Kelevra had been sitting alone in his cell with his eyes closed, straining to sense the people all around him. Almost everyone he felt was afraid and uncertain. Many were confused. Some felt guilty and ashamed—knowing that something didn't feel right but not knowing what to do with that feeling. He was grateful for how rare it was to find what he was really looking for.
It was important that he know.
The men that had arrested him had no sense of guilt hanging about them. They were doing as they were told and had been genuinely frightened by what they saw. Kel didn't like them any better for it but it meant that he could forget their faces and not dwell on them.
The prison guards were also innocent. They were skeptical when Kel and Bridget were brought to them, a sense of doubt and a certain uneasiness hovering around them, but it was quickly replaced with fear when they were told that Kel had confessed before biting off his own finger. When Kel confirmed the story, they insisted that he be kept separate from the other prisoners, lest he bewitch them.
So it was that Kel found himself alone. He'd been taken to a room with only one door in or out and only one cell in it. The cell was quite large, giving Kel plenty of space to walk around, and was even furnished with a small desk with a chair in one corner, as well as a small table with a wash basin. He imagined that the room must have been the original prison, older than the rest of the building and built during a time when the town was nothing more than a tiny village and didn't need more than a one-room prison with a single cell big enough for holding two or three people at a time. Given the furnishings, he assumed it was likely meant for providing the expected comforts for prisoners from wealthy families, but it seemed that you didn't need money to get it as long as you were willing to mutilate your own hand.
He felt Harry when he walked by on the other side of the wall. He was a flurry of activity that simply didn't fit in with the general mood of the town. Kel would have known it was him even if he couldn't sense the double heartbeat. What was he doing coming to the prison?
Kel glanced down at his hand. The strip of linen they'd wrapped around it was dirty and caked in blood and he knew that, underneath it, the flesh would be showing clear signs of infection. It didn't really matter, but he knew that Harry would find it distressing to see. He got up and moved to the other side of his cell, sitting down on the small cot so that his body could block his injured hand from view.
A moment later, the door opened and a guard let Harry into the room. He looked pale and a little sickly. Kel spotted a handkerchief he was hurriedly tucking into his pocket. As he got near, Kel paid closer attention to the beat of his hearts, noticing that they were working harder than usual and his brain was noisy with pain signals.
Still, Harry stood tall and his mouth hinted at a smile when he approached.
"Ten minutes," the guard muttered.
"Thank you." Harry handed him a small pouch from his pocket and they waited in silence until the guard left and closed the door behind him.
The moment Kel heard the door shut, he spoke. "You shouldn't be here."
"I can't let you do this," Harry answered immediately, the words rushing out of him like he had barely been able to contain them. "I still have the ingredients we need. I'm going to break you out, we're going to get Bridget, and we are going home."
"This is home for Bridget."
"I know." There was dismay in his voice and a pleading in his eyes. "Kel, I know that's important to you, but she can build a new home. We'll keep her safe and she can share our home."
Kel shook his head. "She won't go, Harry."
"She has to!" Harry shouted back, suddenly flaring up in anger. "This isn't an option. It's the only option. If we don't get you out of here, they will kill you. They will kill you both. I can't just watch while you let them."
Kel sighed and stood up from his cot.
In the time he spent in the back of the transport coach with Bridget, he had gone over all of this with her. He had promised her safety and freedom. He had presented a sales pitch of a bold and beautiful new world where she would live a life she couldn't even dream of. He had begged her. But Bridget now knew of what was going to become of her home, and she dug in her heels.
"Listen to me," he said slowly. "Bridget will not leave. Trust me. She knows what Hathorne will do to this town and she has no intentions of stepping aside and letting it happen. She knows she will die. She believes that standing up to Hathorne is more important."
"And you're okay with that?"
"Of course not. But it's not my choice to make."
For a long moment, Harry seemed at a loss for words. Kel watched him as he tried to control his breathing, a slight glimmer appearing in his eyes and his hearts beating too hard. He felt helpless and frustrated, full of fear.
Finally, Harry looked up, looking into Kel's eyes for a split second before hurriedly looking away. "And you?"
It was old fear, Kel knew, and nothing to do with him.
"I intend to survive."
Relief. Harry's activity changed immediately and Kel waited as most of the fear and anger gave way to other things.
"Can you even survive a hanging?"
"I don't know," Kel answered honestly. "But I'm going to try. It depends on where they put the rope and how much I can move beneath the skin. I imagine it will hurt and I will likely be injured, but I think I can do it. After they bury me, I can dig my way out."
Harry nodded, calming down now that he was hearing there was a plan. "What can I do?"
Kel thought about it for a moment. He had been trying to think of a way to save Bridget's home, even if he couldn't save Bridget herself. She had told him that she didn't care what happened to her, as long as the trials were put to a stop. He was still working on that part, but he knew that he would likely not be able to speak to Harry again before he was executed.
"I need Johan."
Harry immediately frowned. "Who?"
"Johan," Kel repeated, using his hand to adjust phantom glasses in the way that Johan so often did. "Or Max."
"Kel, I don't know who those people are," Harry answered with a shake of his head. "I don't think they're here. It's just you, me, and Bridget. There's no one else."
That was unfortunate. Kel took a moment to work out another strategy—another first step.
"Bring me a dog."
Harry looked at him questioningly, but nodded. "Okay."
Yes, a dog would work. It would work for a start at least. He'd have to figure out what to do from there.
"See if Hathorne has a dog," he added. "The bigger the better. Alive, if you can, but dead will suffice."
"And Hathorne?"
"As long as I make it off that rope, I'll deal with him. If I don't . . . . well, then it's really up to you."
Kel didn't know many stories of the Master or, at least, he didn't know how many of them were true. He supposed it didn't matter. Just like the Doctor, the Master had reached a legendary status where his name alone would bring the surrender of most. If there was anyone he could trust to put down a creature like Hathorne, it was Harry.
"But I want to do this myself," he said firmly. "If I can."
Harry nodded again, slowly. "Understood. I'll bring you a dog."
"Thank you." Kel smiled, hoping that he managed to make it look proper. "And would you ask the guard to provide me with a Bible, please?"
Harry didn't ask why. He simply agreed. He lingered for a while longer, though they both knew that he shouldn't. Kel sensed uncertainty coming from him, the fear slowly creeping back in, desires and feelings of obligation pulling at him. He expressed none of it on the outside—a stirring sea, encased in stone. Kel thought it was strange that he tried so hard to hide it when it had been him who had expressed a desire to share such things.
"I'm sorry for hurting you," Kel made sure to say before they parted ways. "I thought you were going to start a fight and I panicked. I only wanted to protect you and Bridget. Please forgive me."
A strange look overcame Harry and he took a long time to answer. "Forgiven," he answered in a voice that was barely above a whisper.
Finally, Harry wished him good luck and took his leave. Kel wondered if he would visit Bridget as well. He hoped that he wouldn't. If Harry drew too much attention to himself and was arrested, Kel had no idea how he'd be able to get him out of it.
The guard returned some time later, bringing a bowl of stew and a tin cup full of water. "The Professor said you wanted this too," he said, laying a worn Bible down beside the cot. "Don't know what a witch would want with it though."
"Witches are meant to do the work of the Devil," Kel answered, smiling at him. "If I'm going to do the job, pet, I'm going to do it right."
