I've been plotting this out for a bit, but here's the first chapter. Unlike Reunion, which was more of a slice-of-life character study, this definitely has more of an actual plot to it.
"Rock, paper, scissors?"
"I'm going."
"Cmon, it'll be quick, B."
"No."
"Don't make me play dirty."
Brigitte closed her eyes, breathing in and out slowly, and leaned back against the car.
"Ginge, you look like some fucking scene kid with those white streaks in your hair, that or a homeless elf." She explained, patiently. "You stick out like a…"
It was that time of the month. Har. Har. Har, Brigitte thought, dryly.
"They're totally in fashion now, right?" Ginger pressed, adamant.
"They aren't." Ghost chimed in, from inside the car.
"Who asked you?" Her sister frowned, then her eyes suddenly widened as if an idea had occurred to her. "I'll rip her throat out if you leave me in the car!" Ginger snapped her fingers, beaming excitedly.
Brigitte opened her eyes sharply, just in time to see an elderly couple passing them on the pavement, giving them a worrisome look. She tried what she hoped was a reassuring smile, but the two hurried on, hunching low and pulling their coats around them tighter against the cold.
She stared at her sister like she'd grown another head, not quite able to connect the Ginger from the past, who she'd grown up with, with the Ginger who'd become a killer, with the 'ghost' Ginger who'd tortured her for three years, in turn with the Ginger who she…well…the one she had now.
Brigitte supposed she'd loved them all, in one way or another. She couldn't do anything else.
She cast a weary glance over the plain, grey concrete shape of the town's public library and archives, not expecting much when all she really had to go on was whatever Ginger happened to remember from her dreams.
But considering she'd had one of her own, she couldn't deny that…there must have been something to them, or behind them. Some thread, or trail they could follow to…to what? Didn't know that yet.
"Stop looking at me like that." Ghost said, worriedly, pulling Brigitte from her thoughts.
She turned to find Ginger leaning on the car by the rear window, leering at Ghost, grinning widely.
"What? Just a bit peckish is all." Ginger snapped her teeth, playfully.
Brigitte crossed her arms, closed her eyes and counted to ten. She got as far as seven before Ghost and Ginger were arguing again.
"I said I was sorry!" Ghost retorted.
"Should've thought of that before you locked my sister in your fuckin' cellar, crazy." Ginger cut back.
"We're all going." Brigitte growled, through gritted teeth, glaring at the two.
"I hate to burst your bubble, B, but we go walkin' around with the crackpot and it's gonna cause some comment, since now the cops think we kidnapped her on top of everything else." Ginger explained.
Brigitte gritted her teeth and tried to count to ten again.
It was true enough. After blowing out of town and heading north for a day or so, they eventually stopped at a gas station. As Ginger was heading inside to pay, Ghost spotted the papers with their faces plastered over them, and various damning headlines insinuating their connection to drugs, a gang shoot-out, sporadic violence and being seen with another missing girl from the Happier Times Rehabilitation Clinic, all in some small town she'd already forgotten the name of.
Brigitte had grabbed Ginger before she'd put a foot through the door, bundled them into the car and torn out of there as fast as the crummy car would take them.
She got as far as six.
"It's not as if I told them that." Ghost muttered.
"And we're so fucking grateful, you albino goblin." Ginger cut back. "Who was it that painted a fucking bullseye on our heads to begin with?" She took a step toward Ghost.
"Enough." Brigitte growled. She glanced at Ghost and shrugged off her hoodie. "Put that on, and put the hood up. And you, you're already hardly recognisable." Brigitte quipped dryly, turning to her sister, eyes lingering on her hair, longer than usual and streaked with white and grey, and her face, which had taken on a thinner, angular shape as the transformation took hold.
"Thanks, B." Ginger rolled her eyes. "It's nice to be told I look like a freak."
"Yeah, but you're my freak." Brigitte shrugged, going back to the car.
"What about you?" She heard Ghost ask, as she zipped up her black hoodie and tugged the hood over her head. "Aren't you…cold?"
Brigitte paused to reflect that she was only wearing a thin, long sleeved green top over a black t-shirt. And that she wasn't cold. At all. Slightly troubling, that.
"Nope." She replied, plucking out her oversized beanie from the car and dragging it over her head, pulling it down over her hair and forehead, down to her brow.
"We don't get cold much." Ginger explained. "Werewolf superpowers, right?"
"And the only cost is slowly turning into a bloodthirsty creature every month, and then spending three nights on all fours, covered in hair." Brigitte locked the car and turned back to face them.
