The Night Weaver

by Monique Snyman

  Startled, the Night Weaver spins through the air to look at Rachel. The Akrah cloak drops Orion unceremoniously onto a pile of dead leaves and branches at the same time, as if it’s also been shocked by her arrival.

  Rachel grins at the Night Weaver, the Fae light pulsing brighter and brighter.

  “Eat some sunshine, you miserable old hag.” She pulls her arm back as far as possible and using all her strength, pitches the Fae light straight into the Night Weaver’s face.

  The Fae light dims before it hits home. It bursts into sparks in her face and rains down the Night Weaver’s front. An uncontrolled scream of anger and frustration rings through the chamber before the Akrah cloak suddenly flings itself forward and wraps around Rachel’s waist. Inky vines shoot from the earth and grab hold of Rachel’s ankles and wrists, wrapping around her tightly.

  Rachel is forced to spread out as the vines become taut, pulling her every which way. It’s uncomfortable at first, and she suspects it will become painful soon, but the pulling stops before they reach that far.

  The Night Weaver shoots forward and halts just in time for her acrid breath to hit Rachel’s face. Her scream ends, her black eyes staring at Rachel. The Night Weaver’s gaze drops to the umbrella pendant around her neck.

  “Want to hear something really funny?” Rachel says, daring to flash her captor a mischievous smile. The Night Weaver looks back into Rachel’s eyes, the black somehow becoming even blacker. “You still haven’t noticed that I’ve freed all the children.”

  The Night Weaver pulls away and looks at the trees where her destroyed, empty cells are located. She lets loose another scream, this time one of anguish. Rachel watches as her hands go to her face, and she drags her iron claws down. Deep gashes appear and black blood seeps from the wounds. She inspects every hollowing from afar, the endless scream becoming more tormented.

  A sword made entirely of Fae light slices through the vines binding Rachel’s right arm and leg, while the Night Weaver is still distracted by the empty cells. Rachel’s left arm and leg are released, leaving only the Akrah cloak around her waist.

  With graceful footwork, Orion is in front of her, the blazing light searing the Akrah’s tendril in one clean swipe. The sword disappears and he grabs her around the waist with both hands, pulling her close. He grunts, his expression twisting in agony, as the pressure builds around them. A sharp pain resonates in her right shoulder, an ice cold flame that burns as it moves through her skin and digs into her flesh. His hold weakens around her waist and Rachel instinctively grips him tighter, holding him up as the world evaporates around them.

  In the blink of an eye, the chamber is replaced with bright fluorescent lighting. Gravity takes its revenge on their physics-defying tactics and they crash to the floor. Orion rolls over, breathing hard, while Rachel sits upright by his side.

  “Crap,” she says, seeing the blossoming pool of blood seeping onto the concrete floor. She shifts over and pulls up his shirt, spies the edge of an angry, gushing wound in his shoulder. “We need to get you to a hospital.”

  He coughs his laugh. “I’ll be all right, Clarré. Just get me some stardust,” he says, pointing off to the side.

  Rachel follows his index finger and sees potted plants—weird plants with strange colors and unfamiliar flowers and leaves—surrounding them. He’d brought her to an indoor greenhouse, where the exotic plants grow lush and healthy, even in the semi-confined space. She gets to her feet, still dazed after the unnatural form of travel, ignoring the persistent sting in her side, and heads toward the unusual plant.

  “Which one is it?”

  He struggles for oxygen as he says, “The one with broad, silver-edged leaves.”

  Rachel finds one large potted plant, too big to move, growing in the center of the table. Not knowing what else to do, she reaches over and grabs a handful of leaves, strips them off the stalk, and rushes back to his side.

  “These?” she asks, holding them up for him to see.

  Orion nods, eyelids drooping, while he uses one hand to rip off his shirt. A large wound mars the skin on his shoulder, bleeding profusely with each movement he makes. “Crush them in your hand and sprinkle it over the wound,” he says weakly.

  Rachel does as she’s told. The leaves crush easily in her fist, turning into silver dust, which trickles out of her grip. He gasps as the stardust touches the deep, circular wound, which—from the look of it—has gone straight through his body. Orion squeezes his eyes shut and his Adam’s apple bobs. Another gasp, then he bucks beneath her.

