Chapter 2
Two
Corabeth
The girl fell on all fours before she scrambled up again. Isamella, a girl of fifteen or sixteen, was the maid in the Village Elder Fabel’s household.
She stood, a cream-colored coif in her hands, and looked around with wild eyes, cheeks tear-stained.
She had always prided herself on her thick, long, copper hair, which she wore in two braids.
Now her braids had been cut unevenly, the strands unraveling as the girl’s head swiveled back and forth.
The bodice of her simple gray dress was ripped at the neckline, exposing too much of her skin, and she had to pull down her skirts where they had gotten stuck around her hips.
“Isamella, what…” Corabeth began, but her voice faded as two men stepped out of the same door.
Turner and Ely Fabel—the Village Elder’s sons.
Turner, the older one, had a satisfied smirk on his face as he stepped outside, still fastening his trousers.
In the naivety of youth, Corabeth had once found him handsome.
Had imagined her fingers running through his dark hair.
But that was before she had discovered the sharp cruelty that lied just below the surface of those features.
Ely, on the other hand, was perfectly average. He wasn’t handsome or tall or particularly smart, which left him often where he was now—keeping to his brother’s shadow.
Isamella hurried down the steps to the muddy road, as if repelled by their presence.
“Are you…” Corabeth tried again.
“Hold your tongue,” Isamella spat as she hurried past Corabeth, nothing but rage in her eyes.
Turner and Ely stood on the porch, backs straight and eyes cold, watching Isamella’s retreat. Then their gaze fell on Corabeth.
She straightened, dread gripping her heart, forced herself to look forward, and resumed her walk home. She didn’t see the way Turner nudged Ely’s side, and when his younger brother hesitated, shoved him to follow her.
“What have you got there?” Ely called and hurried after her.
“Flour,” Corabeth simply said and tried to pick up her pace. But the mud was thick, clinging to her feet, as if the very earth was trying to keep her in place.
“Here, let me help you. That looks heavy,” Ely said, glanced behind him somewhat warily, and reached for the sack of flour on her shoulder.
“No need, almost there,” Corabeth replied, sidestepping Ely so his hands grabbed only air.
“Don’t be proud, let me help,” Ely insisted. This time, she felt as he easily lifted the weight off her shoulder. It would have been a kind gesture if she hadn’t witnessed what she had. If Turner wasn’t trailing behind them.
“Thank you, but it’s really not necessary,” Corabeth said.
She grabbed the sack that now sat on Ely’s shoulder.
She prepared to pull with all her might, but she was no match for Ely’s strength, who was still taller than her.
Corabeth felt the rough fabric of the sack between her fingers and then nothing, as she lost her balance.
Feet stuck in the mud, the force of the pull knocked her back, and Corabeth landed on her behind.
“Oh no, look now what happened,” Turner said, coming up from behind, but there was no kindness in his voice. Dread made a nest in Corabeth’s chest.
Ely dropped the flour, leaning the sack against the side of a house that was already boarded up and closed.
The brothers stepped to either side of Corabeth and grabbed her arms to easily lift her up and out of the mud.
Looking down at her filthy hands, she took a few steps back to get out of the soft muck.
“Your pretty dress is all dirty now,” Turner commented, swatting at her skirts to flick the dirt off, coming unpleasantly close to her hips.
“I’m all right,” she assured, backing up further, out of the reach of the brothers’ hands. When she lifted her eyes, Corabeth realized with a sinking feeling that Turner and Ely had backed her into the shadows between two houses.
“I really must go now,” she insisted and went to sidestep Ely, but his arm shot out, bracing on the wall of the house, blocking her escape. When she looked at Turner, he simply shook his head with a smirk.
“Go on, Ely. It’s time for you to become a man. I’ll keep watch,” Turner said, not taking his eyes off Corabeth. His gaze slithered down her body in a way that made Corabeth sick to her stomach.
“Her?” Ely asked, hesitating for a moment.
“It doesn’t matter. A hole is a hole,” Turner said with a coldness that made Corabeth’s skin crawl. “Besides, if she tells someone, who would believe her?”
How many other girls had he done this to, Corabeth thought as a shiver ran down her spine. He sounded too brazen for it to be his first time.
“No!” Corabeth shouted and sprinted for the opening between the brothers, but Ely caught her easily.
He wrapped his arms around her slender body from behind, picked her up off the ground, and pushed her against the side of the house.
The wood was rough against Corabeth’s cheek, scraping her as she struggled.
“Hold her neck, like I told you,” Turner said in a hurried whisper and then retreated onto the road to keep watch. Just as he had promised.
Ely’s hand wrapped around Corabeth’s neck, restricting the blood and air flow, making it hard for her to even swallow.
“Hold still,” Ely ground out desperately through his teeth. “It will be over soon. I have to do this.”
But Corabeth did not hold still. She thrashed, trying to reach behind her, fighting to fend off her attacker.
She didn’t even have to make the decision to fight.
There was no time for that. Her body acted all on its own against the sudden assault, rage and fear and disgust fueling her wild flailing.
Small cries escaped her lips when Ely lost his grip on her throat momentarily.
Then his hand tightened again, muffling any sounds.
Corabeth felt him groping around her front, ripping down her bodice, grabbing at the soft flesh of her breasts.
The seconds slowed, each one holding an atrocious amount of horrors.
Corabeth thrashed, but her attempts were extinguished just as her strength slowly extinguished by each moment she couldn’t breathe.
She didn’t know if her limbs were growing cold from the lack of oxygen or the fear.
Ely focused his efforts somewhere behind her. On freeing himself from his trousers, she guessed, on frantically pulling up her skirts.
“Father is coming!” hissed Turner suddenly, appearing seemingly from nowhere and pulling Ely off her.
“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 himself between 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! As if 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.
Only the Marshal remained. He looked somewhat frantically towards the village as if being pulled by something, but turned back to Corabeth.
“Corabeth,” he said carefully, reaching out towards her. “Are you…”
“Go,” Corabeth ground out through gritted teeth, pulling away slightly.
She didn’t want another man’s hands on her body, even if he thought he was helping.
Besides, she knew the Marshal’s house was on the other side of the village.
He had to get back to his own family before the bells stopped chiming.
“Can you make it home?” he asked, letting his arms drop.
“Yes, go,” Corabeth said, keeping her eyes on the ground before her, strands of muddy, loosened hair covering her face.
For a moment longer, the Marshal hesitated, torn between duty and family. “We’ll talk about this after the Night of the Beast. Be safe,” he finally said as the bells kept ringing. Then, even he took off running.
There was a terrifying stillness inside Corabeth as she stood for a few breaths, swaying on her feet. There was something wet covering the side of her head—blood or mud or a mix of both.
Corabeth’s eyes landed on the sack of flour that remained propped against the house as if nothing had happened. She still had to get it home. The world didn’t stop spinning, winter didn’t wait, just because something awful happened to her. It was a lesson she’d had to learn over and over again.
She took a step and her knees nearly buckled, as a wave of nausea hit her. Her hand shot out, finding support from the rough wall. Corabeth swallowed hard but kept going. She realized what a huge mistake she had made when she bent down to pick up the sack, and the effort made her world grow black.
Corabeth fell backwards, the soft mud welcoming her into its cold embrace.