The playfulness dissipates. “What’s up?”
She looks over her shoulder to the janitor’s closet, and motions for him to follow her inside. Once they’re there, he closes the door behind him, shutting them in darkness. A breath later, there’s a click, and the hanging bulb drenches them in artificial light. Every wall in the small closet is lined with shelves, some full of cleaning chemicals, others are left bare.
“I need access to the town council’s archi—”
“No,” he interrupts her before she can finish her sentence, let alone try to explain why she needs his help. “Last time, I almost got grounded just for showing you that stuff. If I sneak you in there, and word gets back to my dad, he’ll probably kill me.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic. Your dad won’t kill you,” Rachel says, crossing her arms. “Maim you, maybe, but he definitely won’t kill you. Someone needs to inherit the great Pearson fortune.”
“Hilarious,” Greg replies in monotone. “If you’ll excuse me, I still have to study for the English test later on.”
“Screw the test,” Rachel retorts. “Mrs. Crenshaw is in the hospital, Dougal is in no condition to help, and my mom ran off to Bangor again. I need to get inside that archive right now before people end up dead.”
His jawline tenses as he bites back a response.
Rachel considers closing the distance between them. She deliberates standing on the tips of her toes, caressing his cheek ever so gently, before she presses her lips against his. It’s what Greg’s counting on, too. She can actually see him fantasizing about this exact scenario. He wants to go back to what they had shared this past summer.
It’d been good. They spent every available moment together over the summer, holding hands, kissing in public, covering all the metaphorical bases. There were also interesting discussions, things they both enjoyed reading about but never had anyone to talk with before—scientific discoveries they’ve read about, conspiracy theories they couldn’t rationalize, historical facts that seemed so unreal but weren’t. The fling was fun, memorable even, but that’s all it would ever be—a fling.
She hates herself for even contemplating using his feelings to get what she wants, and she hates him for wanting whatever little piece of herself she’s willing to give, when he knows they aren’t compatible.
He’s a Pearson, for heaven’s sake.
Being a Pearson means your life isn’t just yours. It belongs to your family, the community, and the town council. A Pearson is expected to study at an Ivy League college, graduate at the top of the class, and go into the family business. Somewhere in between all of those tasks, they’ll have to find someone nice to marry—preferably someone who also comes from money—and have some kids. Usually, the significant other won’t need any training in being the epitome of elegance, but if they do, the new Pearson will embrace their role without hemming or hawing.
And while most people probably believe love can conquer all, Rachel isn’t that naïve. Fairy tale endings don’t exist for girls like her, even when there’s a starry-eyed Prince Charming involved.
Still, if his feelings were all she has to bargain with—
Rachel unfolds her arms. “I can’t do this,” she whispers, her courage fading. “I’m sorry, Greg, I just can’t do this.”
Had it been anyone other than Greg, she’d have thought nothing of using their weaknesses for personal gain. It would’ve been meaningless, easily forgotten. But this is Greg. They share a lifetime’s worth of history. They share Luke—Greg’s deceased twin brother and Rachel’s best friend. Whatever happens between them won’t be meaningless, won’t be forgotten. It would set the tone between them for the rest of their lives, and she can’t bear the idea of losing his friendship due to selfishness.
Rachel takes a step toward the door, ready to leave the claustrophobic closet and come up with another plan to get rid of the Miser Fae prowling around town.
“I know about Orion,” Greg says, not even a hint of bitterness in his voice. Rachel halts in her tracks. “If I hadn’t intercepted the rumor, the whole school would know that you spent the night with him, too.”
She slowly turns to face Greg, feeling uncomfortably close in the confined space.
“Your reputation wouldn’t have survived that type of gossip, Rachel,” he says. She watches him, unsure if he’s threatening to spread the information or not. “Guys like Orion love to take advantage of girls like you.”
“Girls like me?” Rachel narrows her eyes, daring him to say something sexist.
Greg closes the infinitesimal distance between them. “You know,” he whispers as he moves his other hand around her waist. “Easily manipulated girls.”
