madam?"

She seemed at a loss for a moment, and then replied, "Belle."

Cavendish smirked, arranging his blanket on the floor. "Just Belle?"

"Just Belle." The woman walked over to the unwholesome bed, and sat down. Tavington looked her over. It was too dark to see much, but she seemed young -- not more than five and twenty, he guessed. Unkempt as she was, she was not ugly. Her skin was smooth, and her dark hair thick and curling. With ordinary care, she would be a comely woman, though far too thin. Her eyes were set deep in their sockets, and shadowed.

He hesitated, and then spoke -- she was providing him with a roof over his head, after all. "I have some food with me, Belle. I would be happy to share it with you."

Cavendish hastily added, "And I, too, of course."

"No, thank you," she murmured absently. "I have eaten." She lay back on the bed, not even drawing up the rumpled quilt.

Tavington looked at her, puzzled. "Good night to you, then." She made no response, and the silence lengthened. Cavendish rolled his eyes at Tavington, who ignored him.

They wrapped themselves in their blankets and lay on either side of the fire, Tavington closer to the bed than his companion. He stretched out on the splintery wood, glad of a chance to rest, and stared at the fire until he fell asleep.

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.

The duke's son 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 father 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.

end

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