The Night Weaver

by Monique Snyman

  She nods, unclasps the necklace, and quickly fixes it around her neck. The pendant lies heavily against her chest, but it feels as if it should’ve been there all along instead of being hauled around in her hand.

  “What happened to your father?” she asks, pulling her fingers through her hair as she allows her brunette locks to cascade over her shoulders.

  “Misty happened,” he says. “She gave one of the escaped prisoners another stolen artifact, the Travolis Ring, which granted him entry into the King’s Chambers. My father was disemboweled before the King’s Guard could open the doors to investigate his cry for help.”

  Orion’s candor on the matter is disconcerting, but his eyes tell a story of unhealed pain that continues to chip away parts of him. She finally recognizes he carries the same sadness she’s lugged around for the past eight years, ever since her father was taken by pancreatic cancer. Granted, Liam Cleary went quietly in comparison to disembowelment. Rachel can’t even bring herself to offer him a sympathetic platitude upon hearing of his loss. After all, what do you say to someone whose nearest and dearest was disemboweled?

  “Don’t worry. That particular prisoner was recaptured and executed,” he continues. “Nova made sure of it.”

  “Okay,” she whispers. “Do you honestly think Misty Robins let those prisoners out?”

  He smirks and shrugs. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” Orion pauses, allowing the words to sink in, before he clears his throat and shifts in his seat. “You can’t go after the Night Weaver, Rachel. Leave her alone. After a while, she’ll grow bored and go into hibernation again. It’s better that way.”

  “Better for whom?” Rachel sits forward in her seat, keeping her spine ramrod straight and her shoulders pushed back. “Right now, my mother, Greg’s mother, and fifteen other women are being controlled by the Night Weaver. There could be more people we aren’t aware of. If my suspicions are correct, these brainwashed victims are the ones responsible for kidnapping innocent children in order to hand over to the Night Weaver, who in turn sends over a shadow creature—”

  “We call them Darklings.”

  “—that vaguely resembles their dead loved ones. This type of stuff destroys more than a few people, Orion. It can destroy the entire town.”

  Orion’s expression changes to disbelief. “Someone would’ve said something if the Night Weaver’s influence was half as bad as you claim it to be.”

  “Ask Greg if you don’t believe me.”

  His lips pull into a tight, thin line. Orion is about to talk when Rachel’s cell phone’s ringtone sounds, muffled by the denim fabric of his jeans. He pulls her phone from his pocket and looks at the screen, before holding it her way.

  “If you want my help, I suggest you don’t get me into any unnecessary trouble.”

  Rachel reaches for the cell phone. “I won’t,” she says.

  He pulls the phone back before she can touch the sleek, plastic protective cover.

  “I mean it. If you go into the Night Weaver’s lair, guns blazing, the only people you’ll hurt are those under her control. She’ll make them suffer, drive them mad, and then you’ll be the only one to blame.”

  “I get it. May I have my phone now, please?”

  He hands her the cell phone. “Put it on speaker.”

  She obliges him and answers the call from an unknown number with a casual, “Hello.”

  Thirteen

  Despairing Light, Prevalent Night

  Hollowness fills the apartment’s living room as the phone changes hands, or the speaker is brushed up against fabric. Footsteps echo. A distinctive dragging follows, paired with labored breathing—fearful, jagged inhalations and exhalations. The background noise is full of distant whispers: urgent, yet unclear commands.

  This isn’t a typical telemarketing or phishing call unless those scumbags have gotten creative. Rachel doubts this is the case.

  “Hello?” she repeats, holding her cell phone between herself and Orion.

  There’s a sudden scrambling like shoes trying and failing to find purchase on a gravelly terrain. Judging from the dull, albeit solid, sounds that follow and the oomphs or ughs matching the rhythm to those hits, someone is clearly being beaten up.

  “Damn it, Dougal, stop struggling,” an unfamiliar male voice comes through loudly.

  Rachel covers her mouth in time to muffle a whimper, while her other hand constricts around the phone. A mantra of some kind starts. Indistinct praising comes from multiple voices. She waits, trying to figure out the words, hoping Dougal is all right. Her anxiety levels rise.

