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Marguerite was dreaming again. She was home in London, greeting her friends. The band struck up a song, but there was such low mumbling! She felt a hand upon her shoulder and instantly knew it was Roxton. Smiling, he clasped her for a waltz, but something seemed off about his body frame. His mouth suddenly bent low to her ear. "Mine…" he whispered hoarsely. Pulling back, she saw a man greeting her with eyes of ice.
Her entire body bolted upward as she felt cool, damp sweat breaking out on her lower back. Her hand went to her flushed face, and she groaned dizzily at the rush she was beginning to feel. Eyes dilating to the darkness of the camp, she raised her cautious orbs to look about. Marguerite's eyes first flew to the motionless form of Roxton laying face up, and then to the huddled, older woman near the weak fire. She went for her gun, but found she couldn't lift it. She reached out to nudge Challenger, but all she received was a murmuring and swat on her hand for her trouble.
"I don't think either one of them will wake very soon, my dear girl," the woman's dry voice sifted through the night. Marguerite whirled at her, and went to move. The woman's dark brown eyes fixated on her even through the dim light, and Marguerite found herself frozen.
"What have you done to them? To me?" she questioned angrily, wishing to God Roxton was still semi-conscious. The woman gave a delighted chuckle, and suddenly pulled out a knife. She hobbled over to Marguerite and the knife flashed down, Marguerite's scream sounding through the air.
"Whatever I wish!" she answered in a joyous tone, holding the lock of hair she had cut. Marguerite's hand went to her hair as she struggled to contain her fear. "Desecrate my ancestors', will you?"
"What? No! We're just passing through this godforsaken land," Marguerite protested. The woman gave a shriek.
"Liar! You and that man threw the bones of a dead one to the side, and you lay upon holy soil! You both cavorting about like rutting animals. And the red haired man, taking a bone of my people's ancestors. Oh, how you will pay," she roared, mumbling to herself. She began to hum to herself, her hands outspread over the dying fire. "Pay, Pay…" she began to chant. "Act like the animals, become the animals!" she suddenly yelled exuberantly, looking at the frozen Marguerite, her fingers sprinkling the other woman's lock of hair into a bowl, followed by a scrap of Challenger's tan jacket and a black lock of Roxton's hair. Marguerite watched with fright as the old woman suddenly grabbed Roxton and poured the hot liquid down his throat, forcing him to swallow it. She splashed it upon Challenger vigorously, and then began to hobble over to her again.
"You get that pig slop away from me!" Marguerite snapped even as her hair was yanked back again. She felt the rich fluid flowing down her throat before she could think of rejecting it, and she swallowed involuntarily. The woman hovered over her, giggling madly when Marguerite's eyes began to cloud over, her head shaking as she struggled to gain her bearings. She could only feel the woman around her, her eyes constantly switching from a sharp image to a fuzzy image. She felt gnarled hands running through her hair almost mothering her. "What have you done to me?" she breathed out, breathing harsh. The woman gave a shrug, moving to where she had come in.
"Think." Marguerite frowned at that from where she sat, and she felt harsh, clear images ringing into her head. Of the barbs she and Roxton had traded… So says the wolf to the sheep…we have someone that is a more dangerous predator then them… slowly the image switched to her and Roxton kissing on the ground, and Challenger tucking a piece of bone in his breast pocket. Dangers…fear…hunt… began ringing into her mind, as if the old woman was chanting again. Marguerite slowly felt her muscles becoming unfrozen as her mind cleared and her eyes sharpened. Suddenly, she felt every muscle move with a speed foreign to her. Her hands seemed to react without thought as they caught the older woman by the ankle. The woman cast a disgusted look down at her, before smiling with malice. "I think it would be wise if you ran," she whispered, suddenly moving off and fading into the night.
Marguerite stood, her face a paler colour, lean frame moving to Challenger with quiet steps that disguised her naked fear. Slowly, she withdrew his pistol, acting as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Her breath was light, so light it seemed her body barely breathed. "Sorry, George," she whispered. Something was telling her to move quickly, out of pure fear to what might have happened to them all. Slowly, she crept beside Roxton, where she could see the faint bruise were the old woman's staff had struck his head. She bent and kissed him lightly on his forehead. Stiffening, she began to creep out, boots crunching the soil lightly.
Come to me…a voice whispered in her mind…Come to the forest…hunt….
