“Acolytes,” Orion offers.
“All right. How did the Night Weaver’s acolytes slip past us and get into the forest? There’s always someone at home, keeping an eye out. I didn’t even see any cars near the entrance.”
“There are other ways to get in and out, I’m sure,” Mrs. Crenshaw mutters.
“I found some tracks over here,” Orion says from somewhere farther to their left. “Also, there seems to have been a substantial scuffle.”
“Dougal’s a big boy and too smart for his own good sometimes,” Mrs. Crenshaw explains, walking off to study the tracks. “He wouldn’t have gone quietly. Here.” She points to a specific area in the dirt with her cane. “This is what we follow.”
Orion joins Mrs. Crenshaw. He scopes the area before he waves his hand across the ground. The sound of pebbles and rocks rolling against each other, sweeping the forest floor clean, makes Rachel stare in awe. Beneath a thin layer of dirt and foliage, a brick path leads deeper into the woods.
Mrs. Crenshaw walks down the path revealed by Orion’s magic trick, cane tapping every now and then when she needs to put her full weight on it. “You unnecessarily wasted magic, but it’s a kind gesture,” she says over her shoulder.
“That’s Mrs. Crenshaw’s way of saying thank you,” Rachel explains as she passes Orion, patting him on his shoulder. “Good job with the brown-nosing.”
“I was not—” Orion sighs. “You’re an incredibly difficult person to please.”
She follows her elderly neighbor, sensing the Fae on her heels, and smiles. “In my experience, complicated people are more interesting.”
“Rachel, you do realize your Fae friend is possibly old enough to have had a dinosaur as a pet, right?”
“I’m not that old,” Orion argues.
“Either way, you two should stop flirting,” Mrs. Crenshaw says.
“I wasn’t flirting.” Rachel purses her lips together. Behind her, Orion chuckles quietly. “What’s the plan to get Dougal back, anyway?”
“Confuse, scatter, rescue. Simple,” Mrs. Crenshaw says softly over her shoulder. “Now hush or you’ll give away our position.”
About fifteen minutes later, they come across an area where large trees seem to have been woven together to create a tunnel through the forest. Dead branches are braided into an archway at the entrance. A copious amount of petrified tree roots hang across the unassuming entrance and massive weeds grow unabated along the front. Mrs. Crenshaw uses her cane to whack the nuisances aside as she enters the gaping mouth of the tunnel, while Rachel bats away roots to follow her inside.
A flashlight beam suddenly cuts through the darkness, brightening the area.
The interior consists of gigantic dead trees that create arches, which are emphasized by shadows that recede into pitch-black darkness. Soot and smoke, redolent of ancient fires, and with a sense of stygian gloom, stain the walls. The pitter-patter of rodents changes the place from semi-eerie to über-creepy.
How many ghosts lurk in this underground labyrinth? Better yet, who built this place to begin with?
When Rachel glances behind her, she finds Orion’s silhouette standing there. A soft, golden glow emanates from his hand, bright enough to act as a flashlight, but not a manmade object.
“Fae light,” he explains, releasing the ball of light. It floats forward, toward Rachel. Suspended in the air, hovering at eye level, the ball only moves when she does. She reaches out to poke the sphere of light and the surface ripples with a variety of golden shades—from antique gold to bright yellow gold. The ball bobs up and down, seemingly gleeful from the contact before it spins in place.
“Thank you,” she says as he creates a second ball of light for himself.
Mrs. Crenshaw sweeps the area with her flashlight again and a rat scurries away, dashing into a pile of garbage lining the walkway. “Do you believe in ghosts, Rachel?”
“These days, I don’t oppose the existence of anything. Why?”
“No reason,” Mrs. Crenshaw says in a solemn tone.
They walk through the ink-black tunnel, which branches off in different directions. Now and then, when the lighting is just right, Rachel can just make out immense groined vaults running parallel to their current route. She can hear the turbulent waters of a forgotten river echoing through the dank subterranean landscape as Mrs. Crenshaw leads them into lesser-traveled tunnels. Foreboding darkness overpowers both the flashlight and the Fae lights, swallowing the feeble halos of brightness after only a few feet. How she knows where she’s going is anyone’s guess. Nevertheless, this place, hidden within the forest, would be the perfect breeding ground for all kinds of evil. Vermin flourish here, too, considering how many beady eyes lurk amongst the many scattered alcoves and grates, which accounts for at least some of the smells wafting through the air.