  “Sheriff.” The weakness in Dougal’s voice is frightening. “Sheriff, this isnae right. Ye cannae do this. Mah Nan—” His protests are cut short with a definite slap, which comes over the call loud and clear.

  “Shut your mouth, boy. You’re in the presence of a goddess.”

  Sycophantic chants start anew as numerous voices—the Night Weaver’s acolytes, no doubt—praise their newfound false idol.

  “Yer all gonnae be in big trouble fer bringin’ me tae th’ forest, especially once Nan realizes I’m late fer dinner.” Somehow Dougal makes those innocent words sound like a vicious threat. More than that, though, he just kind of gave Rachel his location. The forest isn’t small, but it does narrow things down. “Ye dinnae want tae get on Nancy Crenshaw’s bad side, do ye?”

  The chanting doesn’t end, but there is a miniscule falsetto during their recitation when Mrs. Crenshaw’s name is mentioned.

  Dougal’s breathy laughter interrupts them once more, before he says, “Aye, I thought so. Yer fake goddess won’t save ye from Nancy Crenshaw’s wrath, not wh—”

  The call ends with a beep-beep-beep, possibly due to Dougal’s signal weakening. The hairs on Rachel’s neck stand on end. What now? What can she do to help him? Stunned, she can’t do more than stare at her cell phone.

  They’ll never find your body.

  Orion stands from the recliner and walks toward the corridor—giving Rachel the chance she needs to inform Mrs. Crenshaw of Dougal’s precarious situation. If this insubordination makes her a bad captive, so be it. Dougal saved her life. It’s only good manners to return the favor. She pulls the phone closer to her body, swipes across the smooth surface with her thumb to unlock the screen, and then dials Mrs. Crenshaw’s number.

  “I was just about to call you,” the old woman answers. “Will you kindly buy some milk on your way home?”

  “Th-they’ve taken Dougal,” Rachel says, her voice quivering.

  A prolonged silence settles between them before Mrs. Crenshaw says in a calm voice, “He’s too old, isn’t he? Except ...” Her sentence drifts off. “There’s an unofficial curfew in place if I’m not mistaken. The Pearson boy put it in place, no?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Crenshaw.”

  She sighs. “Ah, so the wicked bitch has fallen on desperate times. I should’ve known she would broaden her net and go for the older kids next.”

  Rachel frowns. Mrs. Crenshaw’s cool, collected response is not the way Rachel would’ve reacted to the news. Most people will blow a gasket if their child or grandchild is kidnapped. Add in the prospects of them becoming someone’s lunch and you might as well call the men in white for an extended stay at Casa del Hawthorne Memorial.

  “As my father liked to say, best to kick them while they’re down,” she says. “Dear, do me a favor and meet me at home in, oh, let’s say twenty minutes? I might need a hand getting my grandson back.”

  “Err ... okay.”

  “Good girl. See you soon.”

  The call ends, leaving Rachel speechless.

  “Greg.” Orion’s voice startles her back to her present predicament. Rachel turns to face him and follows his gaze just to see Greg come out of his stupor. “Go home, take a long bath, and forget all about coming here today. In fact, Rachel and you just hung out for a while today at your place. You never brought her here.”

  “Okay, Orion,” Greg says, obediently stan
ding. Rachel stands, too, watching him move away as though he’s in a trance. “Check you on the flip side, bro.” They bump fists as Orion opens the front door for him.

  “My car—”

  “Go straight home now,” Orion interrupts Rachel by speaking directly to Greg.

  “You got it,” Greg answers.

  Orion watches Greg leave, closes the door and slides the bolts into place, before turning to look at Rachel. “If I’d known how bad things have gotten, I would’ve dealt with her sooner.” He takes a step forward and cocks his head until his neck clicks. He repeats the action for the other side. Orion loosens his shoulders by moving them in circular motions, looking like he’s warming up for a heavyweight boxing match.

  “What are you doing?”

  “It’s been a while since I’ve gone into a real battle,” he admits, stretching his arms next. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  She blinks a few times. “How—? Did you eavesdrop on my conversation?”

  Orion points to one of his ears and says, “It’s kinda impossible not to eavesdrop when you’re a Fae.”

