hand of bloody, relentless retribution, just choosing to manifest itself via the voice of a tiny turn-of-the-century aristocrat. And somehow, that did not make it any less fucking horrifying. The sheer weight and solemnity of the words was so brutal I think the only reason I wasn't outright crushed by them was because they weren't aimed at me. Harry, for instance, certainly didn't look like he could have stood up at the moment. His spectral flesh was so transparent as to be barely visible, yet still somehow managed to have the pallor of raw terror.
“I... I... please, I do not... please, have mercy...” he gasped out, seemingly unable to gather the strength to speak in anything above a pained whisper.
“The accused,” Lydia (sort of) said, “need only state his plea. Guilty, or innocent?”
“I... my mind was clouded... please, I was afflicted by madness, I did not do those things in my right mind, I swear!”
I winced. Wow, he really couldn't read the mood, huh? Since I'm kind of a jerk (It's okay as long as I admit it, right?), I couldn't help but chime in, “Oooooooh. Making excuses. That's gonna go over really well with the fucking spectral executioner, I'm sure. Very smart move, chief.”
“The audience shall please be silent, sir,” Lydia said, and this time it really was Lydia. Apparently I annoyed her enough to pierce through the possession by the very essence of Justice or whatever the Hell was going on with her. I considered this an accomplishment. “And the accused shall state. His. Plea.”
Harcourt Stanfield's eyes were wide with the deepest panic I had ever seen in my life. “I... am...” He began, and I saw his mouth form the word 'innocent', more than once. He was desperate to say it. He put more effort into trying to put forth that single word than most people put into their entire lives put together.
But this was no ordinary trial. And he was under far more than his own oath of honesty. There would be no false plea here.
“... guilty,” he finally said, the word snapping from his mouth with such suddenness and force it was clear that he had spoken it against his will. He collapsed to the floor, a puppet with his strings cut.
“The jury,” 'Lydia' said, “shall now pronounce sentence.”
The jury showed up.
There were roughly fifty of them... more than I could count quickly, at least, and the effort wasn't helped by the fact that they were all translucent, fading in and out of vision like they were being seen through a thick fog.
They took on many forms. Old men in formal suits, younger men in antique smoking jackets that looked like they were just getting ready for sleep, plump matriarchs, scrawny girls in the skirts of a maid, and even one or two much-too-young children. But most of them were young, blonde women. Just like the sort I had seen in photos in the secret closet just off the kitchen.
And two of them in particular, a tall but slender young brunette man in an older-style business suit, and a young girl with thick black hair and a bright green dress, stood out. Not for anything they did; they stood silently in the crowd just like the others. It's just that I noticed that Lydia, even in full Merciless Justice Mode, would not stare directly at them. Every other spirit in the room was fair game, but her eyes would not rest on those two.
Ah. Ah-ha. I guess the benefit of a trial run by-and-for the dead is that you have access to the perfectly appropriate jury at all times.
I tried really hard not to chuckle, since I felt pretty sure that Lydia would yell at me if I did and she was creepy right now. I almost felt bad for old Harry. Especially when every single one of the stone-faced spirits in the 'jury' raised their right hand, thumb pointed very firmly downward.
I almost felt bad. Mostly, though I was just smirking.
Lydia's blade was moving the instant the final thumbs-down was cast. The blade of light flashed at the faded old monster's neck, and by this point I'd spotted the pattern well enough to know I should close and cover my damn eyes. I was still blinded, the light flowing through both my eyelids and hands as though physical matter was empty air to it.
And Hell, for all I knew, it was.
There was a scream. Not the bellows of agony from earlier, nothing that powerful. Just a sad, empty wail as the weak, broken, and fading spirit of Harcourt Stanfield, entrepreneur, last of his line, and oh yes, utter heartless monster, was finally and completely obliterated.
And as far as I was concerned, good riddance.
When I could open my eyes again, things were a bit closer to sane. Harry was gone, of course, not even a stain on the floor to show he had ever been there at all. The 'jury' as well; they had all moved onto whatever afterlife awaited them long ago, I assumed, and this had been a special guest appearance. Only Lydia remained.
The knife I had given her lost its otherworldly luster and clattered to the floor, to be followed shortly by the helplessly sobbing spirit of a deeply traumatized young woman who had not asked for any of this, not one bit. She had wanted to live a normal, happy life with her normal, happy family, and the universe had royally fucked her over at every turn. Revenge was cathartic, it was true, but catharsis only does you so much good in the face of what she'd been through.
Moving was hard, but dammit... there's some things you just have to do. It took me awhile to crawl to her side, and I left more blood on the floor than I liked to think about, but I got there. I tried to place a hand on her shoulder, but I kind of passed through her; she was a spirit of protection. With nothing needing protecting in her general area, and her mind no longer focused on much of anything because bawling her eyes out, I really shouldn't have expected her to be able to hold a physical form.
I settled for just sitting next to her. I was silent for a long time, letting her get in the good cry that life seemed to keep denying her the time for. It was probably at least ten minutes of sobbing before she seemed to stop enough for me to risk actually speaking to her.
“You did a great job, kid,” I said. “They're proud of you.”
She knew who I meant.
The tears kept going for awhile yet, but they didn't seem so desperate after that. Or maybe it was my imagination.
“Did I ever mention I really like your dress?” I asked.