“You’ve tasted blood, my braves, though it’s not Logie’s. And the taste of blood makes men even out of such poor stuff as you.”
They growled at her, but Hardcastle knew that she had them at her bidding—knew, too, that she meant each word to reach the darkness of his prison, for sapping of his courage.
“D’ye think he of Logie is built of magic, instead of flesh and sinew? Is he a giant too big for all Garsykes to keep in a cave, once they’ve got him there?”
She mocked them, cajoled, tempted what red blood they shared between them to mount to fever heat; and Hardcastle, listening, admitted grimly that her tongue was a she-devil’s.
“Ten failed me, and they’ll walk Garsykes street no more. They lost you the sport I promised—but we still have Hardcastle.”
“And his wanton,” hiccoughed a rough voice.
“Long Murgatroyd spoke there,” muttered Hardcastle, with still remembrance of meetings they had shared.
“And his wanton.” Nita’s laugh was soft and girlish. “It was not the honeymoon I’d planned, but it does well enough. We shall keep them there till the ghosts drive them mad—or till thirst and hunger teach them what a little thing love is. And their flesh will rot, Garsykes Men, till the water drips on their bare bones at last. And so much for Logie.”
“I cannot bear it, Dick,” pleaded Causleen. “She is so evil—so evil—and God does not strike her down.”
“Are you ready, child?” asked Hardcastle, with great gentleness.