The guard scurried out after that and conveniently forgot to bring Kel his supper when the sun went down. It didn't matter. When his host began to feel hungry, Kel could simply shut away the sensation and his own body could feed on his host if necessary.
He wanted the guard to be afraid. He wanted him to tell people what he said. He wanted the story of Harry's spurting blood and his own nonchalant finger amputation to spread. The town was full of uncertainty and paranoia and Kel had to make sure that, when the time was right, the people were more afraid of him than they were of each other or of the people like Hathorne.
He should have asked Harry to smuggle something in for him, or at least see if he had anything useful on him at the time. Kel was certain that the guards wouldn't provide him with a knife simply because he asked for one and paper could easily be taken away or destroyed. He needed to be sure that he remembered what he needed to do.
After some searching of his room, Kel found a nail in the desk that stuck out just enough for him to wedge the edge of his spoon under. As he sat reading the Bible at his desk through the afternoon and evening, he kept one hand working the spoon against the nail. He wiggled and pushed and pulled, constantly moving in every direction as he waited for either the wood to wear down or the nail to work itself free. The sun fully set and the guard's cowardly absence was inconvenient because it meant Kel was not provided his usual lit candle rather than because he wasn't provided his dinner.
He put the book aside and sat in the dark for hours, relentlessly working the nail. It finally came free long after the town went to sleep. Kel played with it in his hands for a moment, feeling the rough metal on his skin and the point on his fingertips, savouring the small victory for a moment. He pushed it into the desk's surface, testing how easily the wood scraped away beneath it, and felt satisfied. Deciding that his work was done for the night, he slid the nail back into the hole it had come from and went to bed.
He woke to the sound of his cell being opened and the guard placed a small plate of bread and blackberries. It was a different man than the one before, but Kel still found him staring with frightened eyes. He wasn't sure why until he began reconnecting with his host and felt what kind of shape it was in.
He was covered in a cold sweat and felt terribly weak. When he moved to sit up, a wave of nausea rolled through his entire body, his stomach feeling like it was turning over. He snatched up the chamber pot, certain that he would vomit. His host heaved with the threat, but nothing came forward.
The guard watched with a look of unease. "Should I fetch a doctor?" he asked hesitantly.
"I am a doctor," Kel answered with a shake of his head. "There's nothing to be done."
He carefully unwrapped the linen around his hand, wet and stained with the infection that he knew was beneath it. The guard took a step back with a repulsed expression on his face but leaned forward to look anyway. The gaping wound where Kel's finger had once been was clearly festering, oozing a sanguineous yellow pus and filling the room with the stench of rotting flesh.
The guard swore quietly under his breath and crossed himself.
Kel smiled at him. "Would you be so kind as to update Judge Hathorne on my health? If he has any intention of having me give testimony in Mrs. Bishop's trial or of hanging me, he may want to do it soon."
The guard looked at him with a face that clearly expressed how unsettled he was. "You want them to execute you faster?"
"It would have been quite foolish to bite own my finger off if that hadn't been the plan, now wouldn't it?" Kel continued smiling. "I can perhaps hold it off for a while if I'm provided with boiled water and clean linens for wrapping it, but the fever is setting in. I have perhaps a few days so, if Hathorne wants to see me hang, he will need to adjust his schedule to suit me better."
The guard seemed to grow a shade paler as he left. Kel watched him go before picking up the bread that had been brought to him and making his way to the desk. In truth, he didn't really feel like eating but he knew that his host would fail faster without any kind of nutritional intake, so he made himself take small bites.
His mind wandered back to the 21st century as he removed the nail he had wiggled free the night before. As he put the nail's point against the desktop and began to push, he thought about how much he wanted a nice hot shower. He wanted to wash his hair and brush his teeth properly. He wanted a cup of coffee and literally any kind of food that threatened him with some kind of heart disease. He thought of the smell of his flat and the quiet sound that the filter on his aquarium made.
As his mind wandered, his hand worked. After a few minutes, the name John Hathorne was carved into the desk, serving as both a reminder and a promise. There would be more before it was over, he knew. There would be more.
The isolation would make things more difficult. The only exposure to other people he could count on were at his own sentencing, perhaps Bridget's trial, and then his execution. He would have to be vigilant. He would have to remember.
His reading was not proving particularly helpful. It gave him the sense of wrath and vengeance that he expected, but there was little to be found regarding witches or on the Devil's supposed agenda. It would be better to speak to a priest, he decided, to get a better idea of what the people believed. In a time where few could read, he imagined their beliefs were built more upon hearsay and superstition than on an actual text.
The guard returned an hour later with a large pot of boiled water and another pot with some clean linens inside. As Kel got to his feet, trying to ignore the wave of nausea that overcame his host without disconnecting, he noticed the guard place a small bowl of porridge and blueberries down with the rest. It was far too early for his next scheduled meal and the small portion made Kel suspect that the food had come from the guard's own meal.
"Don't tell me you're not hungry," Kel said with a smile.
"I'm not sick," the guard answered quickly and easily. "I don't need it so much."
He didn't want to make a big deal out of it. Kel could tell that he was uncomfortable and that he just wanted to drop off his items and leave. Perhaps he should have just accepted the kindness and let the poor man go, but his actions made Kel curious.
"And what would compel you to help a witch?"
The man had every opportunity to avoid the conversation. He could tell Kel to shut up or threaten to take away what had just been brought to him. He could simply walk out without saying a word. But he didn't. As Kel carefully poured some water into the empty pot and wet a cloth, he paid close attention to every subtle shift in the guard's brain chemistry and every tiny change in the signals that ran through his body.
Doubt.
Kel turned to look at him and smiled. "You don't believe that."
"I'm no judge," the guard answered immediately. "My job is to keep you fed and alive, not to decide if you're guilty or not."
Interesting.
"Did they not tell you I confessed?" Kel held up his mangled hand as if it was some kind of proof. The guard grimaced and looked away but Kel sensed no fear in him.
"Strange things have been happening," the man said after a moment. "They've been bringing in all sorts of folk and people are scared about who they're coming for next. I don't know what sort of things a man might say if they came for his family or someone he loved. It's hard to know what's really going on but Pa always told me that my only concern is being a good Christian and trust God to sort out the rest."
A sense of calm overcame him when he said that. They weren't just hollow words to excuse himself of responsibility. He believed it to be right and Kel could tell that he was comforted by the thought.
"Your pa sounds like a wise man," Kel answered, still smiling as he carefully cleaned his hand. "What do you think he would make of the town's current state?"
"You mean knocking down doors, looking for witches?"
Kel nodded and the guard responded with a solemn shake of his head.
"A sorry lack of faith, he'd call it."
Fascinating. "Please explain."
The guard sighed, pausing a moment to gaze towards the door. None of the other guards had really talked to him at all and Kel suspected that they were discouraged from doing so. Still, the guard turned his eyes back to Kel and shrugged.
"Pa used to say that people being scared of evil things trying to steal their souls simply showed a lack of faith," he explained calmly. "Witches, demons, not even the Devil himself is more powerful than God—they can't steal from Him, but they can fool a man. The only way an evil thing can get your soul is if they trick you into giving it away. People get the thought in their heads that there's a witch or a demon about and, instead of praying for God's protection, they go about making accusations and casting judgement. They even—" He cut himself off, casting Kel a heavy look.
"Execute people," Kel offered helpfully, smiling.
