Chapter Twenty-three
Twenty-three
Corabeth
For the next week, Rooke took Corabeth through his mists to the outskirts of the village. Gray cloaks blending into their surroundings, they watched, unnoticed, from the edges of the forest as chaos erupted.
On the first day, half of the village came together to look for the missing Ely. Footprints that led them to the forest had been discovered.
“A man’s and a woman’s,” they heard them say.
However, none were brave enough to venture in. The Village Elder tried to intimidate some of the younger men into the woods without setting foot near them himself. The men just gave each other wary looks and turned their backs on him.
On the second day, the men stood at the edge of the woods, holding up burning torches and calling Ely’s name into the mist for hours. When some men stepped back, others took their spot, and the calling continued. Some even took a few daring steps past the tree line.
On the third day, the people began returning to their jobs. Fewer men stood at the edge of the forest. A handful of brave souls ventured further into the trees, but Rooke only needed to break a branch beneath his foot to send them scurrying back to the village.
By the sixth day, it was only Turner who stood in the spot where their footprints had been discovered.
He stared into the mist with a quiet, simmering rage, outraged that someone had dared to lift a hand against his family.
His gaze was so piercing, so fixed, that for a moment, Corabeth thought he spotted her. A chill ran down her spine.
Rooke placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, gave her a reassuring nod, and pulled her back through the mist.
“Tomorrow,” was all Corabeth said as they walked back to their mansion.
It was just before dusk the next day when Corabeth dressed in the remnants of her past. The dress and shawl she had worn on the worst day of her life were still caked with mud and stained by blood.
As she looked at herself in the mirror, she could almost mistake herself for the girl who had stumbled after the Beast that night.
Almost.
If it weren’t for her eyes.
Poverty, surviving instead of living, cruelty did something to a person. They extinguished the life in one’s eyes, replacing it with a desperate dullness. Corabeth had existed like that for her entire life.
Now, Corabeth’s eyes had the spark of someone who had something to live for. She knew what she was about to do, and she saw only cold determination staring back at her.
Rooke stood in the doorway, leaning against it, arms crossed on his chest. There was a certain disapproval as he eyed the chunks of mud that flaked off her dress and landed on the floor.
“I should have burned that dress,” he grumbled.
“No,” argued Corabeth, looking at Rooke in the reflection, “Turner needs to see me as I was. Dirty, beaten down, humiliated. He’ll fall into the trap only if he thinks he’s above me. He won’t be as easy to lure in as Ely was.”
She looked over her shoulder to the dimming light outside.
“We have to go,” she said, and together they hurried out into the forest. Their goal was to coax Turner into the forest before the work day was over and the street was flooded with men once again.
Popping in and out of the mist, Rooke and Corabeth circled the village. As she had suspected, the search for Ely had ceased. No one watched, no voices cried out.
“Stay out of sight,” Corabeth said in a half-whisper as she turned to look up at Rooke.
“Just get him past the first tree. I’ll take it from there,” he said and pressed a chaste kiss on Corabeth’s forehead before he stepped back into the mist and disappeared completely.
Corabeth saw the woodworking shop ahead, a soft glow in its windows. She knew she couldn’t stay as close to the woods as last time. Turner needed to see her in the village.
She kicked the snow, revealing the earth below, and picked up a few rocks.
A few taps against the window would get his attention.
However, when she walked over to the workshop, careful to keep to the shadows so a passerby from the street wouldn’t see her, she discovered she wouldn’t need them.
Turner was standing by a window, his work forgotten behind him, and stared out into the darkening forest some sixty feet away.
A cold jolt shot through Corabeth’s body as their eyes met through the glass. She saw the moment he recognized her. She did her best to look frightened and launched into a sprint, making sure to stumble and fall to her knees before she could gain too much momentum.
Somewhere behind her, a door fell shut, and steps, muffled by the snow, hurried after her.
“You!” Turner bellowed.
Corabeth kept running parallel to the woods, angling so slightly towards them it wouldn’t be noticeable. It was a fine line she was walking. Run too fast and too long, Turner might get someone else’s attention. Give up too soon, and Turner will become suspicious.
Corabeth yelped as she feigned a slip and fell to her knees for a second time before scurrying away.
“Please, just leave me be,” she pleaded, remembering the day she had pleaded in a similar manner. She did not have to fake the tears that sprang to her eyes.
The rage-fueled Turner wasn’t far behind and managed to grab her by the hair, pulling her back and sending her flying onto her backside. Too far away from the woods.
“You bitch!” Turner cursed, looming over her, “I knew it was you when I saw those footprints!”
Corabeth fought to keep the terror on her face as she crawled back, just a few feet closer to the tree line. She wanted to ask why he was so certain she would be the only woman to wish them harm. Surely, they had assaulted others. If not Ely, then Turner most certainly had.
“Please,” she pleaded once more, the word making her sick to her stomach, “I didn’t do anything.”
She managed to crawl a few more feet before Turner stepped over her and slapped her. Pain exploded on the side of her face, and for a moment, she could only hear ringing in her left ear.
“Stay back!” she called more to Rooke than Turner. She had heard the rustle of branches somewhere behind her and knew that Rooke was most likely eager to rip Turner to shreds for that hit.
“What did you do to my brother?” Turner demanded, screaming so hard that his spit landed on her cheek. His hands were balled into fists at his side so tightly, his knuckles had turned white.
He was being too loud.
Corabeth had to think fast.
Before she could properly clear the ringing from her head, Turner grabbed her by the front of her dress, hauling her upright.
“You always were a liar,” he spat, shaking her furiously.
Corabeth’s knee shot up, slamming between his legs, making him double over. She wrenched herself free from Turner’s weakened grip and staggered back. The mist that pooled around her feet was thicker now. An assurance.
The bait had been cast, Turner had taken it, and now it was time to reel him in.
“Your brother got what was coming to him,” Corabeth taunted, backing away from the quickly recovering Turner. “He was a slimy worm, and he died like one.”
Rage ignited in Turner anew, and he launched after her, pure murder in his eyes. Corabeth turned and ran straight into the woods, the rage-blinded Turner on her heels.
She passed the first tree, but still she kept running. Some primal part of her told her to keep going, to get away from the threat. Corabeth stopped only once she realized she couldn’t hear steps behind her. Had Turner seen through her? Had he not entered the woods?
Everything around her was unnaturally still as she spun around in the thick fog. As if she had been alone all this time.
“Rooke?” she called out, her voice breaking.
She forced down ragged breaths as her heart beat furiously against her ribcage. Not a leaf stirred. Not a branch moved. Until Corabeth spun and all of a sudden, Rooke’s great shadow loomed over her.
“I’m here,” he said, reaching for Corabeth. Something heavy hit the ground next to him.
“Are you alright?” Rooke asked, carefully examining the side of Corabeth’s face where she could barely feel a throbbing pain.
“What happened? Where’s Turner?” she asked. Only then did her eyes land on the unmoving figure on the ground beside Rooke. Turner lay on the snow, face down, at their feet.
“He’s unconscious,” he assured her, not turning his attention away from her. “Are you alright?” he repeated his question.
Corabeth exhaled, letting her shoulders relax a fraction. “I’ve had worse,” she said with a bitter smile. “Let’s go.”
Rooke nodded reluctantly and picked up the unconscious Turner by the scruff of the neck, dragging him along as if he was nothing but a light inconvenience until the mist swallowed them.