“Keep it in your hand, otherwise it’ll die out faster,” he says, placing the ball of light into her cupped palm. “Now, close your hand into an open fist.”
Rachel obliges and the sphere becomes smaller, shining through her skin and bones. She unfurls her fingers again and the sphere grows bigger.
“There we go. Are you ready?”
“One last thing before we walk towards certain death ...” Rachel releases his hand and moves it up to his neck. She pulls him down to her level and presses her lips against his with the same intensity as when he’d kissed her earlier.
Orion snakes one hand around her waist and rests it against the small of her back.
Her heart both races in excitement and pounds hard with desire. Before the kiss can turn into anything else, Rachel pulls away from him. She moves her hand down his shoulder and pats him gently on his chest. “There’s nothing quite like kissing a guy your mother won’t approve of to help get the adrenaline pumping. Don’t get yourself killed, okay?”
“I’ll try my best.” Orion’s voice is husky, seductive.
“You’d better because I might need you in the future when I have the urge to be rebellious again.” Rachel pushes herself onto the tips of her toes and brushes her lips against his a final time before stepping away. “Lead the way.”
Orion walks ahead of her, toward the voices repeating a one-sentence mantra in a language Rachel can’t understand. The tunnel opens into a large chamber with a high ceiling. In the center, a meager flame burns inside a metal trashcan, making more smoke than light. Rachel spots the mom club and a few men she’s seen around town, all standing in front of a distorted, elevated throne. Sheriff Carter stands at the front, his blubbery figure recognizable even from this distance.
The Night Weaver perches on her throne, basking in the adoration of her devotees. She has a raven-like quality about her, seemingly resting on a gravestone, ready to caw at the first passerby so she can steal their soul. She’s in her element here; a queen of death in her court of rot.
“Where are they?” Rachel whispers. “Where are the kids?”
He points to the farthest wall—no, it’s not a wall. The hollowed-out tree grows alongside others, which are so densely packed together they form a realistic-looking wall. Inside the hollowing, however, something bulges outward, like a black tumor ready to explode. Rachel gazes across the wall of trees and finds others with similar black lumps, malignantly spreading to every part of the chamber. An oily sheen coats those devilish sores, gleaming in the faint firelight as shadows dance across the macabre wall decorations.
The shadows flicker in and out of existence, humanoid, yet monstrous in shape, creating a grim atmosphere.
“Do you see those trees covered with the black membranes?” he whispers back.
“Yes,” Rachel says.
“She keeps the children in stasis for years, feeding off their fear, then she moves on to their souls, before eventually eating the empty shells they’ve left behind,” Orion explains. He remains quiet for a while, evaluating the chamber, and says, “Do me a favor? Run if it looks like I’m losing. Call for the knockers and they’ll guide you to the entrance.”
“Okay,” she says. “You won’t lose, though?”
Orion grimaces and shrugs. “It’s best if I have a Plan B in place. Cockiness gets people killed, you know.”
Rachel rolls her eyes. “Go annoy her, Faerie Boy, so I can do my part.”
He winks and casually strolls out of the tunnel to enter the chamber. Orion studies his nails, acting like he doesn’t have a care in the world, and heads past the flaming trashcan. He sidesteps a pile of debris littered across the floor and pushes through the congregation of adults with a courteous ‘pardon me’ or ‘excuse me’, interrupting their adulation. The chanting stops and a confused mumbling starts up as the Night Weaver’s acolytes stare at the disruptive newcomer.
Rachel spots her mother in the crowd, wearing a blank expression, and she wonders—for the umpteenth time—whether there’s anything left of the woman who’d given birth to her.
Orion sets his hand on the raised dais, tilts his head, and says, “I love what you’ve done with the place.”
The Night Weaver’s cloak lifts her off the throne, angles her upright in the air and the tattered hem spreads out every which way. From afar, she looks like a demonic peacock ruffling its feathers as a predator comes into its line of sight. Her acolytes scatter out of the way of danger, whether they’re compelled to do so or because their instincts override her influence. Rachel can’t be sure, but she uses the opportunity of disorder to dim her Fae light and sneak inside the chamber.