"Yeah." The guard nodded. "That's not man's place to do that. It's God's place. No witch or demon can touch any man's soul so long as he's righteous, but people turn real wicked real quick when they get scared. If a demon could trick a man into killing an innocent person, then a righteous man has made himself a murderer and his soul is free for the Devil's taking." He gestured towards the items that Kel was using and towards the small bowl of porridge. "If you really are a witch, then you can't harm me. I've done nothing but feed you and treat you with what kindness I can, and I have faith in God rather than man to protect me from any power you might have. If you are a demon, your tricks haven't worked. I have done no evil and you can't lay a finger on my soul."
Kel made an effort to make his smile look genuine—relaxing his eyes, like Harry taught him to. "It sounds to me like a wise man raised a wise son. I promise you that your soul is entirely safe from me."
The guard chuckled a little. "What about the rest of the town?"
"For them, I can make no such promises."
His smile dropped quickly and, for the first time, Kel sensed a proper fear stir in him. Kel made a point to hold eye contact, continuing to smile and refusing to allow his host to twitch or flinch in any way as he washed away the corruption from his hand.
It was then that the guard seemed to notice the carving on the desktop, his eyes turning towards it and that sense of fear rising a little. "John Hathorne?" he said weakly.
"Judge Hathorne has already forfeit his soul," Kel answered simply, his smile in place and his voice just as cheerful as it had been before. "He invited evil unto himself with his deeds, and the evil came. Nothing can be done to save him now."
For just a second, the guard's mouth twitched upward, as though he thought it were a joke, but the hint of a smile vanished as quickly as it appeared. His eyes turned back to Kel and his inhuman smile, then down at his mutilated hand.
"You know, I think you may be right about all this nonsense," Kel continued, lifting his hand from the foul water. "The thought of spurring on the fear of witches to turn neighbour against neighbour and have otherwise good people commit atrocities. Murdering the innocent in the name of God—it would be a marvelous plan for having men give over their souls."
The guard frowned, confusion joining the fear. "Surely, it would be a poor plan if the witch finds himself hanged in the end?"
"Quite right," Kel answered, humming thoughtfully. With his festering hand in full view, he turned away from the pot and the linens and scooped up the bowl of porridge instead. "Sounds more like the work of a demon, I should think."
The guard said nothing, but Kel sensed his pulse rise. His lungs seized for a second, momentarily stopping his breath, and his muscles tensed in preparation to fight or flee—a perfect fear response.
He flexed his hand slightly against the curve of the bowl, encouraging the blood and fluid to drain out and run down the side, dripping to the floor. He scooped a spoonful of porridge with a fresh, plump blueberry up and into his mouth, taking a moment to taste it before smiling widely.
"Thank you ever so much for your hospitality and kindness. The porridge is delicious."
The guard crossed himself repeatedly on the way out and Kel thought he heard him whispering prayers under his breath. Kel felt bad for frightening the poor man so, but it would be very advantageous if he repeated what had been said. He suspected that he might not, given his point of view regarding man's place in such matters, but at the very least he had provided Kel with the information he needed.
He sat down at his desk and read, searching for any other hints that may be useful. The guard brought his lunch around the usual time, though he was decidedly less talkative than before. Even though Kel sensed fear in his heart, he sensed a certain resolve as well, and he took note that he was provided with honeyed tea rather than simple water to drink. He made sure to smile and express his gratitude.
When his dinner came, however, it was not his kindly guard that brought it.
Kel sensed the familiar pattern of John Hathorne's mind before he even entered the room. He quickly stood in the center of his cell, forced a smile upon his lips, and stared at the door as he waited for it to open.
He got the reaction he wanted—Hathorne opened the door to find Kel knowingly waiting for him and it immediately set him on edge.
"Good evening, Judge Hathorne."
Hathorne immediately showed his teeth. "What the hell are you playing at?"
"I'm afraid I have no idea what you mean."
"You know exactly what!"
He stormed across the room, thumping his feet like a tempering child. He carried a tray with Kel's dinner and lit candle for the evening in one hand and the key to the cell in the other. Kel carefully disconnected from his host in a way that would still his thumping heart and stood completely still while Hathorne forced the key in the lock, yanked the door open, and thumped the tray down on the nightstand.
Kel glanced towards the tray and then at Hathorne as though they were simply objects of annoyance and waited for Hathorne to speak.
"You damn fool," Hathorne hissed, pointing an angry finger at Kel's face. "Do you not realize that, had you just condemned the old woman, I would have pardoned you?"
Kel tilted his head. "Why on Earth would I ever think that?"
"You knew—" Hathorne cut himself off quickly, glancing back at the door he had come in as though he were suddenly conscious of his volume, and lowered his voice. "You knew of my affections for you."
Kel couldn't help it. The choice of words was so absurd that he chuckled.
"Your affections?"
"Yes."
"Your affections?" Kel repeated, louder this time. "What exactly was I meant to interpret as your affections? The moment when you attacked me or the moment when you abandoned me to die?"
"That was after," Hathorne answered with a dismissive wave of his hand. "If you hadn't made me so angry—"
"Anger does not change a good man into a rapist."
Hathorne looked at him like he'd been slapped in the face, his mouth hanging open in shock. "How dare you say such a thing?"
Kel raised his eyebrows. "Did I mistake your intentions? Please, do explain what you were going to do."
"You have no right to call me such an evil thing," Hathorne growled indignantly. "You left with little more than a bruised lip. There was no rape."
"Just because you were interrupted and lost your opportunity does not make you any less of a rapist."
Kel knew what kind of a man Hathorne was at that point. He knew that he didn't like to be challenged or told no. He didn't like to feel like anyone else had any power at all. As Kel spoke, he commanded his host to summon forth adrenaline and watched carefully for the first sign of movement.
Hathorne's right fist shot forward and, now that he knew it was coming, Kel could see that he was not nearly as fast as anyone Kel had sparred with in Torchwood. He was easily able to move to the side and push at Hathorne's arm to divert the punch away from him. He delivered a quick punch to Hathorne's ribs with his free hand and then used the momentum of the movement and Hathorne's sudden loss of balance to push his arm upward and knock him to his knees. The next part of the move was to use his knee to break Hathorne's arm, but he held back from that. Instead, he gripped Hathorne's wrist hard and twisted, keeping him on his knees and painfully threatening to break bones if Hathorne struggled at all.
Nista would be so proud.
"I am not as helpless as you might think, pet," Kel hissed in Hathorne's ear. "You have made a very serious error in judgement and I promise that you will regret it. If you think you are safe from me, let me assure you that you are wrong. Now listen to me very carefully, John, because the decisions you make from here will decide just how long you get to feel the regret I promised." Kel twisted a little harder, earning a sharp grunt of pain. "I confess to the crimes of witchcraft and to the murder of Giles Corey. Hang me for those crimes and I will accept it as justice done. If you proclaim Mrs. Bishop as innocent, as you know she is, and release her, I will let you die. If you murder an innocent woman, you will have a very, very long time to think about how much you wished you had accepted my generous offer."
Kel held his grip for a moment, giving Hathorne a moment to let the words sink in. He thought about how much he wanted to break just one bone, to bite him, cut him, burn him—anything. He thought better of it. So far, nothing was really damaged save for Hathorne's ego, and no one need know what happened once he left the room. If he left wounded in any way, he would have to explain how a wounded, feverish, and smaller man had bested him.
