to what he had come
for. He removed her flannel knickers and black woollen stockings. He had already disregarded her boots and straw bonnet.
Before slitting her throat, they had been intimate; but only briefly. He hadn’t been interested in her for that; the
sex part never really interested him. He wanted something else altogether. The thirst was bad tonight, like he had swallowed
a red-hot poker. He knew her blood would soothe the fire that raged in his throat and out across his chest like fingers coated
with lava.
Taking her clothes, he folded them into a neat pile and placed them against the wall of the outhouse. It was dark, but he
could see clearly – he could see everything. The dark was good. He liked the way it seemed to wrap itself around him
like another layer of skin. With his legs crossed, he sat beside the woman and looked at her naked corpse. He touched her
breasts with the tips of his long, white, bony claws, and shuddered at the warmth that still radiated from her. She had yet
to turn cold. Taking one of her hands in his, he raised it to his mouth. He traced the tip of her forefinger over his lips
and sighed deeply. The smell of her skin was wonderful – intoxicating. It made that feeling of burning within him seethe
all the more fiercely. Although it was agony, it somehow brought him pleasure and he wanted to make it last for as long as
he could, because he knew once he started, it would be over all too soon.
Unable to resist any longer, he sliced through the soft tissue of her finger with his fangs, then through the knuckle, as
easily as if it were made of matchwood. The crunching noise coming from his jaws sounded as if he were chewing on broken glass.
The skin and bone were just waste to him, it was the blood he wanted, and he sucked on the end of her finger like a straw.
The blood gushed into his mouth, and he gulped it down, that burning feeling in his throat and chest fading away. But not
fast enough.
Using his claws, he drew one of his hooked nails down the length of her body from her breastplate to her pelvic bone. Peeling
her open, he removed her intestines, placing them on the dusty floor just above her right shoulder. The entrails glistened
like a nest of oily snakes. His hands were hot and sticky with blood and he licked them clean – slowly, his white eyes
rolling all the way back into his skull.
Then, tightening his apron, he set about gorging himself until he could eat no more.
Chapter Sixteen
I woke with a start. Sweat covered me and I looked about the room, not knowing who or where I was. Sunlight poured through
a narrow gap in the curtains hanging at the window. I held the rough, woven blanket which covered me about my shoulders and
climbed out of bed. At the window, I peeled back the curtains and peered out, and then I remembered. Seeing the dusty main
street below, with its wooden buildings and horses, soon reminded me I was in 1888. When was I going to wake back up in 2012?
When would I discover why I was here – that’s if, I really was?
Tethered to the rail below, stood the preacher’s horse along with the others’. They must have come back during
the night. I remembered spying on Louise as she had made her return alone, washing the blood from her hands in the drinking
trough. She had looked up, but had she seen me?
I went to the bathroom, peed, washed, and got dressed. I fixed the gun belt about my waist. There was a mirror attached to
the wall beside the bed and I looked at my reflection. What the fuck was I doing? Why was I dressed as a cowgirl? Why was
I carrying guns and a belt full of bullets? This wasn’t me – this wasn’t the Samantha Carter who had grown
up in London, studied criminology, who had had two loving parents who had died within a year of each other. The person looking
back at me wasn’t the Sammy who had shared a flat with a beautiful-looking nymphomaniac and had recently broken up with
a
for. He removed her flannel knickers and black woollen stockings. He had already disregarded her boots and straw bonnet.
Before slitting her throat, they had been intimate; but only briefly. He hadn’t been interested in her for that; the
sex part never really interested him. He wanted something else altogether. The thirst was bad tonight, like he had swallowed
a red-hot poker. He knew her blood would soothe the fire that raged in his throat and out across his chest like fingers coated
with lava.
Taking her clothes, he folded them into a neat pile and placed them against the wall of the outhouse. It was dark, but he
could see clearly – he could see everything. The dark was good. He liked the way it seemed to wrap itself around him
like another layer of skin. With his legs crossed, he sat beside the woman and looked at her naked corpse. He touched her
breasts with the tips of his long, white, bony claws, and shuddered at the warmth that still radiated from her. She had yet
to turn cold. Taking one of her hands in his, he raised it to his mouth. He traced the tip of her forefinger over his lips
and sighed deeply. The smell of her skin was wonderful – intoxicating. It made that feeling of burning within him seethe
all the more fiercely. Although it was agony, it somehow brought him pleasure and he wanted to make it last for as long as
he could, because he knew once he started, it would be over all too soon.
Unable to resist any longer, he sliced through the soft tissue of her finger with his fangs, then through the knuckle, as
easily as if it were made of matchwood. The crunching noise coming from his jaws sounded as if he were chewing on broken glass.
The skin and bone were just waste to him, it was the blood he wanted, and he sucked on the end of her finger like a straw.
The blood gushed into his mouth, and he gulped it down, that burning feeling in his throat and chest fading away. But not
fast enough.
Using his claws, he drew one of his hooked nails down the length of her body from her breastplate to her pelvic bone. Peeling
her open, he removed her intestines, placing them on the dusty floor just above her right shoulder. The entrails glistened
like a nest of oily snakes. His hands were hot and sticky with blood and he licked them clean – slowly, his white eyes
rolling all the way back into his skull.
Then, tightening his apron, he set about gorging himself until he could eat no more.
Chapter Sixteen
I woke with a start. Sweat covered me and I looked about the room, not knowing who or where I was. Sunlight poured through
a narrow gap in the curtains hanging at the window. I held the rough, woven blanket which covered me about my shoulders and
climbed out of bed. At the window, I peeled back the curtains and peered out, and then I remembered. Seeing the dusty main
street below, with its wooden buildings and horses, soon reminded me I was in 1888. When was I going to wake back up in 2012?
When would I discover why I was here – that’s if, I really was?
Tethered to the rail below, stood the preacher’s horse along with the others’. They must have come back during
the night. I remembered spying on Louise as she had made her return alone, washing the blood from her hands in the drinking
trough. She had looked up, but had she seen me?
I went to the bathroom, peed, washed, and got dressed. I fixed the gun belt about my waist. There was a mirror attached to
the wall beside the bed and I looked at my reflection. What the fuck was I doing? Why was I dressed as a cowgirl? Why was
I carrying guns and a belt full of bullets? This wasn’t me – this wasn’t the Samantha Carter who had grown
up in London, studied criminology, who had had two loving parents who had died within a year of each other. The person looking
back at me wasn’t the Sammy who had shared a flat with a beautiful-looking nymphomaniac and had recently broken up with
a
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