"Killer disguise, B." Ginger quipped, sarcastically.
Brigitte flipped her the bird and stalked past, up the stairs to the library.
"Let's just get this over with. Did you write down everything you remembered from your dreams? Like I asked?" Brigitte glanced back, checking Ginger and Ghost were following. "Repeatedly?" She added, wearily.
It had been like trying to get Ginger to do her homework back in school. Ginger didn't do homework.
"Yes, ma'am." Ginger sniggered, waving a folded sheet of paper. "Names, places, bits and pieces, fragments of things that I saw…anything I could remember. Doubt it makes a lot of sense. I dreamt it and its nonsense to me." She shrugged, passing it up to her.
"We just need something…real. Solid. One lead." Brigitte muttered, scanning Ginger's scratchy, sloping penmanship with some trepidation. "One thing to go on." She started up the stairs again, the others in tow.
"Real?" Ginger probed, a touch reproachful.
Brigitte winced. Poor choice of words.
"You know what I mean, Ginge." She went on, looking back at Ginger's notes. "They're not likely to have anything about werewolves…or curses, magical old ladies in the wilderness, prophetic Indian wildman hunters born to fight…things like us…y'know what I mean?"
She stalked on to the glass doors, waiting while a group of students, talking and laughing, bustled out and past them. Must have been around her age, all smiles, all happy, all completely unaware she was even standing there.
It seemed like no matter how much some things changed, other stayed exactly the same. It would have been funny, if it wasn't so crushingly depressing.
"She's got a point." Ghost murmured from behind her.
"Who asked you, spooky?" Ginger cut back.
Brigitte stared dead ahead, pulled open the glass door, closed her eyes and started to count to ten.
"Stop growling at me!" Ghost whined.
Brigitte got to three.
…
The Northern Legion Trading Company.
Brigitte scribbled it down among her own, clearer notes, copying it from Ginger's, and went back to the stack of books and folders she'd spent the last half hour accumulating. Not that there was a lot to really go on, from Ginger's confused scribblings. A few names, some guy called Wallace Rowlands, Fort Bailey, Hunter, James, Reverend Gilbert, the Elder, some vague details that gave her an approximate date, but nothing much. No locations, no concrete dates, no real proof.
She shoved two books aside, going for a book on Canada's early colonial history. Flicked through it quickly looking for anything, any mention about British trade companies active in the country back then. There were a few, it turned out, competing and squabbling over who had the biggest slice of the big empty space on their maps.
The Northern Legion Trading Company was one of the smaller ones, apparently. Squeezed between the bigger trading companies that were active across the British Empire at the time, having only contracts in the fledgling dominion of Canada.
Brigitte could work with that. If she could find some records, or archives of those contracts, then maybe she could pin down something about what happened, if anything really happened at all.
If they were all really lost, the entire outpost, like in Ginger's dreams, then there had to be some note of it somewhere. Fort Bailey's loss, its garrison's disappearance, someone had to have noted it down somewhere, even if nobody knew what actually happened. Like Roanoke, or the Mary Celeste.
And if she could just find that record, that note, then maybe she could find out where it was.
It wasn't much, but it would be one step closer to making something of the dream, and Ginger's. To finding some meaning in it all.
"Oh god I'm bored." Ginger muttered, head buried in her arms, sprawled across the table across from her.
Brigitte looked up from the book, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the light.
They were tucked away at a table in the far corner, between a ring of shelves, obscured from view to most of the library. One reason was for privacy, the other was the fire escape stuck between two other shelves, a few feet away. Brigitte felt better having a quick way out to hand.
"You could help." Brigitte replied, more out of habit than anything, knowing Ginger wouldn't.
"Nah." Ginger looked up, resting her chin on her arms and letting out a tired puff of air. "Never was much for that 'learning' thing." Her hair had fallen across most of her face, but Brigitte saw her grinning through the red and silver tangle.
Brigitte pulled out a sheet of paper and another pen and slid them across to her sister.
"Draw me a picture or something." She insisted, glancing up the table. Ghost's seat was empty. "Hey, where-"
"I dunno B," Ginger took the paper and pen and immediately started scratching something into it. ", and to be honest, I don't care where the freaky kid went. Knowing my luck she's still around."
Brigitte scowled, and moved to get up.
"I'll find her."
Ginger's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. She looked down, and immediately felt the shakes start. Shit.
"No, no. We've been here long enough." Ginger looked up at her. "I'll go, okay? You just finish with…all of…this stuff." Ginger gestured helplessly at the confusing pile of books and paper.