Kel shoved Hathorne's arm away and stood tall. "You can get up now."
He knew what was coming next. He could sense Hathorne's brain working and ticking away—confusion and amusement, confidence mixed with worry. Half his brain was arguing that the threats were meaningless, while the other half was panicking.
Kel wandered over to the table where his dinner had been laid, picking up a piece of bread to nibble on. Hathorne got to his feet, taking a moment to brush off his trousers and compose himself, thinking of what move to make.
"An impressive performance," he said finally, smiling in amusement. "Strange I didn't see such bravery or skill when we were in the woods together."
"I had a different role to play then."
That unsettled him. Kel sensed his heart speed up ever so slightly.
"The way you talk," Hathorne continued slowly, eying Kel with scrutiny. "You make it sound as though you expect to come back from the dead."
Kelevra smiled. "I expect to not die at all." He began to unwrap his wound, slowly unwinding the linen. "You can kill this body, Judge Hathorne, but you cannot kill me."
Hathorne laughed, a weak, mirthless laugh that Kel knew was masking a growing nervousness. "Am I to believe you're some sort of spirit now? Those stories may work on the common folk, Doctor, but I thought you knew me better than that."
"I thought you were smarter," Kel answered with a bored shrug as he pulled away the last of the linen. "You saw the creature in the woods with your own eyes. What do you think it was? Why do you think it just so happened to be there, at that moment?" He allowed his smile to spread as he added in a whisper, "What do you think happened to it?"
Hathorne's distress was showing on the outside now. His face was tense and beginning to contort, tiny beads of sweat beginning to appear on his forehead. Kel picked off another small piece of bread to eat, bringing it to his mouth with his left hand, to draw Hathorne's attention to the hideous state of it.
"Did you somehow forget that an angel appeared at the exact moment that you attacked a wounded man?"
"It wasn't an angel," Hathorne answered immediately, all traces of feigned amusement gone.
"Then what was it?"
Hathorne shook his head, frustrated, eyes stuck on Kel's hand. "A trick of some sort."
Kel raised his eyebrows. "Quite a trick. Though you could easily find the truth of the matter if you simply went back to that place in the woods. You would find its body, not far from where you first saw it. Or, at least, you find what's left of it. It's so rare to have a chance to eat the heart of a genuine angel and I'm afraid I just couldn't resist."
Hathorne was beginning to look ill. "You're not serious."
"Maybe not." Kel shrugged and picked up his candle. "These could be nothing more than the words of a desperate man, bound for the rope." He let his wounded hand hover over the flame, dangerously close. "A strange series of events though, isn't it? It would be difficult to explain the angel in the woods. More difficult to explain how I, seemingly wounded and helpless, managed to escape after you left me all alone so far from town. Difficult to explain its dead and dissected body if you happened to go find it." He let his hand lower a little, letting the flame just barely lick at his swollen, infected flesh. "Then there are such strange other things. How is it, after so many months, that my body still bares the wounds you inflicted—the proof of your sin—as though it happened days ago? How could I wound Professor Mott without touching him? Why would I confess so willingly, knowing I would be hanged?" He lowered his hand further, letting the flame wrap around and dance over his wound. "How could any mortal man mutilate himself so easily without so much as flinching?"
Kel could smell the flesh burning and he watched as Hathorne's eyes stared, unable to tear away. He made sure to smile.
"It's impossible," Hathorne whispered.
"It's not." Kel kept smiling. He knew he couldn't hold his hand over the flame for much longer if he wished to retain any use of it. Time to wrap it up. "A rapist owes me his life," he said softly. "But a murderer owes me his soul." He smiled and removed his hand from the flame. "The choice is yours, pet."
He slowly put the candle down, paying careful attention to any changes in Hathorne's chemistry in case he was thinking about attacking him again. His mind was hysterical, swirling with a storm of denial and fear. Kel needed him to leave before he had a chance to either come to his senses or do something stupid.
He plucked a berry from his plate and, maintaining that smile that he knew people found so unnerving, held it out in in his burned and bloodied hand. "Blackberry?"
The blood seemed to drain from Hathorne's face, turning him an odd sort of colour. Without another word, he moved for the door, quickly escaping the cell and locking it shut behind him. Only once he had a wall of bars separating them did Hathorne turn and look at him again.
"You're a witch," he muttered, sounding more like he was saying it to himself than anything.
"No," Kel answered, grinning. "I'm much worse."
Hathorne's face twitched, fighting to restrain the fear that Kel could clearly sense. "Your hearing will be in the morning," he continued, his voice stiff and struggling to stay strong. "Should you plead guilty, we shall decide upon the consequences and notify you of your sentence. Should you plead innocent, a trial will commence, and your guilt or innocence will be determined."
Kel popped the blackberry he had offered into his mouth and waved him off. "It's a date."
The moment Hathorne left, Kel inspected his hand. Burning away an infection was not something he would ever try on a living being but, seeing as Tom was dead, Kel didn't think he would mind. The burn itself was bound to get infected and he would be right back in the same state he was before, but perhaps he had managed to buy some time. He chose not to wrap it just yet, deciding it was probably best to air it out for a little while first.
The important thing was that his story seemed effective. The fear of a demon seemed much deeper than the fear of a witch and Hathorne, despite his adamant denial, had believed it on at least some level. Kel had to make sure that he remembered it so that he could put on another performance later, so he took his dinner over to the desk and sat down. As he ate, he worked the nail into the wood, carefully carving a spiral pattern into the desktop, telling the story of a demon tricking men into surrendering their souls. No human would be able to read it and Kel hoped they might even see it as further proof that he was meddling in the dark arts.
It occurred to him that he would have to make a speech. He'd have to work on that.
He was still working when the candle burned itself out. In the dark, his fingers ran along the patterns he carved, making sure that it was deep enough for him to read. He could read it with his eyes in the morning if necessary, but it would be much faster and simpler if he could just feel it. He grew conscious of the time ticking by, knowing that he was robbing himself of valuable sleep. Without sleep, Tom's short time left in the world would be cut shorter. He decided that the depth would have to do, even if it was still difficult to feel, and sent himself to bed.
It was hard to sleep. He kept wondering how Bridget was doing and if the kind guard who had tended to him was also being kind to her as well. He wondered if he had managed to frighten Hathorne into sparing her life. What a wonderful thing that would be. Kel let himself imagine a series of events where Bridget was released, Kel cleared the disease from the town, and she was content to call it saved. He imagined a version where Bridget stayed behind, to help the town get back on its feet and carry on with life. He imagined a version where she agreed to leave with them, and Kel thought of showing her around Torchwood and explaining everything to her. What would she make of Edmund? He decided that Edmund would like her.
He woke to the sound of his cell opening without having any memory of sleeping. He found himself wrapped tightly in the blanket he had been provided, shivering despite knowing that it was unlikely that the room had grown cold. He could feel cold sweat sticking his hair to his forehead.
He began to disentangle himself and looked up to find the same guard from the day before, looking at him with a horrified expression.
"Good morning," Kel said as cheerfully as he could, smiling.
The guard shook his head. "You don't look good."
"I imagine not."
The guard stood there with a bowl in one hand and a cup in the other, seemingly waiting for Kel to have his hands free.
"You can just put it down," Kel offered, nodding towards the desk.
The guard shook his head quickly. "I don't think you should stand. I'll wait."
Kel felt the blanket pull on his hand and immediately stopped moving.
