Outcast (Moonlight Wolves Book 4)

by Jasmine B. Waters

  “Ho, child!”

  The sound of Henrik’s voice made Ligeia shriek with fear. She stumbled on a fallen branch and landed on her hands and knees, roughly scraping her palms against shards of rock. Henrik stood there, looking larger than life.

  “Child, do not be afraid of me,” Henrik said. His accent seemed even thicker than it had before. “Come here.”

  Trembling with fear, Ligeia climbed to her feet. She stayed rooted firmly to the spot, as if Henrik would think she had vanished.

  Henrik clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Come here, child,” he said. “I swear – I shan’t hurt you.”

  Ligeia shook her head. “I cannot,” she said softly.

  Henrik roared with laughter. “And why is that? Because of your pa, eh?”

  Ligeia glared. She turned on her heel to leave just as Henrik spoke again.

  “I have seen the future for you, child,” Henrik said. He shook his head slowly.

  Ligeia knew she should run. She knew she should bolt away from Henrik as fast as possible, run back to the safety of the Arrowsmith cottage, and never speak to this strange man again. But something about the way he spoke made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

  “What have you seen?” Ligeia asked in a quiet, trembling voice.

  Henrik smiled mysteriously. “Aye, so now you want to know?”

  Ligeia stared at him.

  “Your future, child, is tied to your destiny.” Henrik spread his hands through the air and goose flesh sprang up all over Ligeia’s body. “I have seen you wedded to a man from Ipswich.”

  “Is it…is the marriage a happy one?”

  Henrik grew solemn. “No,” he said. “‘Tis not. ‘Tis cruel and demanding, your future husband.” He leaned in close, and his words chilled Ligeia to the very bone. “You bear many a child, but few live beyond the first hour.”

  Ligeia shivered with fear. She hated the idea of marriage, especially when it came time to think about her ‘wifely duty’ and bearing children. After seeing her mother have three miscarriages in such a short time span, Ligeia was terrified of suffering the same fate. And although she had taken joy in having younger brothers and sisters, watching her mother give birth had always been a particularly horrifying experience.

  “You can change your fate,” Henrik said heavily. His eyes flashed and glittered. “But you must take matters into your own hands, child. You are strong. You need not let yourself be beaten down by those around you, don’t you see?” He threw his head back and cackled.

  “You…you art full of dark magic!” Ligeia cried. Fear raced through her body, and finally, she turned on her heels and fled.

  Chapter Three

  The small village of Ipswich buzzed about Henrik Larsson, the foreigner, for quite some time. Spring turned to summer, and still the villagers talked and gossiped whenever Minister Boggust wasn’t around to chastise them. Mother and Father were no exception. Despite Father’s piety, he wasn’t above making snide remarks about the quality of our new neighbor’s dwelling. Henrik wasn’t a tradesman. In fact, most people had no idea how he truly lived. He spent most days alone, in his cabin. At night, he walked through the woods. It terrified me, and I never went under the shadow of the trees ever again…at least, not until much later.

  Constance’s screams and cries of agony filled the air. Her facial features were screwed up and shiny with sweat as she grunted and writhed on the straw mattress.

  Ligeia sighed as she reached down with a cool rag and wiped the sweat from her mother’s brow.

  “There, Mother,” she said softly. “It will all be over soon. It will all be over.”

  Constance shrieked again – an animal-like cry that filled Ligeia with horror and dread. Her mother had been in an agonizingly rough labor since the wee hours of the morning, and Ligeia and Abigail hadn’t left her side.

  William, along with some of the other men in the village, were meeting with Minister Boggust and making arrangements to build a new church. The current church was a small, windowless shack. William and the other men were convinced that if they raised a large, airy structure, church would become a more popular option among the people of Ipswich. William had spent the previous week talking about how the church was losing its grip on the godly. Since the churches of the New World were plain and spartan, he reasoned, people felt less incentivized to come.

  It was something that clearly enraged William. Ligeia had shuddered to see her father so angry, ranting about sin and vanity.

