The Devil's Surrogate (16 page)

Harriet bowed
her head, closing her eyes to fight back tears imagining the scene
after they cut down her dead body, stripped away the terrible
bridle and mask, and revealed her true identity. She prayed Thomas
would not be there when the moment came, for she could imagine the
guilt he would feel and how he would berate himself for not
realising she had been so close all along. He would doubtless shed
tears, beat his breast, and possibly even try to avenge her death.
He would perhaps even forfeit his own life in doing so, for there
would be those who would seek to protect the vile witchfinder and
his perverted view of religion. But what was even worse was that
Thomas Handiwell would probably, almost certainly, never know that
the person most guilty for all of this was his own daughter.

The fleeing
bird-girl really had no chance. The clinking of her nipple bells
heralded her approach, so Jane was able to stand and listen long
enough to determine that her prey was moving at a fast walk. Oona
began growling as he picked up the sounds and the scent, but a
sharp tap from the cane silenced her.

'Wait!' Jane
commanded in a fierce whisper. 'Let's at least make some sport of
this!'

Oona gave a
final whimper and then crouched tensely, the firm muscles of her
buttocks twitching as Jane grasped her collar firmly to make sure
she could not move until the precise moment.

A second or
two later the bird-girl came into view only a few yards away, but
she was looking neither to left nor right; she was ambling along
with a laboured, rolling gait, panting noisily, clearly
struggling.

Jane made a
face, a look of disappointment, for she had wanted her prey tired,
but this one looked to be on the verge of collapse. 'Well,' she
whispered, her mouth close to Oona's ear, 'let's see if the bird
bitch has anything left in her, shall we?' She stood upright again
and yelled at the top of her voice, 'Ho-la! Ho-la! Ho, there!'

The sudden
shout totally startled the girl. She stumbled, jerking her head
around in the direction of the challenge. Her eyes widening in
horror when she saw both the black-garbed Jane and the bristling
dog-girl, she took off with renewed vigour.

'That's more
like it!' Jane cried triumphantly. Oona pulled hard on the leash
and all but toppled her, forcing her to use the cane to check her.
'Wait,' she shrieked. 'Give her a sporting start first. You'll have
her down in no time.'

Jane waited
until the fleeing mass of flapping feathers had gained about thirty
yards before she released her human hound with a cry of
encouragement. Oona needed no urging and was off in a flash,
running with a loping stride that ate up the ground between herself
and her prey at an astonishing rate.

The girl,
hearing her nemesis closing upon her, looked back once, her eyes
round with terror and desperation, and Jane, who was now trotting
along in their wake, saw that she did indeed manage to accelerate
just a little, but not enough, and it was far too late. Oona
suddenly leapt, stretching out horizontally, her clawed hands
grasping. The girl gave a shriek of pain as the sharp metal scraped
down her thighs, and then she fell, tumbling over and over with a
snarling Oona wrestling and kicking her down.

For a few more
seconds the poor wench tried to put up a fight, but then she
plainly realised it was a completely unequal struggle, and rolling
over onto her stomach, she lay still. Oona perched on her back in
an attitude of triumph, her claws settling into her victim's
shoulders in case she should decide to try another escape.

'Well done,
Oona, you beautiful bitch.' Jane ran up alongside her. 'A shame she
didn't give you more of a run, but I daresay there will be a chance
for you to catch another bird before this afternoon is over.' She
reached into the small pouch at her belt and drew out a coil of
thin twine. 'We'll just truss her ready for the stuffing at table
and leave her for the grooms to collect later.' Oona let out a
plaintive whine. 'But not before you have her for stuffing
yourself,' Jane added, smiling. She stepped back and flicked the
ground with the tip of her cane. 'Go to it then,' she urged, 'see
her off, you wicked bitch- dog.'

Oona crawled
from the prone figure and deftly flipped her onto her back. The
girl was conscious and aware enough, but all the fight had gone out
of her and even the sight of Oona's member beginning to appear from
between her nether lips did no more than bring a strangled gasp
from behind her gag.