"Fine." Brigitte sat back down, pulling her hand away as nonchalantly as she could, gripping it with her other hand and tucking them under the table.
Ginger threw her a smile and got up, wandering out of sight into the library proper, muttering to herself.
"Alright you little spaz, where are you now…"
Brigitte watched her go, then lifted her hands out from under the table. Her hands were still shaking, but it was dying down already. She could feel a headache coming on, at the edges of her brain. Another one.
She'd been getting them more frequently lately. For about the same time she'd been having these…episodes. Her hands would shake. Her stomach would churn. Headaches. Nausea.
Brigitte struggled to concentrate. Think about the work. Think about the work. Think through the panic, the worry, the stress. Ginger was alive. She was alive. They were alive.
She hadn't killed Ginger. She hadn't. She'd been wrong. Three years. Wrong.
She breathed in and out slowly, and the trembling died down again. Her gut settled. A coolness seemed to wash over her, dulling the flaring ache in her skull.
Brigitte glanced back at the corner of the shelf leading to the main hub as she quickly dug into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a packet of cigarettes, sticking one in her mouth. She pulled a lighter out of her back pocket and lit it, hurriedly, only relaxing as she took the first long draw.
Placebo. But she'd take what she could get.
Brigitte wasn't stupid. Not entirely anyway. She had an idea what was wrong. And it wasn't lycanthropy, it wasn't the monkshood, and it wasn't withdrawal from her lapse with the drugs back in 'moosehill', with Mike a few weeks ago.
She had a good idea what was wrong, but that didn't matter, because there wasn't anything she could do about it right now except reminding herself of the obvious. Ginger was alive. Ginger was alive. She hadn't killed Ginger. She hadn't murdered her sister. Ginger was alive. Ginger was-
"That's a bad habit." Ginger appeared around the corner, a sullen Ghost in tow as she had the cigarette mid-draw again.
"Yeah, but y'know, for some reason I'm not that worried about cancer these days." Brigitte exhaled a stream of smoke wafting across the table.
"Librarian's coming." Ghost hissed, as they sat down.
Brigitte spat the cigarette into one of the books and slammed it shut, dispersing the smoke as much as she could while Ginger looked on, apparently amused.
"Shut up." Brigitte snapped, tucking the defaced book under all the others.
"Didn't say anything." Ginger smirked, going back to her sketching.
The librarian, a shrewish old woman, shuffled into view, glaring over at them and heading for a set of shelves past their table. She'd obviously come over to check on them, but Brigitte appreciated the effort the old bag was going through to appear as if she wasn't, if nothing else.
The woman eventually shuffled off again, leaving them a parting glare, then disappeared behind the shelves.
"I think she likes us." Ginger sniggered, not looking up from her scribbling.
Brigitte pulled out the book she'd hidden, grimacing as she opened it briefly, then closed it again. Without a word, she lowered it to the floor and slid it across the carpet, under the shelves at the back, out of sight.
"Write-off, was it?" Ghost asked.
"Let's hope nobody has a burning desire to know what Canada's top export was at the height of colonial expansion." Brigitte muttered as she reached for another book.
"Maple syrup, probably." Ginger quipped.
"Was there a lot of call for that you think?" Ghost muttered, shooting her sister a look.
"Always." Ginger cut back, smirking.
Brigitte tuned them out and tried to focus. Northern Legion Trading Company. She flipped her way through several more pages of stuff about expeditions, ships, trade routes…endless, endless, endless…
…and then she saw a name she recognised. Rowlands. Chief Factor Wallace Rowlands, one of the Northern Legion's most promising rising administrators. He'd marched off with nearly fifty men, forging deep into the frontiers of the uncharted Canadian wilderness, established Fort Bailey and then a year or so later…nobody ever heard from them again.
No men came back with things to trade, or to pick up supplies. No letters, or messages. Nothing. And they couldn't afford to send out a party to find them, after the loss, apparently. Although to Brigitte, it sounded more like they just didn't want the news to get out.
But it was real. Rowlands was real. Fort Bailey was real. But there was a problem. Nothing here said exactly where it had been. She needed old records. And this town wasn't likely to have that kind of archive. The only place she could think that would was…
…was home. Fuck.
"Ginger, I think we're onto something here." She said, reluctantly. "But-"
"Well I told you I believed it. It was just you doubting things." Ginger retorted.
"Well…it was a dream." Brigitte shrugged, noting down what she could. "This at least proves…some of it might be legit. Somehow."