"Put it on the nightstand then."
The guard's eyes traveled downward, seeming to notice that the blanket was concealing Kel's hand from view. "Is it worse?"
"You could say that."
"Did cleaning it not help?"
The poor boy.
"It did help," Kel answered with a sigh. "But I burned it and I would say the burning made it worse."
"Burned?" the guard repeated in disbelief. "How on Earth—Show me!"
Kel shook his head. "You don't want to see it."
"I can try to get a salve for it but I need to see it."
Kel could sense his determination. Fear or not, he felt responsible for his charges and he fully intended to live up to his expectations of himself. Reluctantly, Kel began to pull the blanket away. It stuck, just as he knew it would, and began to pull at the wound. It had oozed in the night and dried the blanket to the flesh itself. For anyone else, Kel would stop everything immediately and apply saline while carefully and meticulously trying to separate every tiny strand of cloth from the wound bed.
He didn't have saline, tools, or patience, so he just pulled at the blanket instead. It peeled away with a good portion of flesh attached, ripping it away from Kel's hand and exposing fresh, red meat underneath.
The guard gasped and quickly crossed himself with the bowl of porridge. "Put it back, quickly!"
"There's no point putting it back now it's done," Kel answered calmly with another shake of his head. "I told you you didn't want to see it."
While the guard sputtered and crossed himself a few more times, Kel inspected his hand. He saw very little traces of pus or discolouration. The wound was an ugly thing to behold, but it may have worked to slow down the infection.
"A few more days and it won't matter." Kel held his good hand out expectantly.
The guard handed over the porridge quickly and Kel set it on his knees before holding out his hand again for the cup. He took a sip without even looking, expecting nothing but water, and received the first truly welcome surprise he had had in a long time.
"Where did you get coffee?" he blurted out, sounding more excited than he intended.
The guard's horror was momentarily forgotten, replaced with a proud grin. "My brother-in-law got it in Boston. He says all the fancy folk there are drinking it now."
Kel blinked, searching for words. He wanted to say that he shouldn't have given it to him. Coffee was rare and terribly expensive and the man must have been mad to share it with a prisoner. He wanted to give the cup back and insist that he should just have water but his hand simply wouldn't move. It was only a drink but tasting it on his tongue suddenly had him envisioning his little kitchen, dark as always in the morning because he never bothered to turn the lights on, the cold floor beneath his bare feet and the soft hum of a dozen different machines. He brought the cup closer and breathed in the smell of it, thinking of sensing the sleepy activity of his various plants, the gentle excitement of the fish reacting to his presence, hoping to get fed soon. Perhaps it was the weekend, and Doug was sleeping upstairs after a night they'd stretched too long. Kel could easily pick out his heartbeat in the stillness of the morning.
Kel pulled himself out of his thoughts to look up at the guard. His proud smile had been replaced with a look of confused concern, almost as though he was worried he had caused offense. Kel tried to smile at him, but he felt so disconnected from his host that he doubted he achieved more than a twitch at the corners of his mouth.
"Thank you," he said weakly.
He missed home.
"You're welcome."
Kel knew the guard's voice sounded weaker now too. He was uncomfortable and not sure what had suddenly changed. Kel thought of claiming to be tired or claiming that the pain in his hand was making it difficult to think. He could blame it on fever. He could blame it on anything. He didn't. Harry had asked for him to be honest and, though this man had asked for no such thing, Kel felt like he shouldn't lie to him.
He just wanted to go home.
"Your trial is in an hour," the guard said quietly after a moment. "I'll fetch you when it's time."
Kel felt a little stronger after he ate. He drank his coffee and washed the sweat from his face before sitting at the desk to let his fingers trace along the spiral he carved. The details seemed to flutter in and out of his mind and he struggled to hold onto them. Twice he forgot why he was even trying to remember what was written on a strange old desk he'd found in the corner of a room he didn't know. He traced the words over and over again until the guard finally returned for him.
There were more people present for his trial than Kel would have thought. He turned his gaze over every face in the room as he was led in, taking careful note of who he saw. Surely, the ones he was looking for would not miss this.
He spotted Harry seated not too far from where he would stand. He looked tired and every muscle in his face was tense, but Kel couldn't pick out his activity in such a crowded room. He supposed he shouldn't anyway; he was meant to be focusing on his story.
Hathorne was before him, looking like he had shaken off the fear from the day before. Another judge was beside him that was introduced as Judge Jonathan Corwin. Kel focused on him immediately, fighting to block out the blizzard of activity around him, selecting and pushing aside each piece of input one at a time until he managed to single out the second judge. As Hathorne performed any formalities and read the charges, Kel was locked on Corwin, picking apart every little electrical impulse that came off of him.
He found concern and confusion seemed to be dominating Corwin's mind. There was a touch of impatience, a hint of uneasiness, and a healthy dose of skepticism. The man was just doing his job and had no idea what all this nonsense was about. Kel quickly decided that Corwin's name would not be carved into his desk.
"Well?" Hathorne's voice snapped him out of his train of thought. "What have you to say?"
Kel hadn't paid attention to a word. "To the charge of witchcraft?"
Hathorne nodded.
"Guilty, of course," Kel answered merrily. "I believe I said as much already. I would also like to plead guilty to the murder of Giles Corey."
There were some gasps in the room. Kel noticed Harry sit up a little straighter, his eyes a little wider.
Corwin turned to Hathorne and raised his eyebrows. "Has Mr. Corey been murdered?"
"We've not found a body," Hathorne answered quietly. "Though he has been missing for many months."
"Yes, that's because I killed him," Kel cut in, still smiling. "He came upon me casting spells in the woods and I couldn't have him telling people what he saw, so I killed him."
Corwin frowned. "But why would you confess to a crime for which you are not on trial?"
"It would be an awful thing for Mr. Corey's family to never know what happened to him."
Corwin stared at him with narrow, suspicious eyes. He knew something was amiss but couldn't possibly work out what. Kel imagined it would be a terribly confusing situation to be faced with and it didn't occur to Kel until that moment that he might decide the confession was to act as cover for someone else.
"I can serve as witness," a voice spoke up.
Kel turned his eyes to the source of the voice with delight. There he was, the poor, stupid fool that Bridget had kicked out of her tavern while Kel had been drinking himself blind in the corner. He was a friend of Hathorne's and Kel could sense the uneasy excitement of gleeful dishonesty buzzing about him.
"Come forward," Corwin ordered.
The man got up from the spectator seats and walked to the floor, his nerves jittery and his eyes looking to Hathorne for confirmation. Kel waited eagerly to hear what he had to say when Corwin ordered him to speak.
"What is your name?" Corwin asked.
"William Stacy, sir."
"Tell us, Mr. Stacy, what you bore witness to that makes you believe Mr. Corey was murdered by this man."
"I was out collecting wood for the fire when I saw the doctor come out from the trees. He had blood all over him—his hands and his clothes—and an axe with blood on it too. He said it came from a deer, but I never saw any deer. It was the next day that I heard Mr. Corey never got home to his wife."
Corwin probed a little further with questions and William Stacy lied boldly and proudly for each one. When Corwin asked Kel for his side of the story, he stated that everything Stacy said was a lie, but that he still had murdered Giles Corey. After some back and forth, Kel could tell that Corwin didn't believe either of them but he simply didn't know what to do about it. He wound up sitting back in his seat, tired and frustrated, and gestured for Hathorne to take over again.