'Here, girl,'
Jane said, stooping beside Oona. She reached beneath her and took
the steadily thickening shaft in her gloved hand, masturbating it
gently, something she would never have done with a normal man's
organ. Oona let out a curious purring growl and began to pant. 'Now
then,' Jane said, feeling the full hardness in her fingers, 'I
should say you're near enough ready, so I'll just take this strap
out of your way and you can fill her to your little black
doggie-heart's content.'

Sarah had
guessed Ross's intentions from the way in which he secured her on
the thick shaft, but she was totally unprepared for the way in
which her body reacted to the stimulation caused by the way she
bucked and writhed beneath the slow, steady whipping. With the
phallic gag preventing her from moving her head and neck, her
instinctive reaction to each stroke was to arch her back in and
out, an exercise which lifted her weight, and then down again, so
that now she rode the dildo in rhythm with his lashes.

Whack!
The leather tails coiled about
her protruding buttocks and thighs, and her feet flailed hopelessly
just above the ground as another howl of pain, mixed with an
insidious, unbidden pleasure, forced its way past her distorted
lips.

Whack!
The braids stung her calf
muscles, sending her legs shooting outwards. The board that held
her wrists slid up and down the pole as she fought to try to regain
control of herself, but it was already a lost battle.

'Dance, my
pretty pet,' Ross bellowed. 'Dance like a butterfly and show your
master just what a brazen little slave slut you're becoming.'

Whack!
The leather slapped across her
shoulders. Unable to see clearly beyond a red mist in which danced
a myriad of startling lights, Sarah screamed through her gag and
surrendered to the unreal world clutching at her. The pain vanished
into the strange ether in which she swam, and was replaced by a
burning fire of passion and desire that drove her on through a
grotesque ballet she performed like a helpless marionette. She knew
nothing, felt nothing and cared for nothing save filling the
inhuman hunger boiling up inside her from mysterious depths of her
flesh she had never even suspected existed.

The terrible
wailing sound they had first heard about a hundred yards back in
the woods was much louder now, and as he peered through the bushes,
Paddy Riley realised it was coming from inside the timbered
building that stood in the centre of the small clearing before
them. Behind him, there was a rustling and cracking of dry twigs as
Sean Kelly wriggled up to join him.

'Will you
listen to that?' Kelly gasped. 'Have you ever heard the likes of
that before? Sounds like someone's torturing some poor bloody
animal to death in there!' As he spoke they heard the sharp thwack
of a whiplash, and the keening wail rose to a new crescendo.

'Animal my
balls,' Paddy grunted. 'Ain't no animal in there, saving you mean a
human one.'

'Never could
it be,' Kelly hissed. 'No human could be making a racket of that
kind.'

'I tell you it
is,' Paddy persisted. 'That's some poor female making the devil's
own, and taking it too.' The crack of the whip cut through the
still afternoon air again. The howling rose in pitch and hung as if
suspended above the trees.

'What are we
going to do?' Kelly demanded. His face had taken on a grey pallor
and his knuckles were white from how fiercely he was gripping the
stock of his musket. The howl ebbed and flowed, becoming a choking
sob that was again followed by another crack of the whip, and a
renewed shrieking that threatened to make them all sick to their
stomachs.

Paddy sighed and reached for the long knife he always carried
slung from his belt. 'Do?' he echoed, his voice sounding dull,
almost inhuman. 'There's only one thing we
can
do, unless you think we can just
sit here listening to that, or just up and walk away.'

Crouched down
in the centre of a circle of bushes, Isobel was beginning to doubt
her senses. Time seemed to have stopped, for she was sure the hour
must have elapsed by now and yet there was still no sound from the
bell-tower bell. The slightest sound, muffled by the soft leather
of the helmet pressing against her ears, sent her heart leaping
into her throat as she feared imminent discovery, but each time she
realised it was only a bird, or a small animal scurrying through
the undergrowth.