  “I bet you’ve never heard the story about the magical dress,” Rachel says, continuing to sprinkle the stardust. She hopes it’ll soon staunch the wound. Her gaze travels across his paling face. An empathic stinging shoots through her shoulder as she witnesses the anguish he has to endure. Her stomach twists into knots. “Once upon a time, a young man took his daughter out to the village in search of a perfect gift for his beautiful wife. The young man, like many young men, thought that if he wanted to show his devotion, he would have to shower his bride with as many expensive jewels as he could afford. They traveled the market, his daughter bouncing up and down as she tried to help her father find something special for her mother. ‘A diamond bracelet? Perhaps an emerald ring? What about some pearl earrings?’ the merchants asked, showing off their most beautiful items. ‘No,’ the daughter responded every time she saw their merchandise.”

  Orion bucks again, groaning in pain.

  “The young man became disheartened as the daylight faded. ‘Why didn’t you like any of the jewels? They’re expensive and beautiful and will last a lifetime,’ he said to his daughter. The girl thought about it for a while, before she responded, ‘Pretty as they may be, they don’t seem half as special.’ The young man didn’t understand, so he asked her to explain. ‘Well, Daddy, how can you call a sapphire special if there are hundreds of other glittering gems surrounding it?’ The young man hadn’t known how to answer her, but he seemed to understand. After all, it’s difficult to find something special when everything looks the same,” Rachel says, brushing the last of the stardust off her palm. “So, the young man took his daughter’s hand and was ready to make the journey home, when suddenly the girl spotted something glistening in the blushing light. ‘Daddy, Daddy,’ she shouted, pointing at a headless mannequin. ‘That’s it! That’s the special gift.’ The young man and his daughter quickly walked up to the shop and took a closer look at the dress.” She folds her legs underneath her, takes Orion’s hand, and watches as his body continues to fight against the near-fatal wound. “The dress was something out of a fairytale,” Rachel continues. “Made from the finest lilac silk, with a hint of gold thread woven into the brocade bodice, something about the dress just felt incredibly unique. As they stepped inside the shop, the slight breeze that entered along with them made the skirts of the dress flutter. It sounded like butterfly wings softly beating. Both the young man and his daughter thought the dress was the most ... magical thing ... they’d ever s—”

  Rachel stops and peers more closely at the wound as the fascinating healing process begins. Muscle and flesh weave together in front of her eyes. She glances back at the potted plants, her logic immediately turning to nano-technology as the reason for the quick healing.

  Orion squeezes her hand again, gently this time, as if urging her to go on.

  “The young man bought the dress, and he and his daughter left the market,” she says, feeling silly for telling him this story now. Rachel clears her throat. “The next day, the young man gifted the dress to his wife, hoping she wouldn’t be disappointed that he hadn’t bought her jewels. ‘Oh, oh, this is absolutely beautiful,’ the wife said. She inspected the fine silk and the intricate brocade bodice, her eyes glistening with tears. ‘This is the most perfect gift I’ve ever received, my love,’ she continued.” Rachel pauses, still keeping a watchful eye on the wound. “What made the dress magical, however, wasn’t the fabric or the craftsmanship put into making it. It’s
what happened not too long thereafter that gave the magical dress its power. For, you see, the young man died unexpectedly, leaving a grieving widow and daughter behind. They felt their loss in every quiet moment. One day, for no reason, the grieving mother put on the dress for the first time since his death and twirled around in front of the mirror. ‘Remember how your father and I danced together the first time I wore this dress?’ she asked her daughter. ‘I remember,’ the daughter said.” Rachel inhales deeply. “Whenever the wife put on the dress, memories flooded back. Memories of a husband who loved her so much, he would’ve given her the stars if he could, but instead, he gave her a dress.”

  “What’s the moral of the story?” Orion asks through his labored breathing, clearly about to pass out.

  “The stars may be everlasting, but the most precious things are fleeting and fragile and one of a kind.”

  His breathing steadies and his body relaxes beside her.

