Autumn Thorns

by Yasmine Galenorn

  “What about the Native tribes here? Don’t they resent us? After all, they have their own beliefs and sacred traditions connected to this land.” I couldn’t take my eyes off the statue. The tall bronze woman was dressed in battle gear, but a circlet with a crescent moon ringed her head, and in one hand, she carried a sword. In her other, she carried a crystal ball.

  “The tribes welcomed us when they realized we weren’t here to supplant their traditions. The vortex here—the convergence of ley lines—makes it difficult for them, too. They were often plagued by the dead walking and by the creatures that haunt these woodlands. We were able to come in and help control the issue, giving them more freedom. We work with them—at least one member of the Native council belongs to the Crescent Moon Society.”

  “Trevor Riverstone.” I did glance at her then, just in time to see her blink. “I met him earlier today. I saw his tattoo and insisted he tell me what it stood for.”

  She nodded. “Trevor is a member of the Makah tribe. He reports to them on us, and in return, we have a liaison for when we might need to go into sacred areas to deal with trouble. We’ve found a way to work together.”

  I glanced around the room. The main altar was wide and broad and had not only the statue of the Morrígan on it, but another statue of a man. “Who is that?”

  “The Dagda. He is her consort.”

  The table was covered with a cloth the color of the night sky, with hints of blue and purple, and sparkling silver stars in it. In the center, between the two statues, stood a smallish cauldron—copper, by the looks of it. Crystals ringed the altar, and other assorted tools. A wand, gleaming silver, and a dagger—with a hilt made out of bone from what I could tell—rested horizontally in front of the statues. A wand of crow feathers—far bigger than the one I had—leaned against the corner of one wall, resting on a luxurious ivy. Votive candles dotted the surface, all within blue and purple and green mosaic glass holders that shimmered in the dim overhead light. A framed photo of a murder of crows hung to one side of the altar, and in the center, over everything, was a wall statue of a large raven. The altar faced the west.

  “Why this direction?” I asked.

  “The Underworld—Annwn, the world of the dead—as well as the lands of the Sidhe both lie across the western seas. So the Morrígan looks to the west.” Ivy settled down at a small circular table in the center of the room. It was covered with a jet black cloth. “Come. Sit here.”

  I glanced at the rest of the room as I joined her. To the north was a small craft table, covered with bits and pieces of bone and fur and a large shelf of oils. Deep drawers lined the sides of the table, and I had the feeling they were jammed full of goodies. To the east, a window overlooked the side lawn and fence that divided Ivy’s yard from Bramblewood Way. To the south, a bookcase stretched across the wall, filled from floor to ceiling with books.

  Sliding onto the chair opposite her, I gently rested my hands on the table. In the center was a taper candle—black—and a deck of cards. Next to the cards was a crystal ball. It wasn’t lead crystal, but quartz, filled with prisms and fractures that pulled me into their designs. She lit the candle, then moved to flick off the light. When she returned to her seat, she was carrying a black lacy veil, which she draped over her head. I could see her features beneath the veil still, but they were masked and muted by the delicate needlework. She placed her hands on either side of the crystal ball.

  I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do, so I waited. A moment later, the temperature in the room dropped abruptly and goose bumps rose on my arms, as the hair on the back of my neck began to tickle. I caught my breath and leaned back in the chair, staring at Ivy.

  Beneath the veil, she was shifting, her head weaving from side to side. Then, with a slow inhalation that resonated so deep I could feel it ripple through the room, she sat straight and stared at me. Her eyes, barely visible in the dim candlelight and behind the lace, were glowing red.

  “You have a question for me?”

  I wasn’t sure who I was talking to, but whoever it was, her voice was throaty, rich and deeper than Ivy’s, and the magic running through it was enough to make me quake in my boots. Ivy had gone bye-bye, that much was obvious, and somebody else had come out to play. Somebody big, and someone who was as ancient as the hills.

  Not certain what to say, but realizing I needed to say something, I cleared my throat. “I need to know how to protect myself against the Shadow Man. The Shadow People . . . the Ankou.”