Once again, as Hathorne spoke, Kel didn't listen to a word of it. It was nothing more than a puffed up and pompous way of explaining how and why they were going to kill him. None of that was of interest to Kel. He kept his smile firmly fixed in place as his eyes followed William Stacy back to his seat. He singled him out and focused on the activity that his brain was producing.
He was proud and felt important. He felt clever. He was anticipating a reward. He was absolutely, definitely, without a doubt fully aware that he was lying through his teeth and yet there was not a trace of guilt or fear to be found. William Stacy didn't lie in court because he was confused or frightened or threatened. He did it because he could and because he thought it might win him favour with a powerful man.
Kel smiled at him while Hathorne spoke. He allowed his connection with his host to drift, knowing it made him stand eerily still and his eyes stare blankly like that of a corpse. He wanted everyone to see and feel that, in that moment, something was not right. He wanted them uneasy.
Hathorne condemned him to death by hanging, as expected, and Kel didn't even blink. He just smiled and turned his eyes to Hathorne.
"I accept my sentence as justice being done and would have you know that I bear you no ill will for it. However, I would like it to be known that Mr. Stacy is a malicious-hearted liar and that he never witnessed any proof of my guilt. If I were not truly guilty, Mr. Stacy's false statements leading to my hanging would have been as sinful as murdering me with his own hands." He smiled and looked back at Stacy's worried face. "William Stacy has forfeited his soul by committing such an evil act and he will be punished for his wickedness. Let it be known that anyone else who would see blood spilled through their lies will be met with the same punishment. Know that none of you can hope to hide your sin."
Corwin looked at him like he was a mad man. Hathorne looked at him as though he had sprouted horns and breathed hellfire. There were murmurs in the room and they were growing louder. Kel glanced back to the crowd and saw that Harry had vanished. Stacy appeared stuck between looking genuinely concerned and trying to appear amused.
Kel made sure to smile as they led him away and he didn't stop smiling until he was back in his cell. He finally let the smile go once he was alone, and he went straight for the nail in the desk. He didn't allow himself to even think of anything else until the name William Stacy was carved into his desk below John Hathorne.
The next morning he was told that he would be taken to Bridget's trial. It was a different guard and he only gave Kel a fifteen minute warning. He supposed that that would be plenty of time for another prisoner but the poison coursing through his veins meant that he moved slower and eating was a chore rather than a pleasure. He had managed to wash the sweat from his face and force down a few bites of bread, but nothing else. He hadn't had a chance to unwrap his hand and inspect it, but the smell coming from beneath the crusted linen told him that the infection was returning faster than he had hoped.
There was a fresh coat of sweat on his forehead by the time he had been led to the courtroom and he was aware that his host's lips were beginning to quiver with cold. He briefly met Harry's eyes across the room and knew from the look on his face that he must have looked dreadful.
Bridget stood tall and proud and didn't show a trace of fear on her face. As Hathorne began the proceedings, Bridget stared at him as though he were nothing but an insect and she looked straight into his eyes when she proclaimed herself innocent.
"Were you not accused of witchcraft once before, Mrs. Bishop?"
"I was," Bridget confirmed. "And I was found innocent then too because I'm not a witch."
Corwin frowned and scratched his chin. "The accusations came from your own husband, Thomas Oliver."
"They did. He asked me to marry him under the impression that a wife was a glorified servant. He was wrong. In his mind, a woman who won't live on her knees was the same as a witch. Wrong about that too. I can't help that the man was stupid."
"Didn't your husband die soon after?" Hathorne asked.
Bridget's mouth tensed and the look of loathing in her eye was apparent to anyone in the room. "Yes."
"Do you understand why that makes it seem as though Mr. Oliver's claims may have been true?"
Bridget shrugged her shoulders and shook her head irritably. "I don't even truly know what a witch is."
Hathorne smiled. "If you don't know what a witch is, how can you know that you aren't one?"
Bridget looked ready to tear his head from his shoulders. "I am no witch," she repeated slowly, through clenched teeth.
Kel knew by then that Hathorne was not going to let her go. Anything Bridget said or did would be found as evidence of her being a witch one way or another. Judge Corwin expressed frustration and impatience at times but, despite seeming to know that the whole thing was ridiculous, failed to ever say so aloud.
The first witness called was a man named John Bly and Kel immediately recognized him as the man who had come with William Stacy to Bridget's tavern. She had tossed them both out into the snow and warned them not to come back, and now John Bly claimed that she had muttered strange words in another tongue after casting them out.
"The words followed me even after I left," the man claimed. "I heard them over and over, as though she were still speaking them in my ear. I started getting awful pains in my head and I couldn't sleep. It tormented me for days!"
It was possible, Kel supposed, that the man had suffered from a migraine or some sort of hallucination. As the man spoke, Kel carefully picked apart the sources of activity in the room, isolating him. He found similar patterns to those he found in William Stacy—a gleeful sort of guilt, dishonesty, pride, and a general feeling of superiority.
Bly also produced a "poppet" an odd sort of handmade doll with no face and a dress of blue lace that Kel quickly understood was meant for putting hexes on people. He claimed to have found it in Bridget's tavern and Kel waited for Corwin to ask when he had the chance to find such a thing, but he never did.
William Stacy came forward once again to confirm Bly's story and to add some of his own dramatic flair to their encounter with Bridget. He claimed to have had terrible dreams after that night and that he often heard Bridget's voice whispering curses to him when he was alone.
Next came a woman by the name of Tituba, who claimed she witnessed several events that proved Bridget a witch. Kel found mostly fear in her and a guilt that was eating away at her. She was afraid for her own life, Kel realized, and she thought that playing along with Hathorne's desires might at least save herself. When she met Kel's eyes, he smiled at her, and he hoped that the smile looked genuine and kind.
Harry was called forth next, still pale to the eye and clutching a handkerchief in case his nose started bleeding again. It was easy to believe that he was recovering from something awful.
Harry said all the right things to point the finger at Kel over Bridget. He claimed that he didn't remember how he got to Salem and that his first memory was of Bridget rescuing from the river, while Kel seemed content to watch him drown. She clothed them, fed them, and gave them beds, as any good Christian would. He mentioned sharing a room with Kel and claiming that he had strange dreams at night and that sometimes he woke to find Kel chanting or mixing strange smelling potions.
"He said they were medicines, though I never saw him use them on patients." Harry barely glanced in Kel's direction before looking down at his feet. "I started growing ill and grew worse the longer we shared a room. Mrs. Bishop took pity on me and let me stay in bed, providing me with food and care even though I couldn't work. Doctor Presley offered his own treatments but it always left me seeing strange visions or bleeding. Even when they came for his arrest, Doctor Presley put some kind of curse upon me. It felt as though a bull had struck me, crippling me with pain and causing me to bleed."
There were several murmurs of agreement in the room. Apparently the story had gotten around.
Corwin cast Kel a disturbed look and Kel made sure to smile back at him. Hathorne, however, leaned forward with his own smile.
"But Mrs. Bishop was present for all of these bewitchings?"
The two went back and forth for a while, with Harry insisting that Kel was the only one showing evidence of being a witch. He painted Bridget as a fellow victim-an innocent woman who did nothing more than be a good host to lost strangers whose trust had been betrayed. Hathorne insisted that Harry was under Bridget's roof the entire time and eating her food. The lack of evidence didn't seem to matter more than Hathorne's own opinion.