“You dare to enter my domain uninvited?” the Night Weaver asks.
“Inertia has rendered you soft.” Orion barks a laugh. “The Night Weaver I know wouldn’t have partaken in idle chitchat. Is it possible that one of Orthega’s most feared criminals, the infamous Night Weaver who fills the nightmares of Faelings across the Realm, has lost her—what’s the word—pizzazz?”
Rachel reaches the nearest hollow tree with its distended tumor, located in a corner on the farthest wall from the throne. The membrane consists of slimy black ribbons covering the hollowing, which feels semi-hardened, but is still full-on gross. She imagines the children inside undergoing a pupation period, transforming into beautiful butterflies instead of withering away as the Night Weaver drains them of everything they are. Imagining good things is all she can do to prevent the fear from getting the better of her.
She places her hand against the oily substance, which squelches through the gaps between her fingers and squirts onto the back of her hand. She meets resistance with her palm. The gross-factor involved in penetrating the squishy, thick membrane underneath those icky ribbons is the stuff of nightmares. She pushes her arm elbow-deep until she feels something solid on the other side and stretches her fingers to trace the object—a familiar chin, tight-lipped mouth, and an improperly-healed nasal fracture on the bridge of the nose.
Dougal.
She slips her hand back through the hole, grabs the edge of the membrane, and tears one-handedly at the thick, slimy covering entrapping her friend. The gooey, palm-sized pieces fall away easily enough, and soon Dougal’s entire face is uncovered. Using her sludge-covered hand, she grabs him by his shoulder and shakes him. Rachel whispers his name loudly, hoping he’ll wake from his unnatural sleep. She glances behind her, sees Orion and the Night Weaver still catching up, while the acolytes’ attention is fixed solely on them.
“Dougal,” she hisses again, shaking him harder. “Wake up.”
Nothing happens.
Hoping he won’t be angry, she raises her hand and slaps him hard across the cheek, leaving a black, sticky handprint against his pale skin. His eyes shoot open and his jaw goes slack as he readies to yell. Not wanting to take chances, she covers his mouth with the same sticky hand, muffling his enraged words.
“Shush,” she says, looking over her shoulder again. “She’ll hear.” Dougal nods in understanding, and Rachel slowly removes her hand. “Can you get out by yourself?”
“Aye,” Dougal whispers back, already tearing through the remaining membrane. “Go. I’ll help get th’ weans out.”
Rachel moves on to the neighboring hollow tree a few steps away. She repeats the process of sticking her hand through the membrane but saves time by immediately tearing a large piece of the gooey substance off. She drops it to the ground, leaving a big enough hole to ease a small child out. Eight-year-old Dana Crosby sits there, her eyes shut tightly and her face ashen, too big to fit through the hole Rachel’s created. The poor girl looks like she could use a good meal and a long bath, but otherwise, she’s physically sound. Mentally and emotionally, it’s a whole other story, Rachel’s sure.
If any of these kids remember what they’ve been through, the local therapists are going to make a lot of bank soon.
Rachel struggles for what seems like forever to rip open the tough membrane of Dana’
s prison cell in the hollow tree. Eventually, as she becomes so desperate to release the girl, her own comfort no longer matters. She bites at the membrane, tearing it apart with her teeth. Thick, inky liquid runs from her mouth and drips down her chin and onto the front of her shirt, staining the fabric. She spits out the oily fluid and wipes her face with her already ruined shirt. The Fae light in her left-hand acts nervously, pulsing faster—on what she decides to call its ‘low setting’—the longer she struggles.
Dougal, now free, takes over the task of helping Dana out.
Rachel moves on to the next protruding growth against the wall, then the next, and the one afterward. Meanwhile, she keeps a wary eye on Orion, who’s insulting the Night Weaver to keep her interest from wandering off to what’s happening in the shadows. Somehow, someway, he knows exactly which of the crone’s buttons to press, because more than once it seems like she must hold herself back from attacking him. Behind Rachel, Dougal wakes the kids one after the other, then leads them into the tunnels two-by-two and returns for the rest. He’s efficient and able to keep the children calm and quiet during their great escape.