"Prophetic visions?" Ghost chimed in, leaning on the table. "Are you sure you two didn't just mix something else up in that monkshood?"
"We're fucking werewolves you little-" Ginger snarled, looking up.
"Ginger." Brigitte hissed, nodding toward the main desk.
Ginger sat back, pursing her lips irritably and slapping the table. She shot Ghost a bitter stare, causing the girl to flinch. Brigitte found her eyes drawn down to what Ginger had been drawing, all this time.
"What the hell is that?" She asked, half-turning her head to try and make it out.
"Oh." Ginger blinked, expression suddenly shifting into a proud grin. "It's a heart being crushed in the death-grip of a werewolf claw."
Brigitte stared.
"It's symbolic, B." Ginger added, earnestly.
"…of course it is." Brigitte muttered, still staring at the visceral, surprisingly detailed image. "I take it that's supposed to be your…claw?"
"Yeah." She nodded, emphatically. "And that's your heart. See, I love you and-" She pointed at the heart, as if there was some chance she'd miss it.
"I think I get it." Brigitte dropped her head in her hands, resting her elbows on the table.
"Gross." Ghost grumbled.
"I'll draw you next." Ginger smirked.
Brigitte snorted, wiping her bleary eyes and looking at the scattered books and pages of notes.
"We should call it-" She started, then stopped. Something…some…feeling…had the hairs on the back of her neck on end. She heard the doors to the library open and close, boots, heavy boots of a number of people coming in.
Ginger had one eye on her, her head half-turned toward the sound as well.
Voices. Brigitte heard the scratchy buzz of a police radio.
"B." Ginger turned sharply back to her.
"I know." Brigitte replied, throwing together the papers piling the books as quietly as she could. "Get the fuck out, Ghost. Get to the car. Ginger." She was on her feet, stuffing her things in her backpack and tossing it to her sister.
"What?" Ghost stammered, confused.
"Got it." Caught the bag and grabbed Ghost's arm, dragging her toward the fire escape. "Cops you idiot. C'mon."
"Cops? But-" Ghost started.
"I know. We're clearly masters of disguise." Ginger grumbled, sarcastically. "B?"
"Busy." Brigitte gripped the table and pushed it between the shelves.
"Alright girls, remain calm!" An authoritative voice called out. "We just want to talk!"
"Sure!" Brigitte called back, grabbing the fire extinguisher. "Get to the car." She hissed.
Ginger nodded and dragged Ghost outside.
Three officers came into view, followed by the librarian. The first, raised his hand, seeing her sister and Ghost leaving.
"Hey, wait-"
"Sorry." Brigitte said, not feeling very sorry at all as she hosed the cops down with the jet of foam.
There was some confusion, stumbling and swearing. Brigitte kicked the table onto its side, as the cops stumbled forward. They got caught up in it and went down in a painful looking tangle of limbs.
"Jesus, what the hell-" One cop growled, dragging himself through the foamy melee.
Brigitte swung the extinguisher, catching the man in the stomach and winding him. She figured that was enough and bolted for the fire escape, grabbing a fallen chair on the way. Turning sharply once she was outside, she pulled the fire escape shut and jammed the chair against the handle, wedging it in the uneven concrete surface outside.
Inside, the officers and the librarian were struggling apart and over the table.
A car horn sounded, sharply. She turned right and saw the road out front. Ginger and Ghost were in the car. She broke into a run, piling into the car as Ginger held the door open. The police car was parked in front of them. As Brigitte started the car, she noticed it slanting, oddly and looked at Ginger.
"I fucked up their tyres." She grinned and held up a hand and waggled her fingers. Her almost-clawed fingers.
"Nice." Brigitte snorted, pulling them past and down the road, away from the library.
"So…what are we doing? What did you find out?" Ginger asked, eventually.
"The company was real. The fort was real. And the guy in charge, Rowlands, was real." Brigitte replied. "But…"
"…but?" Ghost leaned forward from the backseat.
"Hey, put your damn seatbelt on." Ginger glared back. "Yeah, 'but'?" She repeated.
"I don't know where it is. We need to find records. Information." Brigitte continued.
She followed the road out of town, turning south. She wondered if Ginger would actually notice.
"We're going back the way we came." Ginger said, slowly, eyes fixed on her.
"Yeah." Brigitte nodded.
"Toronto Archives?" Ghost ventured, now buckled in.
"Are you fucking serious?" Ginger scoffed. "We're going…you're taking us…" She sat back in her seat, shaking her head.
"We're going home." Brigitte sighed.