Eventually, Corwin cut in with an impatient sigh. "The fact is, Professor Mott, that both Mrs. Bishop and Doctor Presley had equal opportunity to bewitch you. You have no way of knowing which one it may have been or even if it was both of them."
Harry was dismissed. Kel knew he shouldn't expect anything less but it still felt like a blow. The stony expression on Harry's face told him that he probably felt the same.
Samuel Shattuck came forward to explain that Bridget had come to him for a piece of lace that was too small for it to be for anything other than a poppet. Kel thought that may have been innocent enough but he quickly learned, while Shattuck expanded his story to include his child being thrown into fits, that Shattuck was as corrupt as Stacy and Bly. He was feeding the story for the sake of feeling powerful and to prove his allegiance to Hathorne. With the reward centers of his brain firing off, Kel suspected that his story had lined his pockets with a few coins as well.
Ed Bishop was called forth and he defended his wife with a kind of indignant anger that made Kel understand why Bridget came to love him in the first place. Hathorne was quick to dismiss him.
Samuel Parris came forward and recounted the events of bringing his daughter to Kel with her injured arm. He explained how both girls had grown sick and experienced fits for days afterwards. Hathorne guided him with questions, leading him to say that he suspected Bridget was the cause because the girls were never ill before entering her tavern. Kel didn't even need to isolate his activity to know that Parris was confused, easily manipulated, and genuinely concerned over what had happened to his girls. Nothing he said was a lie and Kel sensed no ill intent behind his words.
Doctor William Griggs was called upon next and gave his statement in a very mater-of-fact way. Parris had brought his girls to him after they fell ill because Kel had mysteriously vanished. He tried his best to treat them but could find no cause for their illness. He agreed, when asked, that witchcraft could be to blame as he found no medical explanation.
No dishonesty. No malice. Kel forgot the man's name the moment he finished speaking. The next witness, however, was the doctor's ward, Elizabeth Hubbard, and she proved to be far more interesting.
Miss Hubbard launched immediately into outlandish tales of seeing apparitions of Bridget starting the night that Mr. Parris had brought the girls to her home. Bridget's spirit haunted her at night, telling her terrible things and trying to coax her into signing deals with the Devil.
Corwin scowled the entire time she spoke. "Miss Hubbard, it's my understanding that you have made many such accusations against several other people. It's a strange coincidence that you are plagued by so many witches, is it not?"
"It's because I won't give in to their dark ways," Hubbard answered without a second's hesitation. "They hope to make me a witch as well and they won't let me rest, no matter how many times I resist them."
Kel knew what he would find before he looked for it. Lies, lies, and more lies. Elizabeth Hubbard was a vicious human being, who clearly took delight in the suffering of those she saw as lesser than herself. This was all about power for her, removing the undesirables from Salem while painting herself as a brave victim and, no doubt she hoped, a heroine.
The next two were much of the same. Mercy Lewis and Mary Walcott were friends of Hubbard and Kel quickly realized that the three had planned this together. It was fun and made them feel important. Mary thought Hathorne was handsome and wanted his approval as well as her friends'. Mercy enjoyed the attention and the feeling of power.
Mary Walcott claimed that Bridget's specter would visit her in the night and torment her, just as Hubbard had claimed. She went so far as to try to prove it with evidence, claiming that she tore Bridget's coat while wrestling her away, pointing out a tear in the coat that Bridget was wearing at the time. No one seemed to think it strange that a real, physical coat could somehow be damaged when Walcott claimed to see a specter.
Mercy Lewis looked like she was auditioning for an acting role, with her dramatic telling of Bridget trying to force her to sign her name in a black book to swear allegiance to the Devil. She made her voice quiver and stutter as though she were afraid. Kel could read every signal her brain put out to her body, trying its hardest to make her look as though she were terrified. The whole thing culminated with her words stuttering to a halt and her entire body beginning to shake. Within seconds she was on the floor, writhing and howling and shaking as though she had been possessed. The cherry on top was when she pointed a finger at Bridget and screamed as a pair of men lifted her from the floor and carried her off.
So many names to remember.
A few more witnesses were seen after that. Kel saw nothing more than frightened or confused people, telling the truth and having Hathorne twist it or else telling lies because something had terrified them. Kel lost interest in them all rather quickly.
When the court was dismissed so that the judges could deliberate, the guard escorting Kel grabbed his arm to pull him to his feet. He remembered a wave of dizziness overcoming him he suddenly lost his connection to any input from his host. The next thing he knew was that he fallen against a wall and vomited on the floor. He took a moment to catch his breath, very aware of how deathly silent the room was.
"It's fine," Kel said to no one in particular. "Just a little sepsis. Apologies for the mess."
The guard was a little gentler with him after that, guiding him carefully and keeping a hand under his arm in case he fell again. Once he was back in his cell, the guard looked at him with an uncomfortable look on his face.
"Is there . . . should I get you something?" he asked hesitantly.
"A large pot of water and a cup of tea, if you would, thank you."
"You should eat."
"I don't think I can," Kel answered truthfully.
The guard hesitated a moment longer, that look of discomfort still present on his face. "A bit of broth," he muttered quietly. Then he turned and left.
Kel found himself chuckling as he carefully made his way to his desk. He must have looked truly dreadful to stir such sympathies. He wished he had a mirror to see what he looked like.
He scratched out the names he needed to remember quickly, leaving thin, just barely visible scores in the wood. He could spend the next few hours carving them out properly, but he had to be sure that he wouldn't forget them first.
Beneath the names of John Hathorne and William Stacy, he added John Bly, Samuel Shattuck, Elizabeth Hubbard, Mercy Lewis, and Mary Walcott. The guard returned before long with a large bowl of broth and a cup of tea. Kel tried his best to give him a genuine smile when he gave his thanks. The broth turned out to have too many pieces of vegetables and meat in the bottom to have been a mistake, and he tried to eat a few pieces so as not to seem ungrateful. His host didn't like it, fighting against every swallow and threatening to vomit as he chewed the tiny scraps.
When the guard returned with the requested pot of water, the colour drained from his face.
"What is happening to you?"
"My body is filled with infection and it's dying." Kel smiled. "It's fine. Don't worry."
He was going to vomit again. He knew he was. He fought to hold it in until the guard left, carefully putting down his bowl of broth in preparation and locating the empty chamber pot a few feet away.
"Would you be so kind as to inform me of the verdict for Mrs. Bishop once it's announced?"
The guard nodded and finally left. Kel immediately grabbed the chamber pot and emptied his stomach into it. It took some time afterwards to gather the strength to get back on his feet. His face was covered in sweat and his legs felt like they were asleep. He could keep his host functioning for longer than it would last if it were simply a human, but he wasn't sure how much longer. At some point, he would simply have to abandon it or else hide inside the corpse until it was moved to a better location.
He sipped at his tea slowly, working the nail into the wood of the desk. When the tea was done, he attempted the broth again, avoiding eating any of the vegetables this time. He unwrapped his hand, revealing how putrid the wound underneath it had become, and attempted to wipe away as much pus and fluid as he could. He didn't bother to wash it. There was no point. He had only asked for the pot of water for drinking, knowing that he needed fluids more than anything else, but even that had perhaps been too optimistic. The thought of ingesting anything just yet made his stomach roll.