As Rachel nears the last couple of hollow trees, located behind the asymmetrical throne of trash, something crunches underfoot. Well-hidden by the dais, she opens her hand slightly for the Fae light to grow brighter, lifts her foot, and looks at the ivory fragments beneath the sole of her shoe. She bends down to study the odd garbage, wearing a grimace.
A little voice inside her head, the one that always warns her when things aren’t kosher, tells her to look up. Rachel’s gaze moves across the gritty stone floor, across to the back of the dais.
More of the ivory fragments litter the ground, surrounding a pile of blanched bones. Thousands of different types of bones—femurs and vertebrae and phalanges and ribs—belonging to countless victims, lie there in a heap. At the top, a tiny, cracked skull with hollow eye sockets stares back at her.
Her heart skips a beat.
The harrowing imagery takes a moment to process, and she tucks away the information for later evaluation. She stands up ever so slowly, her legs wobbling as she gathers her courage, and drags herself to the next cocoon.
The child’s skull is seared into her memory.
Such a tragic, indescribable end to an unlived life.
“Prince, you try my patience with your lies.” The Night Weaver’s menacing voice indicates she’s had enough of the cajoling.
Rachel agrees; it’s time Orion put an end to her existence.
She goes about opening the last cocoons with cold, systematic movements, struggling to keep the visual of the skull tucked away in one of her mind’s many compartments. If she starts wondering who the kid was before the Night Weaver sank her claws into some unsuspecting adult, she’d not be able to function. She won’t be able to help get the living kids to safety.
Rachel shuts her eyes and inhales deeply, clearing away anything in her mind that could put her out of commission. Later, when this is over, she’ll allow herself to have a good, long cry over the lives lost, thanks to the Night Weaver’s insatiable hunger and horrendous brutality.
She opens her eyes and punches a big enough hole in the second-to-last membranous cell. Becky Goldstein sits inside, an expression of dread prominent on her sleeping face.
Don’t think about it, Rachel. Don’t think about the things they’ve had to endure. Just get them out.
On the other side of the throne, out of Rachel’s line of vision, she hears a whip-like strike, like a wet towel slapping through the air. A whoosh is followed by a crash against the throne, which rattles unsteadily on its elevated pedestal.
“Misty Robins used you like she used the rest of the Miser,” Orion shouts as a second crack cleaves the air. “She promised you freedom and power when she released you from Leif, didn’t she? Instead, you were nothing more than a victim to further her treasonous agenda.”
“Misty gave me the vengeance I craved,” the Night Weaver screams back.
“What vengeance?” Orion laughs as a golden light brightens the gloom. “Your sisters turned you over to King Auberon, claiming you were preying on Black Annis younglings.”
“Lies.” Another deafening crack sounds. “I never touched Black Annis younglings.”
“Your own kin accused you of raiding the nests, feeding for months off those precious and rare younglings before—” Orion’s words are cut off as something clatters to the ground. “You’re no match for a Prince of Amaris.”
“We need tae hurry,” Dougal says upon returning to Rachel’s side, breathless.
“Is it bad?” she asks, still working on the last membranous covering.
“The adults left. They ran right past th’ weans without lookin’ back,” he says, easily pulling Becky out of the hollow tree and into his arms. “Th’ other Fae is toyin’ with th’ Black Annis, but I dinnae ken how long she’ll fall fer his games.” Dougal cradles Becky in his arms, gently waking her up with soothing words.
“Is he okay?” Rachel asks, peering around the throne to catch a glimpse of Orion.
“Rach, there isnae time tae worry aboot what’s goin’ on somewhere else,” Dougal says. “Get th’ last wean.”
Rachel shakes her head as if she can shake her worries away, but it’s impossible. She returns her attention to the otherworldly womb-like prison and peels away a large piece of the membrane to reveal the little boy held captive inside. The boy can’t be older than four, small enough for Rachel to lift out of the tree with one hand and swing onto her hip. His head rests against her shoulder. She doesn’t bother waking him, there’s no time and he doesn’t need more fuel for his nightmares anyway. Still, as Dougal convinces his sleepy charge to get up, hold his hand, and rush through the shadows, she can’t help feeling if she follows, she’ll be abandoning Orion.