Tap-tap-tap. The hollow sound comes from somewhere close. Rachel jerks in surprise. Orion walks up to her, holds his hand out to the side, to where she could’ve sworn the sound originated from, and his Fae light rushes forward to brighten the area. The Fae light isn’t a match for the utter darkness.
Tap-tap-tap.
“What is that?” Rachel whispers.
“Knockers,” Orion whispers back.
“Knockers?” She raises an eyebrow.
“Knockers are displaced when mines close down, so they have no other option than to move to long-forgotten underground ruins. New York’s underground mazes are filled with knockers,” he explains and shrugs. “They’re mostly harmless, but we’d better get a move on lest we get on their nerves.”
Rachel nods and gives Mrs. Crenshaw a swift once-over. She looks paler than usual, drained of energy. “Are you okay, Mrs. Crenshaw?”
“I’m geriatric, not an invalid. Relax.”
“Don’t be stubborn. If you’re tired—”
“Rachel, we’re not having this conversation now,” Mrs. Crenshaw hisses. “You two are lagging. Move it or leave.”
Tap-tap-tap.
The sound grows louder, closer, more insistent.
Rachel looks over to where the arched vaults are, into the nothingness they had left behind.
“That knocker is trying to get our attention for some reason.” Rachel points in the sound’s general direction and her Fae light moves over the area, stopping only when it hovers above the creature that’s been following them. The knocker is a two-foot tall teenager, dressed in a pair of tiny jeans, a plaid shirt, and a small hard hat that probably serves as protection from cave-ins. A utility kit is strapped around his waist, but the place where his hammer should’ve been is empty. The hammer—small but remarkably modern—is held firmly in his hand, resting against the brick wall.
She smiles, opens her mouth to greet the little guy, but Mrs. Crenshaw stops her by placing a firm hand on her shoulder.
The old woman leans closer and says, “Don’t. Knockers are classified as a subspecies of Fae. Most of the creatures in that taxonomic ranking are vicious.”
Rachel closes her mouth but keeps her gaze fixed on the knocker. He taps his hammer against the wall a few more times, his expression turning grave as he regards her for a while longer, before he dashes off in the opposite direction. The darkness swallows him whole.
As soon as he’s gone, Mrs. Crenshaw visibly relaxes beside her. “Knockers, pixies, and some other garden variety faeries cross over into Shadow Grove unchecked. Their magic keeps the border up and the troublemakers out. It’s a symbiotic relationship.”
Rachel snaps her fingers and her Fae light returns.
“How are you doing that?” Orion asks Rachel.
“What?”
“The Fae light—”
A gravelly titter interrupts him, coming from beyond the trickle of light shining ahead of Mrs. Crenshaw’s flashlight beam. Rachel glances at Orion as stone-cold calmness drains out of his face and an almost worried expression takes its place. A second, shriller giggle joins the first. Behind them, a third voice cackles along. Rachel, Mrs. Crens
haw, and Orion begin to search for the owners of those voices, their lights weakening with every passing second. They find nothing, just an all-consuming darkness.
The flashlight flickers in Mrs. Crenshaw’s hand.
“I can’t see jack,” she mumbles, tapping the bezel against her palm. The flashlight goes out. “Damn it.”
“We seem to have wandered into a Darkling nest,” Orion says.
The Fae lights both lose their buoyancy, sinking toward the ground. Darkness swoops in. As the glowing balls touch down, their lights fade out.
The laughter grows hysterical.
Fourteen
Dark And Twisted
Mrs. Crenshaw’s panicky breathlessness is emphasized by the way her dainty feet shuffle hesitantly across the gritty floor. There’s an uncharacteristic worry in her voice as she says, “Make yourself useful and create more of those glowing ball thingies.”
