Lord John and the Hand of Devils by Diana Gabaldon Read Free Book Online

much as he dared dribble down his chin as he drank. Even so, he felt the dreamy tendrils of the drug steal through his mind, and his balance grew precarious, sending him lurching through the crowd, to the great hilarity of the robed onlookers.
    Hands took him by the elbows and propelled him down a corridor, and another, and another. A draft of warm air, and he found himself thrust through a door, which closed behind him.
    The chamber was small, furnished with nothing save a narrow couch against the far wall, and a table upon which stood a flagon, several glasses…and a knife. Grey staggered to the table, and braced himself with both hands to keep from falling.
    There was a strange smell in the room. At first he thought he had vomited, sickened by blood and wine, but then he saw the pool of it, across the room by the bed. It was only then that he saw the girl.
    She was young and naked and dead. Her body lay limp, sprawled white in the light, but her eyes were dull and her lips blue, the traces of sickness trailing down her face and across the bedclothes. Grey backed slowly away, shock washing the last remnants of the drug from his blood.
    He rubbed both hands hard across his face, striving to think. What was this, why was he here, with the body of this young woman? He brought himself to come closer, to look. She was no one he had seen before; the calluses upon her hands and the state of her feet marked her as a servant or a country girl.
    He turned sharply, went to the door. Locked, of course. But what was the point? He shook his head, his brain slowly clearing. Once clear, though, no answers came to mind. Blackmail, perhaps? It was true that Grey’s family had influence, though he himself possessed none. But how could his presence here be put to such use?
    It seemed he had spent forever in that buried room, pacing to and fro across the stone floor, until at last the door opened and a robed figure slipped through.
    “George!”
    “Bloody hell!” Ignoring Grey’s turn toward him, Everett crossed the room and stood staring down at the girl, brows knit in consternation. “What’s happened?” he demanded, swinging toward Grey.
    “You tell me. Or rather, let us leave this place, and then you tell me.”
    Everett put out a quelling hand, urging silence. He thought for a moment, and then seemed to reach some conclusion. A slow smile grew across his face.
    “Well enough,” he said softly, to himself. He turned and reached toward Grey’s waist, pulling loose the cord that bound the robe closed. Grey made no move to cover himself, though filled with astonishment at the gesture, given the circumstances.
    This astonishment was intensified in the next instant, as Everett bent over the bed and wrapped the cord round the neck of the dead woman, tugging hard to draw it tight, so the rope bit deep into flesh. He stood, smiled at Grey, then crossed to the table, where he poured two glasses of wine from the flagon.
    “Here.” He handed one to Grey. “Don’t worry, it’s not drugged. You aren’t drugged now, are you? No, I see not; I thought you hadn’t had enough.”
    “Tell me what is happening.” Grey took the glass, but made no move to drink. “Tell me, for God’s sake!”
    George smiled again, a queer look in his eyes, and picked up the knife. It was exotic in appearance; something Oriental, at least a foot long and wickedly sharp.
    “It is the common initiation of the brotherhood,” he said. “The new candidate, once approved, is baptized—it was pig’s blood, by the way—and then brought to this room, where a woman is provided for his pleasure. Once his lust is slaked, an older brother comes to instruct him in the final rite of his acceptance—and to witness it.”
    Grey raised a sleeve and wiped cold sweat and pig’s blood from his forehead.
    “And the nature of this final rite is—”
    “Sacrificial.” George nodded acknowledgment toward the blade. “The act not only completes the initiation, but also