  A hush fell through the room—a silence that made the quiet before seem loud. The spiral of energy around Ivy began to grow and as I watched, a flutter of crow wings darted past, circling her like pale purple shadows. They spun faster and faster, till I was dizzy with watching them, and then, with a quick swoop, she reached up and lifted the veil from her face.

  I wasn’t facing Ivy. Who she was, I didn’t know yet, but she was brilliant and beautiful, with dark eyes that shimmered red, and her nose had lengthened a bit, and her hair was shining red. Her face was masked in patches of black kohl and creamy white—a patchwork of camouflage. Ruby red lips glistened in the candle’s flame as she cocked her head to the side, a curious and coy smile on her face.

  “Do you truly not know who I am, Kerris?” The woman reached out one hand to me and without a single hesitation, I took her fingers in mine.

  A spark raced up my arm at first, like fire shooting, and then the stinging became a rush of pain. As I opened my lips to scream, the pain shifted and sent me into a massive orgasm. I came hard, bodywide—shaking from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes. It was sexual and yet there was a deeper resonance that rang through it. My spirit had climaxed, too—in a way that I had never before experienced. It was as if the universe had torn me wide open and exposed me to some brilliant light that poured through every vein and capillary of my body.

  Gasping, I couldn’t find my breath. It had been stripped out of me—ripped from my lungs. I struggled, wondering if I was dying, and then, slowly, my chest rose and fell and I caught the motion, caught the breath and inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with a rich blend of air and energy. The pain subsided and I sat quivering, feeling washed from the inside out, new and whole and shining as brightly as Ivy had been.

  The woman sitting opposite me smiled. “Do you know me now?” She was still holding on to my hand.

  I felt two inches tall—not in shame, but in stature compared to her. Nodding, I whispered, “Yes, my lady.”

  “Then you will be able to remember what you need to know. I have just performed the ritual that was to be your initiation rite, from your grandmother. Your powers have been fully activated. Study, and the studying shall be as core to your being as is the energy you feel now. Learn by doing. But, Kerris, a warning.” The Morrígan leaned forward, holding my hand so tightly it felt like she could break my fingers with any harder pressure.

  I winced against the pain. “Yes? What?”

  “To find the key to controlling the Ankou, look to your grandmother’s journal. And . . . Kerris?”

  “Yes?” I held my breath, wondering what was coming next.

  “Ellia and Ivy are correct . . . there is a force that seeks to break this town’s spirit. It is an old enemy of mine, and he and his minions appear here and there, looking to avenge himself on my chosen. I fought him in my time, and still he seeks revenge for my triumph. You must find and root out his servants or the town will no longer be safe for the children born under my wings.” And then, with a blink, Ivy slumped forward, and the Morrígan vanished.

  I slowly let go of her fingers, moving the candle away before the flame could lick against the lace veil, then leaned back. Her children? She couldn’t be just talking about the spirit shamans and their triads.

  Ivy blinked slowly as she pushed her head up from the table. She shook her head, looking confused. “Did you get your answer?”

  I
nodded. “Yes, and more questions, but I think . . . I did. Do . . .” I paused, eyeing her carefully. “Do you remember what happened?”

  She frowned. “Vaguely . . . kind of.” Then, with a winsome laugh, she said, “Not really. I know that I played the oracle for you and someone came through to answer your question. I can hold against negative spirits, and my warding is intensely strong against being jumped against my will. This is simply one of my duties.”

  Nodding, I debated on what to tell her. Was I supposed to fill her in on what had happened? Or not? But, as I opened my mouth to ask, no words came out. Maybe not, then. Another question occurred to me, and this one I was able to phrase aloud. “Do you know who the children of the Morrígan are? In general, I mean?”

  Ivy folded the veil and set it to the side. She blew out the candle and motioned for me to follow her back into the kitchen. “That depends on who you ask. Technically, if you’re talking gods and goddesses—”

  “No, not really. I mean in general. Who might be living here.” I knew the Morrígan hadn’t been talking about legends, but people living here. Humans.