  “God’s flock is straying, all due to lack of stained glass panes and lace,” William had sneered, driving his hand into the table again and again. “We deserve to burn, children! All of us – even the godly!”

  It terrified Ligeia and her younger brothers and sisters. But today, she had more pressing matters at hand: the mortality of her mother, and hopefully that of the baby as well.

  “Ligeia,” Constance grunted. She gripped Ligeia’s hand until the fingers were numb. “It’s coming,” she added in a hideous wail. “It’s coming soon!”

  “Abigail, run and fetch water!” Ligeia barked. She stood over her mother’s bed, watching in horror as her mother’s belly shifted and moved. “Prithee, run as quickly as you can!”

  Abigail darted out of the room, looking nauseous and terrified. Ligeia almost envied her younger sister for being able to leave at the moment. Because she was the eldest child in the family, Ligeia knew her place was at her mother’s side until the babe was born.

  The chill spring had turned into a surprisingly hot and humid summer. Ligeia felt as though she would boil in her own sweat as she fanned her mother, brushing Constance’s sweaty hair away from her forehead. ‘Prithee,’ she thought desperately, ‘live, Mother! I need you to live!’

  Constance groaned and shifted. She gulped for air, then lay back on the straw mattress with her legs akimbo. The straw bed was stained with blood and fluid, and the room smelled sharply of iron.

  “Mother, be strong,” Ligeia whispered.

  “Pray for me, child,” Constance said weakly. “My strength is beginning to fade.”

  Kneeling at the side of the bed, Ligeia dipped her head in prayer. She prayed until her throat was raw and her knees ached from kneeling. She prayed for her mother, for the child, for her family to survive.

  Abigail ran into the room, carrying a bucket full of water. Ligeia took the bucket from her younger sister and set it on the floor. She dipped a cloth into the lukewarm water, then sponged Constance’s forehead.

  “In England,” Ligeia said quickly to her scared sister, “we had a midwife. But no midwife here; Ipswich isn’t like home.”

  Abigail’s eyes were wide with fear. “Ipswich is our home,” she said slowly.

  Constance screamed in pain once again, and there was the sound of something tearing. Ligeia crawled on the mattress between her mother’s thighs, reaching blindly. There was something slick and hot, and she gripped it, pulling gently.

  “Mother, push,” Ligeia cried. “Push!”

  Constance screamed. She arched her back and strained, clutching handfuls of the mattress until her knuckles were white with the effort. At last, a bloody infant slid into Ligeia’s arms, wailing and screeching.

  “Mother!” Ligeia cried. “A babe!” A female infant lay in her hands, kicking and screaming. Ligeia was amazed at the scale of the features – the baby’s nose was smaller than her thumbnail, but perfectly shaped. Her fingers were like little worms, and her head was full of dark hair coated with blood and slime.

  Constance had passed out. Her eyes were closed and her face was still etched with pain as Ligeia took shears from Abigail and cut the umbilical cord. The baby looked helpless as it squalled, crying and screaming. Ligeia wiped the baby’s forehead with the damp cloth before swaddling it as best as she could in some rough homespun.

  “Will Mother go to live with God?” Abigail whispered.

  “She is resting,” Ligeia said. “She will survive.”

  “Lige
ia, I’m scared,” Abigail whimpered. “Mother could perish.”

  “She will not,” Ligeia snapped. “Now take the babe!” Ligeia passed the squalling infant to her younger sister before walking out of the room. She was so weary that she felt it in her bones, but she knew there was no time to rest.

  Ligeia started a fire in the hearth and filled the cauldron with water. As she waited for it to boil, she sat down on the stone and leaned against the wall. It felt good to be idle, even just for a moment, and she rocked back and forth, cradling her elbows in her hands.

  Ever since Ligeia had stumbled upon Henrik in the woods, her visions had mercifully stopped. She knew she should be grateful; perhaps this signified that she was again restored to grace in the eyes of God. But instead, Ligeia felt more fearful than ever before. She wondered if the visions had shifted to Abigail, or perhaps to one of her younger brothers. The idea was nothing short of terrifying to Ligeia. What if her whole family was being stalked by the devil, one by one, until they fell from grace?

