She releases the breath she’d been holding during the ride up. “Give me a sec.”
Greg steps away to evaluate the crescent-shaped marks she had left on his wrist.
She composes herself, pushes away the crippling anxiety, and asks, “Did I hurt you?”
“I’m fine. You?”
She gives him a curt nod as she mentally shakes off the residual fear before following him into the hallway.
A middle-aged woman exits one of the first apartments, her pendulous breasts applauding her as she waddles toward Rachel and Greg with a garbage bag in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. Her thin lips pucker around the filter, lungs wheezing as she sucks greedily on the cancer stick, until the ember burns red hot. She closes her turquoise-colored eyelids for a beat. Ash falls from the tip, spilling across her white tank top. The threadbare fabric outlines those slap-slap-slapping breasts and saucer-sized nipples, which leaves little to the imagination. She exhales the noxious smoke and offers the world a yellow-toothed smile.
As they pass one another, Rachel chances a glance at the woman’s pancake butt and chicken legs—riddled with cellulite and age and stuffed into a two-sizes-too-small cropped denim. Flab drapes over the woman’s waistband, pushed up by the too-tight shorts, and pokes out wherever her top doesn’t cover.
Rachel suppresses her disgust as best as possible but feels her facial muscles pull into a grimace regardless.
So much for not being prejudiced, huh? The sarcastic thought pops into her head and she silently chastises herself for judging someone based on their looks rather than their personality.
The door at 9-D opens and allows the distinctive smell of offal to escape the apartment along with bits of a heated discussion in an unknown language. She collides with the wave of boiling animal entrails, and gags. The odor moves sluggishly through the hallway, agile enough, though, to infiltrate every corner of the building and thick enough to overpower the senses. Her stomach churns and her lunch pushes up her throat. The door closes again, muffling the foreign voices on the other side, but the stench lingers.
They hasten down the hall, ignoring the barking Pomeranians at the locked security gate at 9-E and the incessant screams of a colicky infant at 9-F, and turn the corner.
Discolored eggshell walls and faded red doors line their path. Tacky red and white linoleum flooring—stained unrecognizably in places or degraded enough to reveal the raw concrete beneath—scuffs up Rachel’s shoes. Stale urine, which had seeped into the very bones of the building, infuses with the nauseating stench following them through the hall.
A flash of cotton candy pink tulle rushes out of 9-I and skids to a stop in front of them. Rachel halts a few paces away from the little girl, who couldn’t be older than six years old, and studies the suspicious numbness in her eyes. The mini-ballerina’s lips curl into a sadistic smile, devoid of any natural emotions, and those haunted eyes glimmer with amusement. She clasps her hands behind her back and sways from one side to the other. The knee-length tutu swishes its dry whisper into the otherwise silent hallway.
“Hello,” Rachel says, getting over her initial startle.
“Rach,” Greg whispers, his hand snaking around her waist.
The girl’s mouth grows wider, revealing a gap where a milk tooth had fallen out to make room for her permanent teeth. Those rosy cheeks twitch with the effort of holding the plastered-on smile in place. She tilts her head, rolls her eyes up to meet Rachel’s gaze, and stops swaying.
“Let’s go,” Greg says louder now.
Rachel decides to heed his warning and go on her merry way before things could get any weirder, but the little girl bunny-hops into their path to block off their escape. Greg pulls Rachel closer and makes a second attempt to escape the attention of the creepy ballerina, which is quickly foiled as the girl slides into their way again. The muscles in Rachel’s forehead pull into a frown. The girl releases her hands from behind her back and her arms swing limply in their sockets. Rachel looks at the open door of 9-I. Pots and pans clang in the kitchen, the sound drifting out in muted staccato. Somewhere inside the apartment, the TV plays sing-a-longs, and a girlish la-la-la tries to keep up with the tune.
The girl in the tutu raises one of those limp arms and points an index finger at Rachel.
“They’ll never find your body,” she says in a little-girl singsong voice.