  “Oh.” Ivy pursed her lips, thinking. “Well, often those who are considered mad—well, would have been considered mad—were seen to be under her influence. But really, when you look at Whisper Hollow, I think you’d be talking about those with psychic powers. About those who see beyond the boundaries of what the world perceives as reality. The seers and the visionaries, the artists, those who have the power to create other worlds that feel as real as this one. Those who can . . . say . . . speak to the dead. Like the spirit shamans. One aspect of the Morrígan was once referred to as Mania . . . the mad.”

  She paused, then turned back to me. “I don’t need to teach you any spells, do I?”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so. I do need to go hunt through Lila’s journal for a reference to protection from the Shadow Man, but I should be able to take it from there. Thanks, though, Ivy. You gave me an incredible gift. Now, it’s up to me. I’ll talk to you in a bit.” I slung my purse over my shoulder, gathered my things, and hurried home as the rain pounded down around my shoulders.

  * * *

  Once home, I called Peggin and told her what had happened. “So, there’s a chance Duvall wasn’t my grandfather after all.”

  Peggin paused, then softly said, “I might be able to shed more light on that.”

  “How?”

  “Just give me an hour or so . . . I’ll text you when I’m done. Don’t ask me how right now, because if I tell you . . . then I might not have the courage to go through with it.” She hung up before I could tell her to wait. I wanted to know what she was planning.

  I called her back but she ignored it, letting it go directly to her answering machine. Deciding that I could put the time to good use, I first made my bed, tucking the warm, dry sheets onto the mattress and shaking out the new comforter. Then I curled up on the sofa and skimmed through Lila’s journal. Finally, about thirty pages in, I came across an entry about the Shadow Man.

  October 21, 1968

  Last night, I met the Shadow Man. My mother warned me that there were Ankou here in Whisper Hollow—they were summoned by Cú Chulainn’s hag. But until now I’ve been lucky enough never to encounter one. But tonight, all that changed. Duvall was out at some meeting, and I was called out to deal with a Haunt who had come out of the grave, hungry to stir up trouble and unfortunately, she did some serious damage. It was Patty Dryden.

  Patty’s family had refused to let Ellia play for her at her funeral, and they insisted I stay away from the grave before she was buried. So Patty was never properly prepared for the Veil, and Penelope wasn’t able to hold her on the other side. Patty has been rising the past few nights, but we’ve missed her every time. Tonight, she actually managed to wreak sorrow on the town. Tommy Stanton, Mary’s little boy, is only eight. His father, Drake, took him and his ten-year-old brother Jack to the pub with him. While he was in the pub having a couple of beers with the guys, Drake let the boys play outside.

  Tommy crossed the street, though Jack tried to stop him. Jack followed behind him, when Patty appeared. She got between the boys and chased Tommy out to the end of Fogwhistle Pier. Jack was screaming for her to stop, but Patty ignored him. The last Jack saw, Tommy was crouching on the end of the pier, with Patty screeching at him. Then the Lady rose up out of the water and caught the boy around the waist. She dragged him under the surface. Patty vanished, and Jack raced back to the pub screaming.

  Drake and the other men were out on the pier in minutes, but they could find no sign of Tommy. Drake was frantic, and before his buddies could restrain him, he dove into the water to search for his son. He didn’t surface. Neither of them have been found so far, and considering it was Fogwhistle Pier, we know that the Lady won’t let go of them without a fight.

  So the Society called Ellia and me out, and we managed to track down Patty. Like most Haunts, she seemed pretty pleased with herself, until I managed to drive her back across the Veil. Ellia played the song of sealing, and I took some of Patty’s graveyard dust and bound it within my chamber. She shouldn’t be able to walk again. I hope Duvall never discovers my hidden room—he could wreak terrible havoc on the work I have done if he should do so.

  I got home late, exhausted. Thank gods Duvall was still out, so I stowed Patty’s dust, then went to bed. I woke up in the middle of the night to a Shadow Man standing over my bed. The Ankou tried to kill me—I know that was his aim. He ripped my covers off and lunged for my throat.