Rachel fears for her elderly neighbor’s wellbeing. What if Mrs. Crenshaw has a heart attack? What if she falls and breaks her hip in this incredible darkness? There are too many variables working against the old woman, regardless of her fierce stubbornness, to allow her to come along further.
“They’ll just feed on the light,” Orion responds in a calm, collected tone of voice.
Something slimy and cold touches Rachel’s ankle. She jumps away, heart pounding as she discerns a silhouette of whatever’s in the darkness. “Orion, can you get Mrs. Crenshaw out of here safely?” she quickly asks, suppressing a shiver of revulsion.
“Don’t you dare, Rachel Cleary,” Mrs. Crenshaw growls her warning.
“Yes,” he says, ignoring the old woman’s protest. “Will you be okay for a few seconds by yourself?”
Before she can answer him, something elongated smacks across her ankle, curls around her calf, and crawls up her leg. She’s half-certain it’s a tentacle with suckers kissing her skin.
“Y-yup, but come back fast.” Every part of Rachel’s skin creeps with increasing disgust as this unseen entity moves higher up her leg, making slurping noises as it goes. Slime runs down her leg and collects on the brim of her sneaker, a thick mucus discharge of some kind that smells like rot. It could be an alien snake, maybe a weird octopus’ arm—maybe something completely different.
Mrs. Crenshaw shouts, “Unhand me. Let go o—”
Silence falls.
It’s almost as if every Darkling has taken a collective breath, anxiously anticipating Orion’s return. The tendril around her leg creeps higher. She reaches down and tugs at the tentacle. It rebels by constricting tighter, squeezing hard enough to make her snatch back her hand. Rachel suppresses an urge to touch it again and somehow force herself free from its nauseating undertakings, to pull the ghastly tentacle off and to stomp on it until the thing—because it can’t be called anything other than a thing—shrivels up and dies.
She balls both her hands into fists and inhales deeply through her mouth, the putrid stench somehow tasting even worse than it smells. She gags, covers the lower half of her face with the back of her hand, and clears her mind of all thoughts involving the sordid thing now crawling up her thigh.
“Rachel?” Orion’s voice rebounds from the vaulted ceilings and the laughter surrounding them begins anew.
Something bumps into her knee, almost making her lose her footing. She blindly kicks out with her free foot and connects with something solid, which crunches sickly beneath her sneaker. This time she can’t stop herself from cringing.
“Over here.”
In the distance, she hears a distinct punch. Flesh meets flesh. A nearby crash echoes. The laughter fades as a battle wages in the darkness.
“Hold on,” Orion calls out. “I’ll be right with you.”
“I literally can’t go anywhere,” she says, the tendril already moving up to her hips, wrapping her in a tight, slick embrace. The slime drips down, covering her lower body in goo.
“Problems?”
“Nothing serious, I hope,” Rachel says. “Tell me something interesting while I wait?”
His laughter is unlike the Darklings’ tittering and giggling and cackling. There’s warmth there, a pleasant geniality. It’s infectious enough to make her smile without having any reason to do so.
An enormous crack reverberates through the tunnel and dust—she truly hopes it’s only dust—rains down. This darkness is more than an obstacle. It plays with your head; makes you imagine the worst. It’s psychological warfare at its finest.
A few more forceful impacts sound, violent and remorseless. “What do you want to know?” he asks, hardly sounding winded.
“I don’t know. What does Nebulius mean?”
She hears bones crunch and sickening squelches coming from somewhere closer. A terrified screech, both angry and afraid, sounds. It’s cut short by another loud crunch.
“Nebulius means heavenly bodies,” he says.
“Okay. Let’s try something more difficult. Misty’s note mentioned something about her vengeance starting when the Miser rises. What’s all that about?”
Hands land on her shoulders. “Orion,” she yells, heart thumping like crazy. If she could see anything at all, her reaction might’ve been less frantic, but the blinding darkness is so comprehensive she can’t help herself.
“It’s me,” he says gently, not without humor. “To answer your question, the Miser is what we call the members of the Dark Court. Aurial are members of the Light Court. Now, what’s the problem?”