Then, the little girl’s amusement is replaced with abject horror, and the creepy smile vanishes as her jaw drops open. A shrill scream tears out of her, the pitch without intonation. Her eyes bulge, bloodshot veins apparent within the whites.
Terror keeps Rachel fixed in place, while Greg pulls her behind him.
“Gina Newman!” An adult’s shout comes out of the apartment, sounding more annoyed than concerned.
The attractive thirty-something-year-old runs out of the apartment, brows knitted together in the typical no-nonsense look most children seem to inspire in their parents. She kneels beside the girl—the resemblance between the mother and daughter is uncanny—and brushes her fingers through the girl’s wheat-colored hair. The scream ends abruptly. The girl giggles, twists out of her mother’s arms, and skips back to the apartment as though nothing had happened.
The woman looks up. “Her no-good father allowed her to watch horror movies over the weekend,” she explains, which doesn’t make the situation any better. “This is the third time in as many days that Gina has freaked out a neighbor.” She gets back onto her feet. “You’ve got to excuse her,” she says. “I’m trying my best to raise my girls right, but it’s hard.” The woman wipes her hands against one another, casting a nervous glance over her shoulder to the open door. Inside, the telltale sounds of an argument between siblings replaces the happy sing-a-longs. “I’ve got to go. Sorry again.”
She marches back to her apartment and slams the door shut. A whiny, albeit muted, “Mommy!” filters through the keyhole, accompanied by a child’s howl of frustration.
“Congratulations, you’ve succeeded in traumatizing me,” Rachel says, wiggling out of Greg’s grip.
“That was nothing by Ashfall standards,” Greg says. “Come on, we’re burning daylight.”
Rachel pulls a face at him when his back is to her but follows closely.
They pass the remaining apartments without incident, heading for 9-M. A faded red door is outfitted with multiple brass bolts, and black apartment numbers hang on rusty nails in a crooked line against the wall.
Greg knocks on the door twice and pushes one hand into his jeans pocket.
On the other side, keys jangle as bolt after bolt is unlocked, then a mighty kick to the bottom of the water-damaged doorframe resounds through the hallway. The door swings open, hinges squealing in agony. Out steps a guy, who can’t be much older than Rachel or Greg, with tattoos covering the entirety of his left arm. The ink moves beyond his muscular bicep and beneath the short sleeve of his tightfitting black T-shirt. His shoulder-length black hair hangs haphazardly across his face, obscuring high cheekbones and luscious lips. Something about him, however, gives Rachel the impression that he’s much older than he appears.
The guy’s attention snaps to her as if he’s read her mind, and she feels her cheeks warming with embarrassment. His eyes are multicolored spiraling galaxies, where flecks of gold swirl unabated. They seem to bore into her soul while he stares at her, picking apart the threads of time to study her beginning and end, and evaluate pieces of her she doesn’t know exist.
“You brought a friend along,” the guy says, regarding Rachel from the doorway. “She doesn’t look like the typical parkour enthusiast.” His gaze dips to the umbrella in her hand and the smug charm dissipates as he studies her again. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” He shakes his head and glimpses at Greg. “You brought a MacCleary to my house?”
“Are you going to let us in?” Greg asks as he moves his foot over to block the door from closing.
“Are you insane?” he asks angrily. His beauty becomes dangerous, his a
llure turns deadly. “She’s a MacCleary.”
“Come now, she’s only a teenaged girl,” Greg counters, waving it off as if she’s a harmless child. “Every drug dealer in the county is going to come after you if they hear how Orion Blackwood is afraid of a girl with an umbrella.”
The guy flashes an animalistic sneer at Greg. Tendons bulge in his neck as he bares his sharp, elongated canines that look deadly enough to rip throats out solely for the enjoyment of it. Greg simply stares back at Orion, clearly untroubled by the display.
A tense heartbeat passes before Orion gives in and opens the door wide enough for them to enter.
“I didn’t pick you to be a narc, Pearson,” he growls.
Greg shrugs and walks through the doorway. Rachel is not as keen to enter the stranger’s apartment, but she quickly follows Greg inside, clutching her umbrella with all her might.