  I called on the Morrígan and the Crow Man, and the violet flame was there—I grabbed hold of it with my hands, even though it burned so cold that I almost got frostbite. I drew the Void Runes and sent them into his core—not where you’d think the heart is, but directly at his solar plexus, and it dispersed him. I don’t know if it permanently dispelled him, but there was no lingering energy around, so that’s something at least.

  I need to find out more about the Ankou and how she is summoning them. Arawn would not concern himself with us—and he has no feud with the Morrígan. So it must be Cú Chulainn’s Hounds and their hag who are drawing them from the Underworld. Saturday, Duvall will be at a conference, so I can take that time to secret wards against the Ankou around the property. I’ll ring it with the Void Runes to guard against the creatures from the abyss entering.

  The entry stopped there, with a drawing of three runes. The first looked like a lightning bolt across a vertical line shaped almost like a hockey stick. The second was an arrow stabbing through a crescent moon. And the third, a skull on a cauldron.

  I stared at them for a moment, then hurried over to the counter, where I grabbed my notebook out of my bag, along with a pen. As I returned to the table and began to copy the runes, a tingle ran through my fingers. I knew these symbols—I didn’t know from where, but I knew them. They were buried deep in my subconscious and as I sketched them out, my body began to tingle. Knowing what to do—without knowing why—I inhaled a long breath and blew onto the sigils. As my magic transferred into the symbols, I felt myself falling, and the next moment, I was no longer in my kitchen, but in a deep, dark valley, back in the thick woodland, and I was staring at the Crow Man.

  CHAPTER 12

  He was brilliant, the Crow Man was, and beautiful and terrifying all at the same time. He was tall—tall as a giant, seven feet or more, and a mist of blue fire surrounded him. His coat of ragged patchwork blue dragged the ground, and over that, a fur throw made from the skin of some animal. His hair was long, black as ink with blue highlights, curling down his shoulders. Atop his head, he wore a headdress of a giant crow’s head and feathers. The crow’s eyes glowed red, while the Crow Man’s own eyes were shining black, with glowing slits of white fire that slashed through them. Beneath the coat, he wore what looked like blue jeans and black leather boots with platforms that raised him another foot taller than he actually was. The
Crow Man was carrying a wand in one hand—silver, a good two feet long with a glowing crystal on the top end. The handle was wrapped in a black leather thong.

  Unsure, both afraid and fascinated, I leaned back against the nearest tree, waiting. The forest around me was dark and shrouded with fog. Ancient trees rose high in silhouette, conifers that towered a hundred feet above the sloped ravine we were in. I couldn’t see the sky, the fog was so thick, nor could I see any colors save blues and blacks and grays and a silvery sheen that lightly frosted everything.

  The Crow Man took a step toward me, a curious smile on his lips. He looked cunning and wily, and he reminded me of somebody but I couldn’t think of who. Some cartoon figure, perhaps, or someone I met long ago in a dream.

  “Pomegranates.”

  I stared at him, not sure I’d heard him right. “What?”

  “Pomegranates. Hidden secrets. Look for the answers buried deep within, like the seeds of a pomegranate. She waits in the ravine, for you to find her. Screaming skulls still lurk beneath long roots that dig deep into the ground.” He took another step closer, his taut gaze holding mine. “The shadows that come in the night are very real.”

  I pressed my back against the trunk of the tree, mesmerized. The Crow Man was beautiful and hypnotic and entirely too deadly for my own good. “The shadows . . . the Shadow Man? The Ankou?”

  “The Ankou live between the worlds. While shadows need light in order to be seen and absolute darkness usually gives them no home, the Unliving do lurk in the darkness, though they have little truck with daylight.” His voice was low, almost growly.

  For a moment I thought I saw a coyote standing in his place, and then, in a fraction of a second, he was the Crow Man again. I could almost understand what he was saying, but the meaning fled. I shivered, aware that I was so cold I could barely feel my feet or fingers. And then, before I could say another word, the Crow Man swept his arms out, his cloak suddenly becoming massive, dark wings. He let out a long caw and leaped into the air, shimmering in the rolling fog, and vanished. I blinked and . . .