She tilts her chin up just in time to see a red flash in his pupils. It could’ve been a trick of the light, or maybe her imagination playing tricks on her. On the other hand, it could be something far more sinister. Considering the latter, Rachel decides it might not be in her best interest to get on Greg’s bad side while she’s stuck with him in the confines of the janitor’s closet.
Greg raises a hand to brush a strand of hair out of her face. “I don’t expect us to pick up where we left off, Rach, but maybe—”
“We can start fresh?” she whispers. Rachel forces herself to give him the sweetest smile she can muster and searches his eyes for another tell. There’s nothing perceptible, though. “Do you think it’s possible?”
He releases his hold on her and leans back against the shelves, smiling one of his genuine smiles—the ones he reserves for her alone. “Hi, I’m Greg Pearson, and you are?”
This is so twisted.
Rachel manages to relax every muscle in her body, keeping her face neutral. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Rachel Cleary,” she says.
They carry on the conversation for a good five minutes, acting like they’ve only just met. From Greg’s expression, he seems pleased. If he suspects anything untoward, he certainly doesn’t show it. Then, when Rachel thinks the situation can’t become any weirder, Greg looks at his wristwatch.
“I need to stop by at the library to clock some study time before English,” he says. “See you after school?”
“Mrs. Crenshaw—”
“Of course,” he interrupts, blinking a few times. “I forgot. Sorry.” Greg shakes his head, as if clearing his mind. “You should leave.”
Not wanting to delay his departure with questions like what is wrong with you?, Rachel touches his wrist and smiles. “You first. I’ll go after a few minutes, so it doesn’t look too suspicious.”
“Yeah, that’ll probably be for the best,” Greg chuckles. He stretches back to rub the back of his neck. “See you when I see you.”
He shifts around until he can reach the knob. Greg looks over his shoulder one last time, flashes a half-grin at her as he slips out of the closet.
The door closes behind him, and she releases a shaky breath. She stares at the door, counting off every second that passes. The adrenaline, which kept her upright throughout the exchange, evaporates out of her system. She doubles over, her legs growing weak as the reality of how close she had come to—
Dying? Influence or not, Greg won’t ever physically harm you.
Rachel pushes away the tears stinging the corners of her eyes, and rests her trembling hands on her knees, struggling to catch her breath through the sobs making their way up her throat.
Is he even under influence?
Unsure what to make of the red flash she’d spied in his pupils, she asks herself, “What else can it be?”
It could be nothing. You could be paranoid for no reason.
The soft knock on the door causes Rachel to jerk upright. A head of blonde curls appears as Mercia pops inside the closet, concern etched into her forehead, her lips turned down.
“Rachel?” Mercia says, keeping her voice soft. Her gaze flits to Rachel’s hand, now pressed against the shelf. “You’re bleeding.”
Rachel glances at her hand to see a deep, self-inflicte
d wound in the corner of her thumb’s cuticle.
Mercia rummages in her bag and holds out a tissue. “He’s gone. You can come out now.”
Rachel purses her lips together to keep her feelings hidden, and takes the offered tissue.
A heavy silence settles over them before Mercia whispers, “You saw it too, didn’t you? The thing inside Greg?”
Taken aback, Rachel can do little more than stare at Mercia as she opens the door wide and steps out of the way. Rachel exits the closet, but keeps her eyes on the girl who’d most probably eavesdropped on the entire exchange in the janitor’s closet.
“I’m like you,” she says.
“What are you talking about?”
Mercia shrugs, a conspirator’s smile now taking residence on her face. “Walk with me.” She juts her chin toward the main hallway.
As Mercia rounds the corner, Rachel grabs her by her wrist, forcing her to stop in her tracks.
“Mercia?” Rachel hisses. “What do you mean?”
Mercia shakes off Rachel’s hand and snaps her fingers. A flame ignites out of nowhere, before sizzling out just as fast. A thin trail of smoke wafts into the air, obscuring their view of each other. A scorched note is pinched between her index finger and thumb.
“Take it,” Mercia says, holding the piece of paper out toward her.
Rachel hesitates.
“It won’t bite you. Take it.”