A large, clean kitchen is situated on her right, while an entryway closet stands to her left. There isn’t anything particularly spectacular about the décor. A few pieces of essential furniture fill the space, a couple of crappy posters hang against the walls, and mismatched curtains cover the windows. It doesn’t smell like offal or smoke inside; doesn’t smell like neglect or dirt. That helps.
Behind her, the door closes and the locks slide into place. She looks over her shoulder only to find the stranger glaring back at her.
They’ll never find your body.
A shiver runs across her skin.
The hot guy passes Rachel and makes his way deeper into the apartment. He tosses his keys and cellphone onto the scratched coffee table and finds the TV remote. The news anchor pops onto the screen, wearing a tailored dress and a serious expression that spells doom, and although her mouth moves, words don’t fill the awkward silence.
“I’ll be right with you,” Orion says, heading down the narrow corridor.
He disappears into the farthest bedroom.
Rachel grabs Greg’s arm and hisses, “You brought me to meet a drug dealer?”
“Orion is not a dealer. He’s a manufacturer of designer—”
“That’s not any better,” her high whisper cuts him off. “Are you using?”
Greg studies her like a few new appendages have sprouted from her neck. “Literally everyone at Ridge Crest High is using. Even the principal is on one of Orion’s products.”
Rachel releases Greg’s arm, eyes widening in horror. “You’re joking, right?”
“My merchandise is one hundred percent natural,” Orion’s voice intrudes on their private conversation.
Rachel pivots, prudent in keeping the dangerous man in her line of sight at all times.
“It’s what gives me an edge over the other manufacturers.” He gestures for her to take a seat. “Sit, please.”
“I’d rather stand.” She basically spits the words.
“Suit yourself.” He walks around her and picks up a wooden box from the coffee table before he takes a seat on a leather La-Z-Boy recliner.
Greg sits on the sofa, looking too comfortable for Rachel’s liking.
“I take it this isn’t a social visit or a business deal, so what can I do you for?”
“Remember that cave we found a few weeks ago, near the creek?”
“I do,” Orion says. “What about it?”
“You said you know where it leads.”
Orion closes the box. “Yes, but if I remember correctly, I told you not to go in there.”
“Where does it go?” Greg wears a grave expression. When Orion doesn’t answer immediately, he continues, “Look, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, and this is quickly becoming a life and death situation. Tell us about the cave.”
Orion considers Greg for a second longer before he turns his attention to Rachel. He appraises her from afar like she’s a gourmet meal and he’s a starving man. He laps up every inch of her, making her feel self-conscious and confident at the same time.
Rachel returns the look, though her bravado ebbs when the girl’s warning repeats itself again in a whisper.
They’ll never find your body.
“Did you really come all the way to Ashfall just to hear about a forgotten cave, MacCleary?” Orion says.
“Lose the ‘Mac’ if you want to make an impact next time,” Rachel says, swinging her umbrella to and fro. “Also, I have no idea why Greg dragged me here.”
“Where does the cave go, and what lives in it?” Greg pushes.
A cheeky smile crosses Orion’s otherworldly face as he stares at Rachel. His eyes, those swirling galaxies that make Rachel go weak in the knees, glint with danger. “Do you want to know?” he asks Rachel, ignoring Greg completely.
Rachel shrugs, nonchalant. “Sure, why not?”
“The cave doesn’t go anywhere. It’s just a cave,” Orion says, his voice barely a whisper. “What are you doing searching for forgotten caves, Rachel Cleary?”
They’ll never find your body. They’ll never find your body. They’ll never find your body ...
“What are you?” Rachel asks in the same tone he used, horrified that he knows her name without her or Greg mentioning it.
Orion pushes his black hair out of his face to reveal an unnaturally pointed ear, and says softly, menacingly, “I’m what the MacCleary and Fraser families are supposed to keep out of Shadow Grove.”
Twelve
Extinguishing The Stars
Faster than her synapses can transmit the message of danger through her brain, Orion vanishes into thin air from his seat across the room and reappears directly in front of her. Rachel slams with her back into the wall and loses her grip on the umbrella, which clatters to the linoleum floor. He’s so close she can feel his body heat radiating off him and smell the earthy scent that clings to his skin.