Rachel moves her hands over his arms and up his shoulders. They travel to his neck, over his chiseled chin, touching high cheekbones, before coming to a rest on either side of his face. After making sure it really is Orion, she says, “There’s something wrapped around me and it’s moving up my waist.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“Thank you for stating the obvious, Faerie Boy. I can’t see anything either, but it’s there. I feel it.”
“Show me,” he says, covering her hands with his, and allowing Rachel to guide them to her waist, to where the constricting tentacle now sits, unmoving. “Here?” Orion asks when she stops.
“Yes. What is it?”
“It’s a type of Darkling. A rare one,” he says, fingers pushing into the space between her body and the creature.
She feels his hands grip the width of the tentacle, sliding down slowly until he reaches the point where her navel is before he gently tugs at it. The Darkling responds by squeezing and curling tighter around her body, trapping Orion’s hand in the space between. He tries a second time, slowly loosening the creature’s grip, but the entity’s reaction is the same. It clamps fast, strangling her waist.
Rachel gasps and reaches for his forearms, digging her fingernails into his wrists as she desperately sucks oxygen into her lungs. “Stop.” It feels like her insides are being liquefied by the pressure the Darkling exudes, squeezing her like she’s a ripe, juicy orange. “Please, stop.”
More and more voices surround them, laughing at their expense, drowning out all other sounds.
Orion leans closer and says in Rachel’s ear, “Trust me, Clarré.”
Using both hands, he pulls harder at the Darkling, bending it slowly. The crisp sound, reminiscent of breaking a fresh carrot, quietens the taunting laughter. The creature around her waist battles back by sucking harder at her exposed skin, constricting even more. She’s ready to start screaming from the pain when a golden light—similar to the Fae lights he’d created earlier—envelops his hands and brightens the gloom. The tentacle glows reddish-brown under his touch, illuminating the cracks where he bent it.
“Almost there ...”
The shrieking begins, grisly dying sounds echoing through miles and miles of tunnels. An indescribable cacophony, the uproar of outrage, joins in as the remaining Darklings scream along with their burning brother, almost as if its pain is their pain.
Rachel watches the reddish-brown turn white-hot, the coloring and cracks spreading across its serpentine body. She doesn�
�t burn along with the Darkling, but its deadlight eyes dim as its surface sizzles and floats away like burning tissue paper drifting on a breeze. An unpleasant odor, unlike anything she’s ever smelled, fills the space. It’s something between decay and sulfur and assaults her nostrils. Her gag reflexes are stimulated again, causing her to dry heave.
“Don’t vomit on me,” Orion urges over the ruckus.
She offers him a queasy smile as she holds her breath, waiting for him to finish burning the infernal entity off her body. Just as Rachel feels herself becoming faint from a lack of air, she can move freely again. Not wanting to get any of the residual smoke into her lungs, she clasps her hand over her mouth again and breathes in shallow breaths.
His warm hand finds hers in the darkness. The rough exterior of his palm, riddled with callouses and peppered with scars, presses against hers, before she laces her fingers with his. With her thumb, she traces one of those linear marks running up the side of his index finger, crisscrossed with other thicker welts. At first, she wants to ask if he’d lost a fight with a blender, but when her fingertips graze against the back of his hand where more raised scars mar his skin, she decides not to make jokes.
He leads her through the darkness, carefully navigating the area in near-blindness.
“I feel like I should take you on a date after this is over,” Orion says.
“You wish.”
Chuckling, he says, “Harsh, Clarré. Harsh.”
“What’s with you calling me Clarré all of a sudden?”
“It’s your new nickname since you insist on calling me Faerie Boy.” He halts his advancement and Rachel stops by his side. A soft droning, a repetitive sentence spoken with the fervor of zealots, comes from nearby. “Here’s the plan: I’m going to go in and keep the Night Weaver busy while you sneak in afterward and save the kids.”
“Solid plan, but there’s a problem.”
“Which is?”
“I can’t even see my hand in front of my face,” Rachel says. The golden glow forms in his hand, swirling and churning and growing brighter as it shapes itself into a sphere. “That helps.”
The Night Weaver Page 16