She and Hers

8 - Originals

Chaira 

While I rant, the apparitions are arguing, dragging Alse toward the old Town Green. With a frustrated huff, I start to hurry after them, teetering in the soft, wet grass on my weak legs. Sam easily catches up and wraps a thick, muscled arm around my waist. It’s a little like a macabre dance, with me leading even as I lean on Sam’s strength.

“Talk to us, baby,” Sam reminds me yet again.

“They’re taking Alse to the Green for her trial. The old Town Hall. It’s a church now. They moved its location, too, but the apparitions are going to the old spot.”

“Can we follow them or are there rules for… shows?” Devel asks.

I glance at him. “We can’t follow. The show will dissolve away if we try to leave this field. This is all new. No one ever saw Alse before,” I say in a near shout. I can feel my hysteria rising. “No one ever saw anything but John and the girl in the cellar!”

“You saw a girl in the cellar?” Sam asks.

I clamp my lips shut to keep from shrieking and nod, not wanting to put into words the terrible scene of anguish and fear that has played out over and over for four hundred years. Gods, how I hate haunts. I hate this entire scene, this mystery of Alse and how… how… did she truly escape? Blood and bone magic in her hair. She probably brushed her hair every day, possibly for weeks. What was she doing? Eternal youth? Power? 

“Yes,” I finally muster a verbal response. “She’s there. Every time. Trapped, tied to the chair.”

“Where is John?” Devel asks.

“Not outside, yet,” I reply, glancing around. “Only the other men and Alse are here. Maybe John is with the girl in the cellar?”

“Did the girl in the cellar survive this night?” Devel asks.

“I believe so,” I reply.

“You believe so?” Devel’s voice is harsh.

“Yes!” I snap, feeling utterly affronted at the questions but knowing that he’s not being unreasonable, damnit. Damnit!

“Love,” Sam moves closer, cradling my body. “Are you sure you know which ghost is in the cellar?”

I look up at him, confused, but no longer angry. My mind is whirling. I think about my response before carefully saying, “the assumption has always been that the girl in the cellar is the younger one,  the one who survived, but what do we know, really?”

“How culpable was John in all this?” Devel mutters.

“He was ensorcelled,” I reply. “He wasn’t at fault.” It’s growing colder. The moon is higher in the sky, the round, white orb nearly full.

“The Alice we apprehended committed several of her crimes with and for the males in her life,” Devel replies. “Only a few may have been spelled, and it’s questionable if they were. She’s a hungry whore, and that’s not misogyny speaking, either, ma’am.”

I wrinkle my nose at both his cursing and at being ma’amed by a man my age, but at least he’s being more polite and, dare I say, civilized. Then, his words sink in. Gods. I look back at the cabin with new eyes. “There’s no reason to think that John was culpable in Alse’s crimes.”

“Except it’s hard to hide anything in the cabin, even with magic.  It’s tiny, two rooms, no doors, wide plank flooring with gaps large enough to fit a pencil through. There was a cot down in that root cellar. A semi-permanent place to sleep, at least,” Devel points out. “And you can’t be sure which girl was down there. One of them dies, right? Was she clothed? Hurt? Did she have bruises or marks consistent with prolonged abuse?”