But he knew that was absurd. It was just a trick played upon him by a weary mind. He was miles away from the game pit now and what he'd heard was only the high, shrill cry of a hyena. He'd heard the animals before, on safari with Delamere and Hayes Sadler. He'd been told they were afraid of man, afraid of his fire. They would skulk and skitter around a campsite, never fully showing themselves, loping off--ugly and misshapen--at a loud noise, a quick movement.
"Unearthly sort of racket, isn't it?" Delamere had said. "They sound like the dead to me. Come back to haunt us. I hate them."
Freddie did, too.
As he looked into the darkness, a pair of shining green eyes stared back at him. They were joined by another pair, and then two more. He heard the horses whinny and kick at the ground. They were tied nearby. He clapped his hands at the hyenas. Two of the animals shot off. Two remained.
"Go!" he shouted at them.
But they didn't budge. One blinked its green eyes. The other let loose an awful, yipping laugh.
"Filthy little sods," he muttered.
For a split second he imagined that the eyes looking at him were India's eyes. Charlotte's eyes.
"Go to hell! All of you!" he shouted at the darkness. He heard scrabbling, yipping, and then the night was quiet again.
He passed a shaky hand over his face. "Get a grip, old man," he said. "You've been out in the bush too long."
He tried to steer his mind away from the day's events. He tried to imagine himself back home in London. At the Reform Club. Westminster. Ascot. But all he could see was India. Not as she looked when he'd left her to die, but as a child. At Blackwood. When she'd seen the bruises on his body and cried for them. She was still the only one who had ever done that--cried for him. She'd been kind to him once. She'd loved him once. And he had killed her. And her child.
He'd murdered a child. An innocent child.
Hugh Mullins had gotten in his way. Wish, too. Gemma Dean had thwarted him. And India, the bitch, had been ready to go to the police with his music box. She deserved what she'd gotten. They all did. But Charlotte didn't.
An image of the girl came to him now. She was at the bottom of the game pit. Dead. Vultures were in there with her, picking her bones clean. Her gray eyes--India's eyes--were black and unseeing.
"Stop it! Stop it!" he shouted, jumping to his feet.
Yips, snorts, and guttural laughs came back at him. He didn't hear them. He was too busy telling himself that what was done, was done. They were dead by now. It was over. He would never do it again. He would never have to. He took another sip of whisky, lifting the flask with shaking hands.
As he lowered it again, the face of his ancestor came to him. Richard Lytton. Woulds't be king? the Red Earl asked him. Rip out thine own heart.
"I thought I had," he whispered. "Long ago. Years ago. I thought it was gone. All gone. Nothing left."
He heard laughter again. The earl's? The hyena's? His own? He didn't know. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. This lunacy, this attack of nerves, had to stop. He told himself that he was tired, that was all. And he realized that he was hungry. He hadn't eaten for hours. He decided that he would have a meal. Get some sleep. These were only night terrors. Things would look fine again in the morning.
Earlier in the evening he'd gathered branches that had fallen from some nearby flame trees. He fed a few to the fire now, building it up. Its light heartened him. He sat down again, dug in his saddlebag--it was near him on the ground--and fished out a hunk of hard cheese, a square of gingerbread, and a handful of dried figs. As he was cutting off a bite of cheese with a clasp knife, the blade slipped and sliced into his finger.
"Blast!" he said, sucking on the wound.
The pain sobered him slightly. He would have to dress the wound. He knew better than to ignore it. Leave a sliced finger unattended in a place like Africa, and the next thing you knew some damned bush doctor was cutting off your arm.
He dug into his saddlebag again, with his good hand, until he found what he was after, a small bottle of carbolic. He poured it over his finger. As he did, the hyenas started up again, barking and laughing.
He suddenly remembered something else that Delamere had told him about hyenas--that they could smell blood from a distance. A glance assured him that his rifle was within easy reach. Just in case. He finished with the carbolic, capped the bottle, and bound his finger with a clean handkerchief.
The noise from the bush grew louder. More manic.
Uneasy now, Freddie put the carbolic back into his saddlebag. He was just reaching for his rifle when something came hurtling out of the darkness at him. It smashed into him, snarling and snapping, and knocked him onto his back. Freddie could smell the low stink of the creature, feel its wet, rotten breath on his face as he fended it off, hammering at it with his fists, kicking at it.
He felt his boot connect with something hard--the animal's flank, he thought. He heard shrieks and yowls and then it was gone. He rolled onto his side, panting and shaking. He lunged for his rifle, but it was too late. The pack was on him. He curled into a ball, trying to protect his vitals, but it was no use. He felt teeth sink into his back, his shoulder. He screamed and lashed out with his legs. He felt more teeth. In his ankle. His thigh. Fangs flashed before his eyes and a pair of jaws closed on his throat.