  Rachel releases Orion’s hand and stands. She looks around the indoor greenhouse, where the strange plants are lined up underneath an intricate misting system, and sees a banister poking out above the second to last row. Rachel makes her way to it. She doesn’t recognize any of the plants as she walks through the greenhouse, although there is one flower which looks like it could be a rose-daisy hybrid.

  Rachel reaches the ornamental wrought iron railings, where curlicues intertwine to create a continuous pattern. Linoleum covers each step down, a tasteful green design—reminiscent of 1940s flooring trends—hidden under a thin layer of dust. The walls are a lighter shade of green, almost a balmy mint.

  She hesitates at the top of the stairwell, wondering if leaving Orion is a wise choice, but her feet seem to make the decision for her. Rachel descends the stairs, too hungry, too tired, and far too dirty to be afraid of something jumping her anymore.

  What I wouldn’t do for a shower, BLT sandwich, and a comfortable bed right now. In that order.

  She crosses the landing and continues downward. As she nears the end of the stairwell, golden letters spell out: FLOOR 9—engraved into the matte black display sign. A gilt arrow points toward the sea-green door ahead. She reaches for the brass doorknob, turns it, pushes the door open, and steps into Orion’s apartment—through the closet door.

  “Of course, he lives in a TARDIS,” she says, shaking her head. “Why wouldn’t he?”

  After some exploring, and some ‘accidentally on purpose’ snooping, Rachel learns the apartment is a humble, homey space. The bathroom has definitely been remodeled and modernized—a glass shower, a corner porcelain bathtub, and gleaming Italian faucets are the eye-candy focal points against the light-gray walls. The entire room beckons her to indulge a little, to clean off the grit and grime she’s covered in. The second bedroom is barely big enough for the single bed and built-in cupboard space, but it’s neat and would do fine if an unexpected guest came around. The main bedroom is more basic, though. Fitted with a queen-sized bed with a standard headboard, and indigo-colored bedding and curtains adding some color to the plain white walls, it seems almost military in style. Then there’s the built-in wardrobe, where all his clothes are neatly stacked into various piles.

  She closes the wardrobe door and walks to his bed, where she grabs a pillow. Rachel makes a detour into the kitchen and finds a glass on the drying rack, which she fills with water before she heads back to the staircase in the closet.

  Orion is still asleep on the hard concrete, the wound already half-closed. She kneels by his side, and as she lifts his head to place the pillow underneath, his eyelids flutter open.

  “I can’t carry you down without hurting you, so you’re going to have to be happy with a pillow,” she says, avoiding his gaze.

  He gives her an easy, crooked smile.

  “Do you want some water?”

  “Please,” he croaks.

  She cradles his head and brings the glass closer to his lips. Orion drinks deeply. Water runs down the sides of his mouth, dribbling onto his chin and wetting his chest. At least he doesn’t choke. She lays his head down on the pillow.

  Rachel picks up the glass and gets to her feet when Orion tries to sit up. “I’m not leaving,” she says, thinking that’s the problem.

  “You’re bleeding,” Orion says, wearing a mask of pain as he continues to try and push himself upright.

  “Lie down,” she says, averting her gaze to study her top. Scarlet droplets stain her shirt, exactly where she’d felt the searing cold pain when they had left the Night Weaver’s lair. Rachel pushes down the sleeve of her shirt to evaluate the wound. “It’s superficial,” she says.

  “You’re a bad liar, Clarré,” he mumbles.

  “I’m not lying, look,” Rachel says as she takes a step closer and shows him her graze. “See? Whatever stabbed right through you barely broke my skin.”

  “I don’t have the energy to argue right now,” Orion says, lying down. “Just put some stardust on it anyway.”

  She steps over him, back to where she’d found the stardust plant earlier, and takes a handful of leaves. “Don’t get used to me complying with your requests. I’m only doing this because you saved my life and I suppose I owe you.” Rachel crushes the leaves in her fist and pushes her sleeve down again. “Do I have to sprinkle the stardust, or can I just slap it on there and call it a day?”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Well?”

  “It’ll work, but you’ll lose out on—” Orion is cut off by the sudden slap of her hand against the wound, her sharp intake of breath through her teeth.