The sound of
her breathing seemed magnified tenfold, the pounding of her heart
an ominous echo, and her smallest movement seemed to set off a
cacophony of bells that she was convinced could be heard for miles
around. In her head pictures swirled around in a kaleidoscope of
bared teeth and brown arms tipped with glittering claws surrounded
by grinning faces, Roderick Grayling's and Guy Bressingham's
mocking visages glorying in her failure.

Isobel shook
her head. This was foolishness, she told herself firmly. She had
gone to ground some time since, and she was as far away from the
likely hunting area as it was possible to be without actually
venturing towards the cleared areas along the perimeter of the
fence. She was also well hidden; six or seven feet of thick foliage
surrounded her on all sides, thoroughly screening her from anyone
passing within even a few paces of her hiding place.

She eased
herself slowly around into a sitting position, taking great care to
ensure that her breasts did not bounce with the movement, trying to
reassure herself that it could now only be a matter of minutes
before her wager was won. She peered down at the bright ribbon
between her nipple rings. It had to be Bressingham who caught her,
which must surely have tipped the odds heavily in her favour.
Perhaps, she reflected, she should have cut westwards and crossed
into the territory where the other bird-girls were being hunted;
that might well have confused the issue considerably and left
Bressingham scouring a totally empty section of the forest.

It was too
late now, however, and she must surely be within touching distance
of victory. She held her breath and willed her heart to beat
silently as she closed her eyes to concentrate on listening...

The afternoon
breeze had picked up, the leaves rustling gently beneath a wind
blowing from several different directions, and she could hear birds
as they chirped away. Apart from that, there was nothing but
silence... a silence suddenly punctuated by the mournful and
toneless tolling of a bell that sent a shiver of fear through her
until she realised what it meant. Her heart leapt as she jumped to
her feet, and but for the gag in her mouth she would have cried out
in triumph.

She had won!
The hour was up, and she was still free! Bressingham had failed and
she could now return to the house in triumph and collect her money
from all those who had looked upon her so mockingly as she was led
out and herded together with the other bird-girls.

With a deep
sigh of relief, Isobel stooped again and began to push her way
through the tangle of branches, not caring that they dragged the
feathers from her bedraggled wings. She was already counting her
winnings and rehearsing the way in which she would verbally repay
all those fools for ever doubting her.

The sight that
greeted the two troopers as they entered the last chamber inside
the barn brought them up with a shock. Only the fact that the man
with the whip was wielding it with so much concentrated attention
allowed them the extra seconds they needed to recover their
composure, and to leap upon him before he had time to register
their presence. As Sean Kelly took him into a fierce body hug,
Paddy drove the butt of his musket into the pit of the fellow's
stomach, driving the breath out of him, and then clubbed him
unconscious with another fierce blow to the side of his head.

To their
further astonishment, the naked girl clinging to the post continued
to let out a high-pitched wail, and all the while her body jerked
up and down, her breasts bouncing and her legs flailing. For a
moment none of the men realised what was happening. It was Sean who
finally saw the projecting stud and its vertical extension, or at
least the small part of it not embedded within her.

'Mother of
God!' he breathed, and quickly crossed himself. 'The lass is
friggin' a bloody pole!'

'Just grab her
shoulders,' Paddy snapped, promptly stepping forward. 'Hold her
tight and I'll get a hold under her. If she keeps this up she'll do
herself some harm.'

However, once
he had unfastened the straps holding her mouth open around the gag,
the only danger of harm came from the girl's wild kicking. Even
when they had finally managed to lift her clear of the pole, she
continued to writhe in their grasp like a demented serpent. Only
the fact that her wrists were still held firm inside the miniature
pillory bar prevented her from doing them some real damage. And
then, abruptly, her fit subsided, and with a despairing groan she
sagged in their arms, her knees buckling. At this, Paddy promptly
transferred his attention to freeing her arms. Quickly finding and
working out the simple locking mechanism, he opened the bar. They
then carried her clear of the post and laid her across the hard
earth floor as gently as her twitching and jerking permitted.
Looking up, Paddy saw young Toby Blaine standing in the doorway,
his eyes wide.