The Beast

Chapter Twenty-One

Hemorra's scalp screamed in pain as the oaf behind her manhandled her. She struggled, kicking and shouting and clawing like a wet cat, but his grip did not loosen, only tightening as the people around them backed away, making a spectacle of them. As the man kept shouting that one word, she knew that was exactly how he wanted it to be.

"Witch!"

He yanked her head back so she was forced to look into his beady eyes. She fought back the urge to spit in his face, knowing it would be childish and only serve to anger the man who so easily made her vulnerable. At that moment, she wished she had taken to carrying a knife like her sister, but she had always been too weak to handle one anyway. Still, she hated being so defenseless as she was, then. Whatever this man wanted to do, he would do it, and no one was going to stop him. The realization made tears stream down her upturned face as she looked at the sneering man.

"You vile little vixen," he hissed, being the one to spit in her face. "I've got you now."

He looked away to the surrounding crowd that watched silently, impassively.

"How many of you come to these performances, only to find your pockets lighter than they were before," he called out to them.

Their silence broke as they began to murmur to themselves, and Hemorra felt the sweat of her dancing before freeze down her spine in the cold, her dread chilling her inside and out.

"And how many of those times is this urchin there, dancing away without a care, distracting us all," he asked.

The murmurs became louder, becoming gradually riotous as they all began shouting the same word the man had before. Hemorra watched in horror as they all turned against her, the man smiling grandly at the action before turning his glare back to her. Before she knew what was happening, the man's paw swiped at her waist pulling a weight away from it.

"She mocks us with her dance, working her magic on us as she takes our gold for herself," he cried out, holding her earnings aloft for all to see.

She started struggling again, reaching out for it uselessly. "That's mine! I earned it fair and square! Give it back!"

The man laughed darkly. "Do you see, people? She thinks she has earned what she stole from us! She thinks herself right to use her dark magic and hypnotize us while she pilfers our pockets for her own gain!"

The crowd grew louder, mixing other words with the other like, "Thief! Sorceress! Trickster!"

Hemorra watched in despair as the man threw her back in front of the people. "Take back what is rightfully yours!"

No, that's mine, Hemorra screamed internally as the people grappled and shoved each other to get to the bag first, each claiming they had lost more than the other. She said nothing aloud, though, knowing full well it would only be a nail in her own coffin if she did. That is, if she would even have the privilege of a coffin.

"See? She does not deny it," the man shouted.

Hemorra knew then that she was doomed, whether she fought or not. No one would save her, not even her own blood, she knew. They were better off without her anyway. As she submitted to her fate, her limbs went limp, and had the man not been holding her up by her hair, she was sure she would have collapsed.

He turned her numb face to himself again. "No longer will you prey on us in ignorance, thieving scum."

Her numb face was suddenly turned to fire as she found herself on the ground, the imprint of a large hand on her reddened cheek. Her bones vibrated with fear and dread as she looked around at the anxious figures before her.