Alright. Alright. I'm writing the next chapter. Since the last one was so scary, and I don't want to have to deal with Arrashareth again, not for a little while, I've decided that if I'll be posting this All Hallow's Eve, I'll be posting something uplifting.

Uplifting. Right. I can do this.

Pooka, as always, your reviews keep me going, and your stories keep Ghosts from eating me alive.

Shade, nice to see you. See, I won't scare you this time.

Slef, see, I told you I'd post. Told you.

I had to juggle the schedule, and move chapters about, but hey, the story can grow under it own power, too, right?

Ghosts of the Past

Chapter Fourteen

It was silent, for now. The demon was no where to be seen, but the laugh of his men and the whimpers of some poor creature were audible right outside the door. Maria pulled herself upright with her hands and measured the confines of her cell with limping paces.

"I've dealt with worse." She said, softly, under her breath. "I may not have been me, but I've dealt with worse."

She was in an old storage room, she figured. There were the rusting remnants of the shelves, which made some idea tingle in the back of her head, but she couldn't figure it out yet.

Light was coming from somewhere, a small chink which gave her a reason to hope.

"God's breath, my leg hurts. He had to burn it closed, didn't he? Pain in the ass. I'm gonna feed him his own liver." She muttered to herself. Then she paused. "Maybe Methos and his buddies will come and bust me out. I shouldn't count on it, but I can hope."

She finally found the chink of light, coming from a little above head height. She dragged the chair over, muffling down on a scream of pain as she stepped on a spar from a shelf. Her ankle twisted as the spar rolled beneath her foot, and she came down hard.

There was no way to stop that scream that poured out, and she clutched her ankle, whimpering.

The door creaked open, and a shadow filled the light coming from there.

"What was she doing?" Said the rough voice of Rapheal, and he shouldered the goon aside to look into the cell. He glared at her, then smirked. "Poor little wounded bird, just trying to move the chair further from the door. Go ahead. It won't help you any, come sunset, little girl. We're going to rip your wings off so you can't fly away."

The door shut, and she heard the distinct sound of a lock clicking.

"Right. Got to get the hell out of here." She said, muttering.

The chair let her peek out a crack in the mortar. Someone had bricked over the opening years ago, rather than replace the broken window. Cheaply and poorly done, too, if the mortar was falling out already. Not the same sturdy heavy stone construction in the rest of the room and basement.

That broken bit of shelving gave her an idea, and she lowered herself gently to the floor, testing her weight on her ankle.

It held, but it hurt. No less different from any of the other wounds which marked her. She found the bit of metal easily.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

The mortar flaked slowly away, bit by bit, although the spar had long stopped being invisible in the dark, it's edges now gleaming silver in the slender whisper of light. Sheer hard work piled upon an already exhausted frame, but the only other option was staying here. That, she knew, was a fate worse than death.

Her ankle throbbed, from being stood upon, and the burn scar throbbed, from being stretched. Other small cuts and nicks and burns stung, as she labored.

Sweat and blood and tears. A main component in any true labor, and in this case it was no different. Her blood mingled with the tears and sweat that ran so freely, impeded only by the tattered rags of what had been her night shirt.

At least she was mostly decent, and wouldn't be flashing the street anything.

One brick popped out, and she smiled into the sunshine which poured into the room. She knew this street. That knowledge impacted with her desire to get the hell out to lend her more energy, working at a feverish speed to get the bricks the hell out of the way, so she could squeeze out. It might cost her skin, and it might hurt, but out was about three thousand percent better than in.

Especially when the allies were out there, not two doors down.

Elsewhere in the city:

Joe was on the phone with the local Watchers, trading shop news. Duncan was being very Japanese.

Methos resisted the urge to kick the Highlander where he sat contemplating. Trying to come up with a way to find, and then free, a girl who was hidden away by a demon so nasty they couldn't take his head was not the easiest thing in the world.

The cat was off somewhere, trying to find the Lion Totem and see if the mortal form of the great and powerful semi-deity could help any. Maybe the Wolf Totem would even lend a hand.

He gritted his teeth and went back to pacing. Aside from a splash about a gang found mangled in their hide out, there was nothing to be seen on anything vaguely demonic. Except maybe the local Church of Satanists was holding a first annual raffia doll roast. Whole families were invited to come, bring the hair of their worst enemy, and let the enemy taste the fire of their hate. It was sick, bizarre, and you'd bet nine to one, the Christian fanatics would start a riot in the area.

Methos twitched at that one. People were nuts. Absolutely bonkers.

The cat streaked into the room, like her tail was on fire. "She's loose!"

"What?" Methos stared at the beast like it had grown another head.

"We didn't reckon with her own determination to get out." The cat looked incredibly proud. "Of course, there's the little matter that she's only got one brick out of the window out, and it's already noon. If you can get there, you can get her out."

The Highlander came out of his meditation when Joe thwacked him with the cane. "Joe?"

"I've always wanted to do that. Come on, Mac. Methos' cat found her."

"She's not mine!"

"I'm not his!" The chorus was said, annoyed glances leveled at Dawson.

"Did you find the totems?"

"No. I found her. Better, isn't it?"

The drive was half-way across the city.

Back at Maria:

She was whistling, hoping that they heard her. It was her favorite song, and her friends knew it well. Sure enough, she heard their voices.

"Rita, do you hear Ree?" Red's voice asked, sounding very upset.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." Rita said, and she sounded almost hopeful. "You think the creeps that kidnapped her brought her to this area?"

"Yes, they did! Now get me the hell out of here!" She hissed, hoping that the guards' own laughs and the creature's poor screams covered her voice. Her hand and arm could just squeeze through the two brick opening, and it wasn't long before she felt familiar hands touch her own.

"Honey, anyone watching you?" Red crouched, and she met those familiar green eyes with relief. Still in uniform. She must have just gotten off shift.

"Yes. Four men. They answer to a really creepy guy who's definitely one of those folks the Satanists try and put on a pedestal." She said. "One's a short but solidly built fellow, two are fairly average, and the last is Hulk Hogan in size and bulk, and sheer muscle mass. The creepy guy, I have no bloody clue where the hell he is. Red, get me out of this!"

Red stood back, and nodded, as Rita began to pull at the bricks from her side.

The mortar was weaker where the weather had been beating at it, the bricks came loose in her hands.

Red was on the phone. "She looks like she's almost loose now. I'll be taking her to my house, to do some first aid, and get her something clean to wear."

If there was one thing Margarita De Salva was good at, it was using her strength to her advantage. She had Maria's hands in her own, and was bracing her weight.

Maria's lip was bleeding, but she hadn't screamed. "Alice Evelyn McDonough, I owe you one. Same with you, Rita."

"Sure thing, doll. Let's get you into Red's place." Rita lifted her, and pain reflected in those brown eyes, meeting Maria's own. "Shit, he really worked you over, didn't he, Ree? Don't worry, doll. You're not going back into his hands. Red's co-worker type goons are coming to bust those bastards."

Red smiled, and winked. "Yep. My very own goons. I'm gonna have to take pictures you know. Evidence. So we can put that bastard and his henchmen in jail until my dog sings an aria in tune."

"That'll never happen." Rita smirked.

"I know. I don't want them out of jail. Ever." Red was visibly angry. Part and parcel of her Irish heritage, and her flaming red hair. "Nobody screws with my friends and gets away with it."

Maria smiled, and in the delight at being back with her friends she could almost forget how hurt she was. Almost. The injuries tended to keep reminding her.

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There, see? I promised I'd post for Halloween, so I posted! Hah!