She looks at a blank-faced Greg, who’s still staring at the recliner, before she turns her gaze on Orion.
“What did you do to him?” she hisses, her voice steady, stern.
“If I were you, I’d be more worried about myself,” Orion says, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Your family is remarkably bad at keeping Fae contained in our realm. All it took me to get into Shadow Grove was a bribe and some sweet talking. Of course, everyone was preoccupied with Adolf Hitler at the time.
“I hear the Fraser family is much more difficult to persuade, though. In fact, ever since Nancy Crenshaw’s taken over her father’s responsibilities to keep the Fae out of Shadow Grove, there are rumors that only a single Halfling has crossed into the Human Realm, and it took a MacCleary to convince Nancy to open the border.”
“Misty Robins,” Rachel blurts out the name without meaning to, surprising them both.
He presses one hand against the wall beside Rachel’s head and leans forward. “That’s who you let out of Orthega? Oh, your family truly is an inadequate bunch.”
Rachel stares at him. “At least my family doesn’t manufacture and sell drugs to high school students.”
Orion grins viciously as he places his other hand against the wall, effectively trapping Rachel in place. “You’re right, they don’t. They just allow a Halfling with extinction level abilities to enter the Human Realm. Damn it!” He slams his fist into the wall beside her head.
Rachel flinches, squeezes her eyes shut, but doesn’t permit herself to show any other sign of fear. Spider web cracks reach out to either side of the impact zone. Plaster crumbles and rains down over her.
“Where is she?” Orion asks, all pretense of him having the upper hand gone. “Where?” he says louder, his voice angrier now.
Rachel opens her eyes and slowly turns back to face him, defiant. “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”
He regards her, studies her face intently. “Of course you won’t, because she made a deal with your family.”
Orion steps away from the wall and pushes his fingers through his hair. Just as she’s about to try and make a run for it, his voice enters her mind with a callous: “Sorry in advance, but this is the least p
ainful option I can offer you.”
Without warning, faster than she can comprehend, Orion spins and pins her back against the wall.
His lips suddenly crash into hers, and Rachel struggles against him by slamming her palms up against his torso with as much force as she can muster, pushing him away in the hope of breaking free. Her outrage is muffled by his mouth, turning her hateful curses into weak, helpless sounds. His one hand moves to caress her cheek, his fingertips softly tracing their way from her temple to her chin. She bends her knee, ready to lift it straight up into his groin and battle off the unsolicited advance, but he simply blocks her by stepping closer.
Something changes then. She feels her fight draining away, her anger fizzles out. It’s as if her entire being is thawing, like her every atom is melting into him. She closes her eyes and savors the way his lips mold perfectly to hers. Rachel steps closer to his solid, warm body as his hands snake around her waist. Orion gently parts her lips with his tongue, begging for entry. She gives into his request, deepening the kiss, which grows more sensuous. Fire seems to run through her veins, sparks fly wherever their bodies touch. Her heart races and her mind quietens as her hands lock around his neck.
“Forgive me.” Orion’s whisper intrudes into her thoughts as his tongue slips a tiny, circular object into her mouth. She barely has a chance to register the bitter coating of the pill before she automatically swallows it down.
Rachel’s eyes shoot open again only to find him looking back at her.
“Don’t fight it. I’ll be with you the entire time.”
Orion’s face blurs at the edges, slowly dissipates. His hands are still wrapped around her waist, even if he’s nowhere in sight. She averts her attention to Greg, who’s still in his catatonic state, staring at the recliner, before the apartment vanishes. Her breath hitches as the world as she knows it is replaced by an opulent chamber, bedecked in ivory and gold. She stares into a gilded frame, but the reflection isn’t hers. Instead, she sees Orion, an older, cleaner version of him—possibly in his early twenties, if she has to put a number to him—with shorter hair and clothed in the finest brocaded silk money can buy.
The Night Weaver Page 13