Stand and Be Eaten

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Annabelle could not remember a time when she had felt more alone, more vulnerable. She was pressed back against the cave wall as Greyson advanced on her, feeling the damp coldness of it under her hands as she attempted to flatten herself into nothing. He had a dangerous glint in his eye, like a predator that had spotted a weak and injured rabbit.

"Maybe," he said, low and grating, licking his lips like the greasy, greedy pig that he was, "you ought to distribute more of your favours."

Her heart pounded, and her eyes darted about the cave, trying to seek some aid. None was coming. There was no footman standing outside that she could call to, no loyal retainer, not even her own maid. She was completely alone. In vain, she sought to make some kind of desperate eye contact with Wells, but Greyson was filling up the whole of her vision.

"Here, lads," he said jauntily, and tossed the small silver pin away to the waiting crowd of bandits. The blooms were nearly all gone from the repeated rough treatment, but a couple clung on stubbornly. One of the other highwaymen snatched it out of the air, and a small scuffle ensued as they all fought over the prize. "Methinks I'll be getting a better favour," Greyson leered.

Licking his dappled, peeling lips again, he was now close enough to lean over her. He braced himself on a hand on the cave wall near her head; with his other, he grasped the front of her gown. The stomacher was stiff and sturdy, but Annabelle still struggled to cover the place where the delicate silk had torn when her pin had been wrenched from it.

Arrogant and cruel in his certain power over her, Greyson gave her stomacher a tug, which pulled her off-balance from the force. He laughed, and she twisted her head away instinctively to avoid the smell of his sour, pungent breath. The entire cave seemed to be filled with the smell of man-sweat and grime, and it made her stomach roll. Greyson sharply tugged on the front of her bodice again, and this time there was a distinct sound of silk tearing. He turned to laugh with the others again, imagining himself to be invincible.

Since the cave was such a gaping, yawning area, sounds tended to echo and multiply. Therefore, when the bandits were all laughing, the sound grew far beyond what a scant dozen men should be able to produce. Some were doubled over, slapping their thighs; others had their arms about each other, supporting themselves and their comrades in a drunken stupor. It is somewhat excusable, then, given the rowdy nature of the assembly and the questionable acoustics that a small sound went relatively unnoticed by nearly all.

It was the sound of silk tearing.

No, that is not right: It was the sound of silk being shredded, rent down its base components. This was not a dainty tear like the one Greyson had inflicted on Annabelle's delicate pink gown–it was a violent, ripping noise. However, it was still lost in the louder sounds in the cavern. It was the other sounds that caused the laughter and jocularity to fizzle out, the mirth dying person-by-person.

Snapping, creaking, a low groaning began to fill the spaces between the chuckles and snorts. The unmistakable sound of more fabric tearing highlighted the oddness of the other noises. Greyson still had his back to Annabelle, revelling in the moment. A mocking sort of laughter still dribbled from his mouth, but was soon the only voice in the great cavern.

Like a herd of sheep, the other bandits were staring at him, eyes wide and mouths agape. They all seemed somehow to shift closer together, clumping up defensively. Greyson's own eyes narrowed, glaring at them. "What is the matter wi' all of you?" he demanded.

No one moved. No one spoke. The only sound was the steady drip-drip-drip from the cavern roof, and a lower sound, like a great hound was breathing hard. A great puff of warm, foul air washed over the back of Greyson's neck, dislodging his hat and sending it tumbling to the ground.