  Constance slept for over an hour. When she woke, Ligeia passed her the infant and looked away as Constance parted her shift for the infant to nurse. Despite the painful ordeal she’d gone through, Constance looked better than she had in weeks.

  “How are you, Mother?” Ligeia asked softly. “Does it hurt very much?”

  “I am always filled with joy when a new babe has come,” Constance said softly. She stroked the dried blood away from the baby’s head.

  “What shall you name the babe?”

  Constance didn’t look up. She cradled the baby in her arms, staring down with eyes full of love and admiration.

  The door opened and slammed and William stepped in the room. His face was angry, but his expression melted when he saw the little babe. He strode into the bedroom with purpose before reaching down to pluck the child from his wife’s arms.

  “Are you poorly?”

  Constance shook her head. Some of her strength was beginning to return, but her face was still bloodless and pale.

  “No,” she said softly. “William, we’ve had another girl.”

  “Aye,” William said. He turned to Ligeia. “And fitting. I have news for my eldest.”

  Ligeia’s heart sunk. “Father, what do you mean?”

  William patted the infant and gently returned it to Constance’s arms.

  “Father, tell me,” Ligeia demanded. “Prithee!”

  William sighed. “I have found a place for you,” he said. “In Salem.”

  Ligeia’s heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, she thought she would be sick.

  “You mean, I am going away? To live with another family?”

  William nodded soberly. “Aye,” he said, “for a year. And if things are promising, you will marry the son.”

  “No,” Ligeia said. She shook her head, stomping defiantly on the ground. “I will not go.”

  William grabbed Ligeia’s arm and pulled her close. “You will heed me, chit,” he said. “I refuse to allow my own daughter to go against my wishes.”

  “Mother, please,” Ligeia begged. Her eyes filled with tears as she turned to face her mother. “Please! Do not let Father send me away!”

  “Ligeia, this isn’t a punishment,” Constance said. Her eyes hardened. “You are no longer a child,” she said. “You are becoming a woman. It is time for you to have a family, to bring godly children into the world.”

  “No,” Ligeia said. A tear rolled down her cheek. “I will not go!”

  William yanked Ligeia roughly by the arm, pulling her close and slapping her across the face. She cried out in pain as the slaps grew heavier and her cheek was burning and stinging in agony. William’s face screwed with rage and spittle flew from his mouth as he slapped his eldest daughter.

  “You will obey me,” William ordered. “Lest I cast you out to find your own way!”

  Ligeia whimpered in pain. “Please,” she whispered. “Please. Do not make me go!”

  William sighed. “Aye, child, I know it is not what you wanted.” He shook his head. “But it is the decision I have made for you, and you will do me proud.”

  Tears streamed silently down Ligeia’s face.

  “On the day you become a woman, I will make arrangements with the family,” William said. “You will act as a household servant for a year, in order to cover the cost of your room and board. And if you prove a suitable match for the household, you will wed Thomas Whittier, the eldest son, at the year’s end.”

  Ligeia stood mute. She recalled Henrik’s warning, but she found she could not make herself refuse her father. The idea of being cast out was horrifying – too horrifying to bear. Ligeia shivered as she thought of being alone in the woods, curled under a sodden tree in the middle of a thunderstorm.

  “Yes, Father,” Ligeia said softly. “I will do your bidding.”

  William’s face relaxed and he released his grip on his daughter’s shoulder. “Aye,” he said. “You are headstrong, child, but this is the godly path. All women must obey their fathers, and then their husbands.”

  I hate this life, Ligeia thought suddenly. Rage burst open inside of her chest. I cannot stand the idea of never being in control of my own fate! It’s not fair!

  “William,” Constance said softly.

  Ligeia’s heart flipped. She yearned for her mother to take her side, to stand with her against William. Maybe she will come to my aid, Ligeia thought as she stared at her mother, nursing the babe. Maybe it is not too late. And I have not yet begun to bleed. Perhaps I have months, even years before I must leave home.

  “Yes?” William ignored his daughter and stepped closer to the bed. “What is it?”