His blood splashed onto the golden grass; it pattered down onto the dark red earth. Nature, in its way, was merciful. The slashing teeth did their work quickly. But Freddie was still alive, still conscious, when a large hyena, a female, unable to frighten her pack mates away from his throat and his belly, howled with frustration and tore into his chest, cracking through bone with her powerful jaws, shredding fiesh with her long, lethal claws.
He could only writhe and scream silently, for his throat was gone now, as the great beast raised her bloody head above the fray, then plunged again. And again. Until she had feasted. Until she was sated.
Until she had ripped out his heart.
Chapter 128
Sid kicked out the last remaining embers of his campfire over the riverbank into the water. He'd already tucked his bedroll behind his saddle and wolfed down a hasty breakfast. It was not quite light yet, but he wanted to get going. He had to find India and Charlotte. Two full days had elapsed since they'd left the Wiltons' house. Dawn was about to break on the third.
He'd tracked them to this river last night, and then the trail had gone cold. Perhaps it had rained here since they'd come through. Or perhaps the winds had blown strongly. Whatever the reason, he could no longer see the swath the three riders had cut through the grass, could no longer find any tracks.
Yet he would not give up. They had followed a westerly direction so far, barely veering. He would gamble that they'd held the route. As he rode away from the river he took visual notes of the landscape, remembering a large boulder, a cluster of trees, the way the river curved, making a map in his head in case he came back this way.
He spent the entire morning searching fruitlessly, tacking across the plains as a sailor might across becalmed seas, desperate to catch sight of a hoofprint, broken brush, anything. Just before noon, he spotted something. He crested a hill and saw movement in the grass. His stomach clenched with fear. He knew what it was before he'd even raised his field glasses-- vultures, at least twenty of them, their black feathers rusty with red dust. They were pecking and squabbling. Feasting in the sun.
He spurred his horse on and then he prayed. Like he hadn't since he was a boy. He prayed for the strength to endure whatever it was he would find.
He heard the flies first. Their buzzing grew louder the closer he got to the kill. Then the smell hit him--blood and organs, baking fiesh. The vultures squawked and brawled as he drew near, angered by his presence. He spotted their prize--it was a black pony. He saw the bite marks across its neck. Smaller than a lion's. Hyenas, he thought, and fear turned his heart to dust.
"Charlotte!" he cried.
He jumped down from his horse a
nd thrashed his way through the bloodied grass, knowing what he would see next--her small, fragile body, bloodied and broken. She wouldn't have stood a chance against them.
But it wasn't Charlotte's body he found. It was Freddie's. The vultures hadn't quite finished with his face. One of his eyes stared blindly at the sky.
Sid cupped his hands around his mouth. "India!" he shouted, spinning around in a circle. "Charlotte!" He got no reply. He did it again and again. Still nothing.
He got back on his horse and rode out from the kill in widening circles, his eyes scanning the grass for bodies, blood, anything.
Where were they? Bodies didn't just disappear. Hyenas tore them to pieces. They dragged them, shook them. There were always traces-- flattened grass, smears of blood, scraps of clothing. How could there be nothing?
"Where are they, Lytton?" he yelled, an edge of hysteria in his voice. "You bastard! You fucking bastard! Where the hell are they?"
He finally found a second horse, dead, about twenty yards away from the pony, and then he saw a third--alive and standing in some tall brush, on top of another hill, about a hundred yards away. It took him the better part of an hour to cajole the frightened animal to him, but he finally did, with soft words and oats, tying its reins to the saddle of his own horse. He rode in circles again and again, but he found nothing.
"Where are you?" he shouted, his desperation growing.
And then he saw it, grass broken and flattened by riders. He was back on his horse in seconds, following the trail. He rode for hours and hours, calling out as he rode, looking for more signs, but just before noon the trail ended, and still he had nothing. No trace of them.
Looking around, he saw a hill about half a mile away. He rode to the top of it, then took out his field glasses to see if he could spot any movement. Any animals. The white of a woman's blouse. Charlotte's blond hair. Anything. He took his time, careful to inspect every inch of the landscape.
He kept looking, kept hoping against hope, but he saw only hills, brush, and grass. He had nearly completed a full sweep of the area when something glinted at him. He squinted against the brightness. A watering hole, he thought. The sun was directly overhead; its rays must be reflecting off it. He looked away, but something pulled his eyes back to the glinting. It was about a mile due east of where he was.
"If that's a watering hole, it's the smallest one in all of Africa," he said to himself. There was no mud around it. No ruts and gouges in the earth from claws and hooves. But there was something near it... it looked like a shadow on the grass. A large, circular shadow. The only thing was, there was nothing nearby to cast that shadow.
"It's a game pit," he said. "They've fallen into a game pit."
Seconds later he was racing down the hill toward it. He lashed his horse mercilessly, shouted at it to go faster.
"Please, please let them be all right," he begged.
He pulled up on the reins a few yards from the pit, jumping off the horse before it had stopped, stumbling to the edge.