Marguerite was dreaming again. She was home in London, greeting her friends. The band struck up a song, but there was such low mumbling! She felt a hand upon her shoulder and instantly knew it was Roxton. Smiling, he clasped her for a waltz, but something seemed off about his body frame. His mouth suddenly bent low to her ear. "Mine…" he whispered hoarsely. Pulling back, she saw a man greeting her with eyes of ice.
Her entire body bolted upward as she felt cool, damp sweat breaking out on her lower back. Her hand went to her flushed face, and she groaned dizzily at the rush she was beginning to feel. Eyes dilating to the darkness of the camp, she raised her cautious orbs to look about. Marguerite's eyes first flew to the motionless form of Roxton laying face up, and then to the huddled, older woman near the weak fire. She went for her gun, but found she couldn't lift it. She reached out to nudge Challenger, but all she received was a murmuring and swat on her hand for her trouble.
"I don't think either one of them will wake very soon, my dear girl," the woman's dry voice sifted through the night. Marguerite whirled at her, and went to move. The woman's dark brown eyes fixated on her even through the dim light, and Marguerite found herself frozen.
"What have you done to them? To me?" she questioned angrily, wishing to God Roxton was still semi-conscious. The woman gave a delighted chuckle, and suddenly pulled out a knife. She hobbled over to Marguerite and the knife flashed down, Marguerite's scream sounding through the air.
"Whatever I wish!" she answered in a joyous tone, holding the lock of hair she had cut. Marguerite's hand went to her hair as she struggled to contain her fear. "Desecrate my ancestors', will you?"
"What? No! We're just passing through this godforsaken land," Marguerite protested. The woman gave a shriek.
"Liar! You and that man threw the bones of a dead one to the side, and you lay upon holy soil! You both cavorting about like rutting animals. And the red haired man, taking a bone of my people's ancestors. Oh, how you will pay," she roared, mumbling to herself. She began to hum to herself, her hands outspread over the dying fire. "Pay, Pay…" she began to chant. "Act like the animals, become the animals!" she suddenly yelled exuberantly, looking at the frozen Marguerite, her fingers sprinkling the other woman's lock of hair into a bowl, followed by a scrap of Challenger's tan jacket and a black lock of Roxton's hair. Marguerite watched with fright as the old woman suddenly grabbed Roxton and poured the hot liquid down his throat, forcing him to swallow it. She splashed it upon Challenger vigorously, and then began to hobble over to her again.
"You get that pig slop away from me!" Marguerite snapped even as her hair was yanked back again. She felt the rich fluid flowing down her throat before she could think of rejecting it, and she swallowed involuntarily. The woman hovered over her, giggling madly when Marguerite's eyes began to cloud over, her head shaking as she struggled to gain her bearings. She could only feel the woman around her, her eyes constantly switching from a sharp image to a fuzzy image. She felt gnarled hands running through her hair almost mothering her. "What have you done to me?" she breathed out, breathing harsh. The woman gave a shrug, moving to where she had come in.
"Think." Marguerite frowned at that from where she sat, and she felt harsh, clear images ringing into her head. Of the barbs she and Roxton had traded… So says the wolf to the sheep…we have someone that is a more dangerous predator then them… slowly the image switched to her and Roxton kissing on the ground, and Challenger tucking a piece of bone in his breast pocket. Dangers…fear…hunt… began ringing into her mind, as if the old woman was chanting again. Marguerite slowly felt her muscles becoming unfrozen as her mind cleared and her eyes sharpened. Suddenly, she felt every muscle move with a speed foreign to her. Her hands seemed to react without thought as they caught the older woman by the ankle. The woman cast a disgusted look down at her, before smiling with malice. "I think it would be wise if you ran," she whispered, suddenly moving off and fading into the night.
Marguerite stood, her face a paler colour, lean frame moving to Challenger with quiet steps that disguised her naked fear. Slowly, she withdrew his pistol, acting as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Her breath was light, so light it seemed her body barely breathed. "Sorry, George," she whispered. Something was telling her to move quickly, out of pure fear to what might have happened to them all. Slowly, she crept beside Roxton, where she could see the faint bruise were the old woman's staff had struck his head. She bent and kissed him lightly on his forehead. Stiffening, she began to creep out, boots crunching the soil lightly.
Come to me…a voice whispered in her mind…Come to the forest…hunt….