“What is the meaning of this?” Corabeth heard the Village Elder ask, relief momentarily flooding her. But before she knew what was happening, Turner grabbed her, positioned himselfbetween her and the Village Elder, and delivered a punch to her stomach so powerful, it knocked the final air out of her.
“Keep your mouth shut,” he hissed into her ear. Then he let her crumple to the ground.
“Corabeth seduced my brother and lured him into the shadows,” Turner said too loudly, stepping away from her. “It’s a good thing I found them before it was too late. Isn’t that right, brother?” He slapped Ely on the back, who was nodding frantically, eyes downcast, retying his trousers.
Together, they stepped out onto the street to join their father, leaving Corabeth to gasp for air in the mud. She could only shake her head, vision swimming in tears, because try as she might, she wasn’t able to draw breath, to speak a single word.
Village Elder Hyram Fabel, his bushy gray brows drawn together in a frown, looked from his sons to Corabeth, to the people who had now started to gather due to the commotion. There was anger in his eyes as he looked at Turner, and for a moment, she thought he might scold his son for the blatant lie. But he simply shook his head, a gesture so small it might have gone unnoticed if Corabeth’s eyes hadn’t been trained on him. Then he turned his cold gaze on her. She saw it then—the look of a man who knew the truth and decided to ignore it.
“Harlot!” he shouted as Corabeth drew her first ragged breath in what seemed like forever. “You tempt innocent men to join you on the path of the sinners. Look at her!”
There was a low murmur amongst the crowd.
“The miserable creature is trying to hitch herself onto a man to leech off of!”
How easily she was reduced from a human, their neighbor, to nothing but a lowly creature.
Some villagers still hesitated, giving each other wary looks from the corners of their eyes. No one dared to be the first, but everyone was eager to follow lead.
Hyram Fabel, seeing the hesitation, narrowed his eyes. “Would you want your own sons attached to this wretched thing? See how she wallows in the filth like the serpent she is!” the Village Elder continued, his voice growing louder, cutting through the murmurs like a blade. “She soils our village, our name, and the purity of our sons! Her mother was the true curse upon our village, and now she walks in her steps!”
The murmurs grew louder, some voices rising in agreement. A few in the crowd began to shift uncomfortably, but most leaned in, their faces painted with the thrill of righteous indignation. Behind the adults, Corabeth saw the figures of four small boys.
She drew another breath, the air coming easier now, preparing to protest.
“Harlot!” someone shouted from the crowd.
“Tramp!” cried another.
“No, they cornered me,” Corabeth cried out, but her voice was nothing but a whisper in the sea of shouts. The anger of the crowd stung like a bee. Did they truly hate her so?
“We should leave her to the Beast! Perhaps he would leave us be then,” clamored Turner, his voice rising high above the others. He crossed his arms as he watched Corabeth with a satisfied smirk, raising his chin just a little higher. The crowd grew louder and louder.
As she looked at the people she knew, had grown up with, she was met with nothing but disdain. Upturned noses, grimaces, features marred by anger. And amongst the crowd, she spotted Giles. It was the cruelty in the eyes of the twelve-year-old boy that truly sent chills down Corabeth’s back. As if he didn’t have a care in the world, Giles tossed a fist-sized rock into the air and caught it again. The younger boys behind him did the same.
Enough of this, Corabeth thought, and finally went to stand up. That’s when the first lob of mud hit her, cold and hard. Once,she had shielded her mother from such an onslaught. There was no one to do the same for her.
The muck hit her already dirty dress, her ripped bodice, her arms. Corabeth turned her head this way and that to avoid it getting into her eyes. Then, blinding pain as something solid hit the side of her head. A hush fell over the crowd.
Her vision doubled, threatened to go black, but she blinked and pushed herself to her feet. The world suddenly seemed far away. Like it was behind a glass that she could not break through.
“What is going on here?” a new male voice called. Through the haze, Corabeth recognized the Marshal, his ginger hair and dark blue uniform jacket a familiar sight. He came running, his horrified gaze jumping from the crowd to her. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
“Corabeth was caught seducing the Village Elder’s son,” someone called.
The Marshal raised a hand to silence the crowd, his stern gaze sweeping over them. “Enough,” he barked, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “You call this justice? A girl, beaten and humiliated in the mud? You should all be ashamed.”
His eyes lingered on the younger boys, Giles and his friends, who immediately dropped their rocks and shuffled on their feet. Then, his gaze snapped to the Village Elder.
“Elder Fabel,” the Marshal said, his voice colder now, “you’re meant to be the voice of wisdom in this village, and yet you stand here and let this happen?”
Elder Fabel straightened, his expression unreadable. “She seduced my son,” he said flatly, crossing his arms. “This is the result of her wickedness.”
The Marshal’s jaw tightened. “If there’s been a crime, it is my job to see justice done, not a mob of children and fools!” He turned back to the crowd, his voice rising. “On your way now! Asif we don’t have enough to do with the Night of the Beast almost upon us.”
As if on cue, the bells in the distance started ringing.
In an instant, the villagers forgot all about Corabeth and hurried away, branching off in different directions. The bells signaled the approaching sundown. Already, the shadows had started to deepen. And everyone knew the shadows brought the Beast.