After a couple of hours, he had carved his list of names as deeply as he cared to. He would be able to see it easily and he would not forget. With considerable effort, he moved himself to the bed and laid down.
When he woke, it was pitch black. He couldn't see or hear anything, and he sensed no other life except for insects and animals outside. Why did he feel so sick? Why was his host in so much pain? His host didn't seem to want to move and, the more he connected with it, the worse he felt.
It occurred to him that perhaps he was being punished. Once, Steadfast had been careless with his host and damaged it so badly that it would have died if it were alive. Mother was so angry with him that she refused to get him a new one and told him that he could either care for his own until it recovered, or he could go hostless.
Had he been bad?
Where was everyone?
When he fell asleep again, he dreamed of Steadfast's broken host, stumbling about on a crushed leg, struggling to keep his stitched flesh from pulling apart again, one wing twisted in a way that clearly announced his host would never fly again.
"What happened to Steadfast?" people would ask. "Why is he broken?"
And Mother would say, "Because he's a stupid boy."
Steadfast wasn't stupid. Nor was he broken. He had just wanted to fly. Kel hadn't flown in a long time. He missed flying.
When he opened his eyes again, the early rays of sunrise had begun to creep in through the window. It was still rather dark, but it was just bright enough to see the room. His host swayed with nausea as he sat up, but he didn't vomit. The sleep had helped restore some of his strength and he was able to get to his feet. He washed his face and drank a little water from the pot before he noticed the carvings in the desk.
He recognized some of the carvings as human letters, though he wasn't sure how to read it, but the rest appeared to be in his own language. He placed his finger in the center of the spiral, carefully following the flow of the carving. It was difficult to read with human fingers and it took a long time, but he was able to make out the words.
You forget things, the carving told him. Don't be scared. It will come back.
Everything after that sounded absolutely insane, like a story that one of his brothers might make up, but, somehow, he knew it was all true. Each word fit into his place in his mind perfectly and it felt more like remembering than being told. When he opened his eyes again, he could read the other carvings.
John Hathorne. William Stacy. John Bly. Samuel Shattuck. Elizabeth Hubbard. Mercy Lewis. Mary Walcott.
Oh, the next week was going to be eventful indeed.
He went back for more water and noticed a plate sitting on the nightstand that he hadn't seen before. There was a heel of bread, a bowl of some kind of soup, the remains of a candle that had burned down to nothing, and a note. The note was written in an unsteady hand and filled with spelling mistakes, but it told him that the writer could not wake him, that Bridget had been found guilty, and that they would be hanged together in the morning.
Kel's eyes turned to the growing light in the window.
"Okay," he breathed. Then he sat back down at his desk, disconnected from his host as much as he dared, and waited.
Within a couple of hours, the door opened. It was the same guard from the morning before and his face once again drained of colour when he saw Kel sitting in the corner.
"Are you dead?" he asked quietly.
Kel reconnected whatever he needed to to blink and speak and appear alive. "Does it matter?"
The guard said nothing as he unlocked the cell door, keeping his eyes firmly on the floor. Kel took one last look at his list and struggled to get to his feet.
"Did you . . . did you want to drink some water or . . . or something?" the guard muttered quietly. "You know, before . . . Before."
Kel smiled. "No, thank you."
A crowd had gathered to watch the executions and, as Kel was led past it, he spotted many familiar faces. He saw people he recognized from around town, others from the tavern, several that he had treated for illness or injury. He took some solace in seeing how many were quiet. He could sense a general feeling of uneasiness from the crowd, like many of them knew that something was wrong with what was about to happen.
Kel found Harry in the crowd and quickly looked away. He hadn't bothered to wrap his hand and he didn't want to see Harry's face when he saw it. He turned his eyes to Hathorne instead. If Hathorne looked at him as he read off their crimes and their sentences, Kel wanted him to see that he was completely unafraid. Hathorne was too cowardly to ever look.
Bridget's name was read first.
Kel held his head high and tried to look brave for her as she was led up to the small platform that had been built. As they slipped the noose around her neck, Kel found himself desperately wanting to tell her that he was sorry. He was sorry that any of it had happened. He was sorry that he couldn't save her. He didn't even know what he wanted to apologize for, but he just felt like he had to say something.
She looked down at him as they tightened the rope and she offered a hint of a smile. Kel couldn't take it and he turned his eyes downward. His throat felt like it was swelling and his eyes were watering and all he could think about was how badly he wanted to disconnect, drop a dead body at the feet of the crowd, and go back to being blind and deaf for just a few minutes.
Hathorne asked if she had any last words.
There was no quiver in Bridget's voice when she spoke. She sounded strong and brave and angry.
"There is evil being done here today. I think you all know it."
Kel took strength from her voice and made himself look back up. He made himself look at her face and listen to her words and he fought to ignore the pounding heart in his chest and the tears in his eyes.
"Those of you who lied to commit this evil know what you've done, and God will judge you for it when your day comes. Today, I go to God without fear, for I have done no evil."
She gave a final nod to confirm that she was done speaking and then, without any further warning, they pulled the lever. Bridget dropped and there was a horrible sound when she reached the end of the rope that could have been either her neck or the rope itself. Kel hoped it was her neck. He hoped it had ended that quickly but he forced himself to look at her face anyway. For as long as she might still be alive, he didn't want her to feel alone.
He heard a few sniffs in the crowd. No one cheered or cried out "witch".
The silence seemed to make Hathorne uncomfortable and he was quick to instruct his men on moving things along. Bridget's body was removed and everything was hurriedly reset while Hathorne began his speech again for Kel.
Kel made his way up to the small platform, keeping his eyes trained on Hathorne's face the entire way. When he turned around and faced the crowd, he was surprised by what he saw.
There, near the back, was Samuel Parris with Abigail and Betty. Betty was crying, clinging to her father's neck. Abigail offered a wave and a weak smile. The guard who had been so very kind to him was off-duty in the crowd, meeting Kel's eyes without fear. Kel suddenly found himself regretting that he never asked his name. And there were others, so many others that he knew who seemed to be making themselves look at him the same way he had made himself look at Bridget. And then there was Harry, standing tall and putting on a brave face, refusing to look away even though Kel could see his distress clearly in his eyes.
Harry's nose was bleeding and he hoped it was because Harry had been telling Bridget everything Kel had wanted to say to her. He hoped that Harry had been with her in the way that Kel couldn't.
"Do you have any last words?"
Kel turned his eyes back to Hathorne, staring at him with absolute hatred.
And then he smiled.
"Mrs. Bishop was a very wise woman, but I'm afraid she was wrong about one thing." He turned his eyes back to the crowd, holding his smile in place. "Those of you who have lied for the sake of evil are now guilty of the murder of an innocent woman. You will not face God's judgement one day. You will face my judgement. You, who have committed such evil, have forfeited your souls and are no longer of any interest to God. You belong to me now."
Beneath Tom's skin, Kel was shifting, moving as far away from the knot of the rope as he possibly could without disconnecting. It was going to be very close, but he thought he could pull it off.
"I confess that I am not a witch," he continued loudly. "I confess that I am not even human. Destroying my body will not destroy me. I will collect the souls you owe me. Bridget Bishop shall be avenged sevenfold, as is God's law, this I swear."
He turned and looked at Hathorne once more.
"And you," he said, stretching his smile wider than before. "They won't even know what happened to you."
The floor gave away beneath him and he fell.