  “Motherf—”she bites back her curse just in time.

  “You do realize there’s more to healing than this impersonal nonsense you humans insist on calling medicine, right?”

  Rachel needs to lean against the table for support as the debilitating pain spreads through her body via her bloodstream. The actual injury hadn’t even felt this bad, had been a mere prick in comparison. She slowly moves back to Orion, gripping the tables along the way to keep herself from plummeting to the concrete floor. Rachel falls to her knees beside him, rolls over, and lies on her back. If she didn’t have her dignity to think about, the chances are good she might writhe in agony.

  Orion pushes his arm underneath her head to make her more comfortable on the floor, chuckling softly, and pulls her closer. “It helps when there’s someone telling you stories to keep your mind off the pain,” he says. “Shall I tell you about Orthega?”

  “Dougal and I visited Telfore over the weekend. Great place, fine folks,” she says, digging her nails into her palms as a spasm threatens to make her cry out. Could it have only been two days ago when arrows had been flying toward them and they’d had to escape through the sewers?

  “I’m not sure if you’re sarcastic by nature or if it’s the stardust talking.”

  “A bit of both,” she whispers. Her eyelids become heavy as her body relaxes. “My car is still at Pearson ...” Rachel falls asleep before she can finish her sentence.

  Sixteen

  Will-O’-The-Wisp

  “I strongly advise you to stay indoors until dawn,” Orion says, blocking the front door.

  She crosses her arms. Three hours have passed since their escape from the Night Weaver’s lair. Two and a half of those hours she’s spent sleeping while her superficial wound knits itself shut. Mrs. Crenshaw must be worried sick by now, probably thinking Rachel has met her end at the Night Weaver’s metallic claws. Not to mention, Rachel needs to check in on her mother.

  Had the kids gotten out all right? Was Dougal safe?

  “I need to get back home,” she says. “My mom—”

  “Your mom doesn’t know who she is anymore. She’ll summon the Night Weaver as soon as she lays eyes on you.” Orion blinks slowly, his thick, dark eyelashes brushing the top of his high cheekbones. “Call Nancy, tell her you’re all right and that you’ll see her in the morning. I doubt she’s an unreasonable woman who’ll insist on you going out when a psychotic
Black Annis is hunting for you.”

  “With what phone? I handed mine over to Becky so she could use it as a flashlight.”

  Orion throws his head back and stares at the ceiling, mumbling something incoherent under his breath. When he looks back to her, he pushes his hand into his pocket and produces a cell phone.

  “Honestly, Clarré, you make it sound as if I’m a technotard,” he says, handing it to her. “I even have a Facebook profile, in case you were wondering.”

  “Ew.”

  He frowns. “What ew?”

  “That’s so five years ago.”

  Rachel dials Mrs. Crenshaw’s number and makes her way to the living room. It rings a few times before Dougal answers the phone with a weary greeting. She goes right into telling him that she’s alive, unhurt, and in a safe place—I’m waiting out the Night Weaver until dawn. She then asks him if all the kids got out of the Night Weaver’s lair in one piece and learns they have all been taken to the hospital to get checked out. The Sheriff’s Department had, apparently, already notified their parents of their whereabouts.

  “Everyone’s accounted fer, except a girl called Astraea Hayward,” Dougal says. “We didnae miss one, eh?”

  Rachel replays the events in the lair in her mind, and says, “No, I’m certain we got all of the cocoons.”

  “Then where is she?”

  Good question.

  The conversation moves on to her asking him if his grandmother’s all right. As it happens, Mrs. Crenshaw isn’t worried about Rachel—If that Fae knows what’s good fer him, he’ll keep ye from harm, because Nan will make him suffer. Rachel doesn’t doubt it. When she turns the topic to her mother, Dougal hesitates. Nobody’s seen Jenny Cleary or any of the other adults involved in the Night Weaver’s disturbing cult since they scattered.

  “Could they be in the forest?” Dougal offers.

  “No. From what I understand, the Night Weaver, or any other powerful Fae for that matter, can’t cross the boundary without our families’ approval. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re still in the tunnel,” she says, sighing.