  “Well, okay, but I thought you wanted to steer clear of Mrs. Crenshaw?” Rachel says.

  “What type of person would I be if I allowed a teenaged girl and an old lady to go after the Night Weaver alone?” He bends down to reach for the floor, touching his toes. “It’s my fault she’s here in the first place.”

  “You’re an odd duck, Faerie Boy.”

  He looks up at her, a frown marring his forehead. “This time you didn’t spit venom when you used that term. Progress, I suppose.” Orion slowly rights himself. “I’m going to remove my glamor now. Don’t have a fit.”

  The younger, scruffier Orion vanishes an instant later, and in his place stands the older, strapping Orion, the one she’d seen in his memories. He doesn’t look nearly as regal without his crown or lavish garb, but he’s not at all unappealing to the eye. The word delectable comes to mind.

  “All right,” he says, clapping as he looks around the apartment. “Let’s go—Wait.” Orion cuts himself off and lifts an index finger, glancing at the wooden box on the coffee table. “No, I think we’re good. Come on.”

  “Are you sure?” she asks, heading toward him. “Do you need to use the bathroom before we go?”

  “So, you do have a sense of humor. Color me surprised.” He stretches his arms out, blocking Rachel’s way to the front door.

  She stops in her tracks, out of his reach. “What are you doing?”

  “Beating traffic,” Orion says. He waits for a few seconds, before he says, “If I need to explain my every move, we’re never going to have time to save your friend. Come over here and see for yourself what I mean.”

  Rachel grimaces as she steps closer and his arms wrap around her. “Mark this as one of my life’s regrets,” she grumbles.

  “The best regrets are often worth it,” he says, pulling her closer. Orion grins, looking far too triumphant for her liking.

  “Get it over with, already.”

  Rachel closes her eyes, holds her breath, and waits for this ‘beating traffic’ thing to happen. At first, there’s only a slight pressure surrounding her, and a faint headache thrashes behind her eyes. The density of the air increases, pushing into her from all sides until her breath is forced out of her lungs. Her stomach does a somersault. Head pounding, she latches onto Orion—gripping his shirt for everything she’s worth—and hides her face in his chest. The world tilts for a fraction of a second and then rights itself once more. The immense force that had made her feel like she would implode fades away.

  “You can let go now. We’re here,” Orion says.

  Rachel opens her eyes to see the bright afternoon sunlight reflect off the windows of the Fraser house. She unfurls her hands from Orion’s shirt, gulping air and swallowing down bile as she takes an uncertain step away.

  “You good?”

  She leans back against a tree and gives him a thumbs up. Her arms and hands tremble, while her legs wobble. It’s a minor problem in comparison to what Dougal is probably facing.

  Orion walks over and stands beside her, looking in the direction of the forest. “I’m impressed with how well you’re handling these revelations. Some MacCleary and Fraser descendants went through their entire lives without ever laying eyes on a Fae. You, however, have been subjected to some intense mindbenders in a relatively short time. Do I need to be worried about your mental wellbeing?”

  “It’s a bit late to worry about how your actions have affected my mind,” Rachel says, hooking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She hears Mrs. Crenshaw long before she sees her. “Truthfully, though, I tend to dissociate completely or compartmentalize stuff until I find an opportunity to work through them. When I can take stock of my victories and failures at my own pace, the outcome is better.”

  “Post-event rumination,” he says in a thoughtful voice, as if he can relate.

  Rachel nods and turns to regard her seemingly normal home, which still feels as damning as when she’d left it this morning. “If you want to stay off Mrs. Crenshaw’s hit list, I suggest you don’t tell her what she can and cannot do. She also despises arrogant people, so stay humble and don’t tell her you make drugs for a living.”

  He responds with a nasal sound to convey his displeasure. “My merchandise cannot be compared to modern drugs. What I produce are Fae elixirs and potions, packaged in a convenient pill form, yes, but they’re not harmful in any way.”

  “Right. Keep telling yourself that.”

  Rachel sees the old woman exiting the house, dressed in a pair of slacks and a button-up shirt. She glances at Orion first, curiosity flickering in her piercing blue eyes, and turns her attention to Rachel.