  “The babe,” Constance said. “Her name shall be Prudence.”

  William nodded solemnly. “Prudence Arrowsmith,” he said quietly. “After the baptism, I will inscribe the name in the family bible.”

  Constance beamed with pride. Ligeia’s hopes faded once more.

  My parents don’t care for me, she thought angrily. She balled her hands into fists as the taste of iron seeped into her mouth. They’ve already forgotten my misery. And the same thing will happen with Abigail, and Drusilla, and yes, even to baby Prudence when she comes of age.

  Henrik’s warning flashed in Ligeia’s head, but instead of saying anything else, she slunk out of the room, feeling utterly defeated.

  Chapter Four

  Months passed, and my blood cycle still did not appear. I felt both nervous and frightened each time my belly twinged with pain, each time I felt swollen and bloated. But there was no blood on the inside of my petticoats, and I remained a child for another year and a half.

  My father grew impatient to be rid of me. Six children under one small roof was a great burden, and the responsibility of raising my brothers and sisters often fell to me. I took some small, petty delight in the knowledge that once I left home, the family would be lost, if only temporarily. But my younger sister, Abigail, was now the age I was when Father had brokered my own marriage. I knew she wouldn’t have much longer at home, either.

  The strange visions never returned. I couldn’t forget them; I knew I’d never be able to rid my mind of the bucket filled with blood. But for the most part, life in Ipswich returned to normal. Even the buzz around Henrik Larsson died down. After a while, most people saw him as an eccentric old man, albeit not a godly one.

  My father and mother grew more pious by the day. When I was thirteen, Father came home, looking defeated and angry. He had quarreled with Minister Boggust, and our family had been cast out of the church. Father said it was a blessing. He said the rest of the village placed too high of an importance on vanity and sin. He said that our family needed to stick together and remain godly, remain as pure and free of sin as possible.

  The morning of my fourteenth birthday, I woke up in a pool of rusty blood. My mother scolded me for not being more careful, but she didn’t attempt to hide the news from my father. And later that day, my father made arrangements with James Whi
ttier.

  I didn’t cry when I left home. I was too angry with my father, and even angrier with my mother for failing to protect me from his wrath. But if I had known what horrors awaited me in Salem, I would have cried until my eyes were as dry as gravel.

  ---

  Salem, Massachusetts – 1683

  “What a pretty picture you make,” Thomas Whittier sneered. He stood with one foot planted on the steps, the other on the landing with his arms crossed against his muscular chest. “I should have Mother make you do this each day.”

  Ligeia silently fumed. She was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor with a boar-bristle brush and lye mixed with water. It was backbreaking work. She had never thought her knees could ache as much as they did right now. It had taken her the better part of the day to scrub stairs, and now she had two whole floors of dusty wooden planks awaiting her. Despite the chill in the air, she was overheated and flushed. Sweat dripped down her forehead, soaking the neck of her gown. Her dark hair was plastered to her head with sweat, and her blue eyes glittered with hatred.

  “Do not ignore me,” Thomas said. He glared at Ligeia. She still did not look up, keeping her attention on the work at hand. When she still did not reply, Thomas strode across the floor and grabbed her by the back of the neck, twisting his sausage-like fingers into her delicate skin until she whimpered with pain.

  “Yes, Master Thomas?” Ligeia whimpered. Her blue eyes flashed with anger.

  “That’s better,” Thomas replied. He released her and strode around her in a circle, keeping his eyes glued to her figure beneath the thin, homespun gown. “I am eager for your time to pass more quickly,” he said. “Do you feel the same?”

  “Yes, Master Thomas,” Ligeia grunted. She closed her eyes and inhaled sharply as pain shot up from her knees to her thin thighs.

  Thomas grinned cruelly. He squatted down. When Ligeia did not look up, he tangled his fingers in her sweaty hair and yanked her face to meet his own.

  “You are a lovely thing,” Thomas sneered. He licked his lips, letting his eyes trail down her body and focus on her budding breasts. “And I know exactly how to treat things that are so lovely.”