She takes the note with her uninjured hand and carefully unfolds the singed paper, keeping her gaze on Mercia. Her attention drops to the single word, written in cursive: Munich. She looks back at Mercia, not comprehending.
“If you want to know what it means, I suggest we go somewhere else. These walls have ears,” she says.
Rachel follows Mercia’s beat-up green Volvo all the way to the Eerie Creek Bridge. She watches as the car pulls to the side of the road, parking on the creek’s bank, before she follows. Rachel inhales deeply before climbing out of the driver’s seat and slamming the car door shut.
Mercia, who’s already waiting for her beneath the old willow tree, crosses her arms as she nears. “Took you long enough.”
“Some of us actually adhere to the speed limits,” Rachel says.
Mercia snorts, shakes her head.
“So, what’s up? Why did you drag me all the way out here?”
“My family fled Europe after witnessing the Pappenheimer family’s torture and executions for witchcraft in Munich.” She pitches her voice loud enough to be heard over the rushing water of the creek. “The Pappenheimer family were forced to endure heinous medieval persecution. I can’t even bring myself to repeat the story.” Her voice broke.
A breeze kicks up and ruffles the leaves of the willow while Mercia gathers her nerve to continue.
“So, my ancestors fled to England before they suffered a similar fate and eventual execution. Originally, they settled in Lancashire, England, which was a huge mistake, because in 1612, the Pendle Hill witch trials started. Again, they fled for their lives, and this time they had to cross an ocean to survive.” Mercia brushes her hair out of her face and hooks the windswept strands behind her ear. “In 1692, they uprooted from Salem, Massachusetts, and roamed New England until they finally settled here, in Shadow Grove.”
“Okay, but you could have told me all of this at the school,” Rachel says. “Also, why tell me any of this?”
“If someone other than you should figure out I’m a real witch, I’m dead. Don’t think this town is above building a pyre.” Mercia looks to the water, an array of emotions crossing her face. “As for your second question—Look, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on you and Greg, but I was truly worried about you. Ever since he paid me to act like his girlfriend, I sensed something off about him. It’s not the regular Greg-Pearson-is-just-being-a-jerk off, it’s more along the lines of something-is-seriously-wrong off.”
“Yeah, I figured that out the hard way.” Rachel sighs. Later. She’ll help him later. “What do you want?”
“It’s not about what I want—it’s about what I need.” Mercia holds herself tighter. “I need goldmint to stop the damn seizures before they ruin my life.”
Rachel grimaces. “I don’t—”
“Cut the crap, Cleary. We both know that thing in Greg wouldn’t have thrown such a temper tantrum if it wasn’t obsessed with something it clearly can’t have. And I am not stupid enough to believe you and the Fae prince haven’t cozied up to one another.” Mercia releases her hold on herself and steps closer to Rachel. “For twenty goldmint pills, I get you into the town council’s archives for as long as you need. For fifty, I help you find Orion and keep Dougal alive while he’s running around here like a headless chicken.”
“Thirty,” Rachel blurts, though she doesn’t know how she feels about this. “Thirty goldmint pills and you help Dougal keep everyone safe from the Fae terrorizing the school.”
“Forty, and then I’ll help.”
“Thirty-five is my best offer. Take it or leave it.”
Mercia sneers, grits her teeth. “Damn it,” she says, putting her hand out. “This doesn’t make us friends.”
Rachel takes her hand and they shake.
Mercia brushes past Rachel as she walks back to her Volvo. “I’ll come to your house after school. You better have the goldmint pills by then.”
“Or what?”
Mercia snickers. “Fae are like mosquitos, a nuisance at best. Cross me and I’ll conjure up something much, much worse.”
Rachel sighs, watching the dainty girl walk away. “Fine,” she calls back.
Only when Mercia’s car is driving down Eerie Street does Rachel return to her Hyundai, keys in hand.
“Sorry, Orion, but I need all the help I can get,” she whispers, already feeling guilty for what she’s about to do next.