“Dougal,” she hisses before he can get out of earshot.
He turns around. “Aye?”
Rachel walks closer. “Take the boy,” she says.
He takes the child without question, saying, “This is fair folk business, Rachel. We’ve naw right gettin’ involved.”
“Your grandmother is waiting outside,” Rachel says, ignoring his statement. “Do you have your phone?”
“Aye.”
She looks at Becky, the oldest child to be found in the Night Weaver’s lair and takes her cell phone out of her skirt pocket. She quickly unlocks the screen with one hand, bends her knees to get to Becky’s level, and looks the twelve-year-old straight in the eyes.
“You know where to find the flashlight app, right?” she asks.
“Y-yes,” Becky whispers.
In the background, there’s a crash followed by a groan. The Night Weaver cackles with glee.
Rachel straightens as Orion gets back on his feet, his galaxy eyes almost black with rage.
“Becky, you’re going to have to be brave and help Dougal get the littler kids out,” Rachel says softly, handing her phone over. “Can you do that?”
“I ... I don’t ...” Becky looks up at Dougal with wide, fearful eyes, clutching Rachel’s phone tightly. She inhales deeply, nods, and says, “I’ll try.”
“Atta girl,” Dougal says.
Rachel gives Dougal a halfhearted smile. “Whatever you do, don’t come back for me.”
“Rach—”
“Don’t, please,” she interrupts him. “I’m going to try my hardest to get out of this alive, but if I don’t ...” Rachel inhales deeply, hating the possibility of how this could turn out for her. She forces a smile, and continues, “Make sure the kids get home safely. Tell your grandmother she’s my favorite person in the world. Also, if it looks like my mom isn’t dealing well with the aftermath, get in touch with my aunt in Bangor.”
“Och, Nan’s gonna kill me.”
“Run now, grumble later,” she says, glancing over a pile of rubble to see Orion holding a glowing sword, forged of Fae light. He swings it expertly at the cloak as the fabric reaches out to him, testing his
defenses.
When she turns back, Dougal has already left with the remaining children.
Her gaze drops to the ball of light dancing in her hand. It grows larger and brighter as her fingers unfurl while she mentally readies herself to risk her life for a stranger from a strange land.
Fifteen
Stardust
Rachel’s life plan has always been pretty straightforward. Graduate high school with honors, get accepted into a college with a great pre-veterinarian program, go to veterinarian school, find a well-paying job in the city, pay off her student loans, buy a house, fall in love, get married, have a few kids, grow old. Then she can happily die without any regrets. It was a safe plan; more than enough for a girl who couldn’t care less about fame or fortune. She knows people would’ve criticized her decisions in the end. They might’ve said she was wasting her intelligence by sticking around near this godforsaken town to tend to the needs of farm animals instead of being more. Those were her dreams, though, and she liked the idea of what her future could’ve been. She worked hard toward achieving her goals, and she’s sure it would’ve been a good life to live.
As she climbs onto the pedestal and looks at Orion, who’s grown weary after having to outmaneuver the Night Weaver’s cloak, she realizes a good, easy life wouldn’t have sufficed in the long run. At some point, in ten or twenty years’ time, she probably would’ve grown bored with the monotony of a prescribed existence. Dying young, however horrible the idea might sound, doesn’t scare Rachel anymore. She helped save seven kids from a heinous end, after all. Seven lives ... How many people can say they’ve done that?
She makes her way in front of the throne just as the Akrah cloak wraps one of its tendrils around Orion’s neck. It lifts him off the floor slowly, until he looks into the Night Weaver’s face.
They’ve run out of time.
“Any last words, Prince?” the Night Weaver spits his title like it’s a curse.
Rachel opens her hand wide, allowing the Fae light to grow as large as it can, before she yells, “Hey!”
The Night Weaver Page 17