  “You told me you were going to Pearson Manor,” Mrs. Crenshaw says, grabbing her cane from the porch’s railing. Slowly, she makes her way down the steps. “Next time send me a text if your plans change. I don’t want to hear someone found your body in a ditch somewhere. Are we understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Rachel says, walking closer.

  “I’m not getting any younger. Come on, both of you,” Mrs. Crenshaw continues in her no-nonsense tone, heading for the forest’s entrance.

  Not wanting to annoy her any further, Rachel quickly follows. Orion straggles behind, seemingly wary to get too close to Nancy Crenshaw.

  The old woman casts a glare his way. “Do I want to know how you got into Shadow Grove?”

  “I’ve been here since before you were a twinkle in your parents’ eyes,” he answers, his voice no longer holding the same self-confidence as earlier.

  Revenge truly is sweet. Who knew?

  Mrs. Crenshaw harrumphs.

  There’s an edge to the silence between them, a tension that could curdle milk. Rachel looks between Mrs. Crenshaw and then to Orion, wondering who’d say the wrong thing first. Her money is on Orion, but Mrs. Crenshaw’s an unpredictable firecracker by nature. It could go either way.

  Hoping to diffuse the situation by keeping them focused on the more pressing matter, Rachel asks, “How are we going to get Dougal back?”

  Mrs. Crenshaw catches Rachel’s eye, before averting her gaze back to the road as they near the ACCESS PROHIBITED sign. “The Night Weaver hibernates for long periods of time, only awakening to feed. Sometimes centuries pass without her coming out of her slumber. As a result, she hasn’t assimilated well into our society and knows next to nothing about technology,” she explains without giving away any details of the plan she’s concocted.

  “That’s not really an answer, Mrs. Crenshaw. How do we stop her once and for all?”

  Mrs. Crenshaw pulls her shoulders up. “If there were instructions available on how to euthanize the Night Weaver, I would’ve done it years ago,” she says. “Maybe you should ask your friend if he knows how to kill her.”

  Rachel crosses her arms. “Yeah, I already tried. Orion doesn’t have a clue on how to do it either.”

  “Correction,” he sa
ys. “I know how to destroy the Night Weaver, but we’ll need an army and an Intra-Canter or two.”

  “Intra-Canter?” Rachel asks.

  “Intra-Canters are best described as mind-walkers or internal-influencers. Some can possess you. Others can kill you from the inside without laying a hand on you physically. The most feared Intra-Canters, however, are able to enter your mind and wreak havoc.”

  “Like your brother?”

  “Mhmmm.”

  “So, if he’s an Intra-Canter, what are you supposed to be?” Rachel continues, dropping her arms to her sides as Mrs. Crenshaw comes to a stop in front of the forest entrance.

  “I’m considered an accomplished Omni-Opus,” Orion says. “An Omni-Opus can easily do a bit of everything but specializes in one or two schools of magic. I specialize in five.”

  “Enough chitchat,” Mrs. Crenshaw says. “We need to focus.” She steps through the unseen barrier and shudders. “After all these years, I still hate going into the forest,” she mutters, moving onward.

  Rachel goes through the invisible barrier next, shivering as the electricity-that’s-not-electricity runs through her body. She takes a second to gather herself before rushing after Mrs. Crenshaw. Orion takes up the rear of the traversing trio, staying close but keeping quiet.

  “Mrs. Crenshaw, are you sure this is wise?” Rachel asks, ducking beneath a low branch as she catches up to the old woman, who moves through the uneven terrain without much difficulty.

  “It’s never wise to go after Fae,” Mrs. Crenshaw says.

  “You know what I mean.”

  Mrs. Crenshaw shoots a penetrating glare her way, a not-so-subtle suggestion to drop the subject. Rachel raises her hands in surrender. She studies the woody landscape, wondering how far they are from the path she and Dougal had taken when they had first entered the forest a couple of days ago. Everything looks the same in here.

  “Do you know where we’re going?” Rachel asks.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Crenshaw says, blowing out air through her nose. “Honestly, Rachel, what is it with this interrogation?”

  She shrugs. “I’m curious. How did these followers—”