Seven
Fractured Sense of Self
There are so many things occupying Rachel’s thoughts that when she comes back to herself she’s already on the other side of Shadow Grove, driving past the abandoned train station, the steelworks, and closed down factories. Soon, she sees the sun-bleached sign hanging askew across the entrance to Pine Hill Trailer Park, where small houses and mobile homes stand alongside each other, stacked too closely together to be comfortable. A dog barks madly somewhere along the fence, while a few indignant shouts fill the otherwise quiet day.
The neglected, solitary apartment building—located at the very edge of Shadow Grove—rises out of the earth. Ashfall Heights is an eyesore the town council simply can’t get rid of—it’s a mistake made two generations earlier, when a promising baby boom had been interrupted by the Great Depression and World War II. Wilderness surrounds the unsightly H-shaped building, which has been left to crumble for close to two decades. Yet, for reasons she can’t begin to explain or understand, the more she visits, the fonder she grows of the place.
Rachel steers into the oversized abandoned parking lot, avoiding the deep potholes scarring the asphalt and construction debris littering the area. She parks at the entrance, across two spaces, and unclicks her seatbelt.
She reaches around the seat to find her bag. She slings her bag over her shoulder, climbs out of her car, closes the door behind her, and crosses the distance between the parking lot and the graffiti-riddled entrance of Ashfall Heights. She barely notices the grimy interior of the foyer anymore, hardly thinks twice about entering the elevator that sounds like it’ll crash back to earth if she breathes too loudly. The doors close and the gears feebly grind as the elevator ascends. She searches for Orion’s apartment keys on her keychain.
Six weeks earlier, Rachel had found the keys and a hastily written note in Orion’s handwriting lying on her pillow. The note simply read: Please check on my greenhouse. How it had gotten into her bedroom, she doesn’t know, but ever since then she’s spent most Saturdays in the quiet apartment—making sure the watering system is functioning, reading through the various handwritten journals in the greenhouse to familiarize herself w
ith the exotic plants, and trying not to kill any of them before he gets back from wherever he is in the Fae Realm.
The elevator slowly opens and Rachel marches down the ninth floor’s corridor, passing the faded red doors with their black numbers. She ignores the smells and sounds, the yellowing walls and worn linoleum flooring underfoot. At apartment 9-M, Rachel unlocks the door and enters. It’s stuffy and dark inside, and she blindly feels around for the light switch, which she flips on. The artificial light brightens the sparsely decorated living room with its few pieces of furniture and the posters hanging on the walls.
The closet door sits on the left side of the entryway, across from the kitchen. She opens the closet and walks up Ashwell Heights’ forgotten stairwell to the tenth floor. The entire tenth floor has been commandeered by Orion to become an indoor greenhouse. It is full of foreign and beautiful Fae plants, most of which Orion uses to manufacture his signature designer drugs.
The medicinal plants section is in the center of the greenhouse, surrounded by hundreds of other plants she hasn’t had a chance to study yet. She heads directly to the desk, which is littered with numerous mason jars and handwritten journals. Each mason jar is marked with its contents—harvested Stardust, Nacht-Lilies, Ocean Roses, and Droom Leaves, among a variety of other unpronounceable names. Rachel ignores the unprocessed herbs and reaches into the top desk where Orion keeps his stash.
She rifles through the plastic baggies, searching for the goldmint. Though it’s not the most popular drug Orion produces—that honor goes to the various sexual enhancement drugs—goldmint is still plentiful. The thirty-five pills, which Rachel will need to pay Orion for, are already likely to cost a small fortune. She carefully counts out the pills, grabs another unused Ziploc bag from the desk, and seals them up. Next, she writes an IOU and slips the note into the goldmint folder, which she returns to Orion’s desk.
Rachel pulls off the blood-soaked tissue she’d wrapped around her thumb and looks at the angry, red wound. With her free hand, she searches through the mason jars for the Stardust and loosens the lid. She sprinkles the Stardust onto the raw, jagged gouge on her thumb, and bites back a yelp of pain. A pinch of the Fae herb is all she needs to allow the wound to heal at inhuman speed. It’s a small injury compared to the one she’d received when the Night Weaver impaled Orion with her darkness, but it’s still remarkably tender as the magic goes to work. She feels her flesh slowly knit together, the skin growing taut as it stretches across the wound.
The Bone Carver Page 7