"India!" he shouted. "Charlotte! Are you in there?"
He saw two bodies at the bottom of the pit, a woman's and a girl's. The woman was lying motionless. The little girl was sitting up, cradling the woman's head in her lap.
"India... oh, God, no. Charlotte! Charlotte, can you hear me?"
The little girl lifted her dirty, tear-streaked face. "Mr. Baxter," she said weakly, blinking in the sun. Then she turned and gently touched her mother's cheek. "Mummy, wake up. It's Mr. Baxter. He's come for us. I knew he would. Mummy, please wake up."
Chapter 129
India had died.
She knew she had. The thirst had driven her mad, and then it had
killed her. She had fought to hang on for Charlotte's sake, but she'd lost the battle.
Wish was with her now. He silently pressed her hand between his. It was hard for him to talk with half of his face gone. Hugh was here, too. He put the pair of dragonfly combs into her hands and folded her fingers closed over them. He'd told her he loved her, but others did, too, and she must stay with them.
"Open your eyes, India," he said.
She'd tried, but it was so hard. Her lids were so heavy. Her body was so tired. She could feel her heart, struggling to beat. Her lungs, straining to draw air and push it out again.
"India, please, please open your eyes."
A different voice now. Not Hugh's. She tried again to do what the voice wanted. And this time she succeeded. She didn't know where she was, but she could see flames. She saw their orange glow, felt their heat. I'm in hell, she thought. No, I can't be. I've been there already. Hell is the pit where I died. With Charlotte.
Charlotte.
India felt her blood surge through her veins at the thought of her child. Where is she? Where is my daughter? She swallowed and tried to speak, but her tongue felt thick, her throat rusty.
"Charlotte..." she rasped, struggling to sit up. A searing pain shot through her skull, blurring her vision. She sank down again, overcome by dizziness and nausea. "Charlotte, answer me," she whispered. "Please answer me."
She felt a hand on her brow, heard a voice. "Shh, India. Charlotte's fine," a voice said. "She's here. She's asleep."
India suddenly knew the voice. "Sid...is that you?" She could barely see him. Her eyes wouldn't work properly.
"Yes, it's me," he said. She felt his hands on her. He gently raised her up and held a canteen to her lips. She drank, then asked for more.
"Let that settle."
"You're dead, then. They hanged you," she said, her voice like sandpaper. "I ...I tried to stop them. I tried..."
"India..."
"Is this heaven, this place? It must be if you and Charlotte are here."
"India, listen to me. You've had a terrible time of it. You were unconscious when I found you. I nearly lost you on the way here. Please don't die on me, India. Please, please don't die."
"Where is here?"
"A campsite. By a river."
A river. The river they'd passed by with Freddie. Fear jolted through her. "Go, Sid! Run! Freddie ...he'll kill you. He's killed people...."
"India, lie down."
"But Freddie..."
Sid pressed a spoon to her lips. A bitter-tasting fluid trickled down her throat.
"No!" she cried, fighting it. "No laudanum! We have to run."
"India, lie still! You have to rest now. I'm going to take you back to the house. You need a doctor."
India tried to get up again, but the drug made her dizzy. She lay back and wept.
"I used to be a doctor," she said, her voice breaking. "I used to have a child. She was your child, Sid. I've lost her now. I've lost you. I've lost everything... everything."
"Nothing's lost, India. Nothing. You'll be a doctor again if you want. You'll begin again. We'll begin again, all three of us. Where the world begins again."
India didn't understand. She was so tired. The man speaking sounded so far away; his words made no sense. Nothing did. It was a dream. All of it. Only a dream. She closed her eyes and fell into a deep and deathlike sleep.
Chapter 130
India smelled roses. Their warm, spicy scent delighted her.
Roses? How can that be? she wondered. The last things she had smelled were dirt and blood, fear and despair.
She opened her eyes. A vase of flawless ivory blooms stood on her night table.
"Do you like them, Mummy?" a little voice piped up.
It was Charlotte. She was sitting on the edge of a chair by the window, grinning.
"I picked them for you. They've only just bloomed. Joseph says that Lady Wilton calls them her winter roses. Because of the color. Oh, Mummy, I'm ever so glad you're awake!"
And then she was out of her chair, and across the room, and her arms were around India's neck.
"Darling Charlotte," India said. "You're alive, you're all right." She held her tightly; her tears--of joy and gratitude--fell on Charlotte's neck. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
After a few minutes India released her. Charlotte helped her sit up and she realized she was back in her bedroom at the Wiltons' house. "How did we get here?" she asked.
"Mr. Baxter brought us."
Sid. Sid had come for them. It was his arms she'd felt around her. His voice she'd heard. It hadn't been a dream.
"He found us, Mummy, just as I said he would. He pulled me out with a rope. He had to get in the pit himself to get you out. He made a harness, and he and I got the horses to pull you up. He took care of us and brought us back here."
Winter Rose, The Page 92
