Rachel grabs her sling bag and heads down the stairs. A minute later, she’s locking up the apartment and making her way back to the elevator.
By the time she climbs inside her car, pulls on her the seatbelt, and starts the engine, Rachel is already worrying about the consequences of borrowing drugs from a powerful Fae prince, of being caught with the pills, of handing them over to Mercia. So many things can go wrong. Still, she can’t go toe-to-toe with a Miser Fae without some magical back-up, and she doubts Mercia is a narc.
Rachel makes a wide U-turn in the parking lot and begins the drive back to the road, her heart racing and palms sweating. Not fear due to having to face a dangerous Fae in the not so distant future, but because the sheriff’s deputies love to camp out, waiting to pull over anyone who looks even a bit suspicious.
She passes the trailer park, the closed down factories and steelworks, and the train station without seeing any official cruisers lingering about. Even as she heads straight to Main Road, Rachel can’t find a way to relax.
When she arrives back at school, she’s a nervous wreck. There’s no way of knowing if she’ll even be able to spell her name correctly on the test, let alone get a decent grade. If she doesn’t show up for the test, though, Mr. Davenport will make her wish for death.
Can today just end already? She gets out of the car and keeps her hand pressed against the sling bag. As she makes her way back into the school, she sees Cam walking ahead. What is your deal?
He glances over his shoulder and flashes a smile before coming to a stop.
“You came back?” she says, walking up to him.
“I actually studied for the English test.” Cam shrugs. “You heading that way?”
“Mhmmm.”
They fall into step along the main hallway to get to Mr. Davenport’s class. “You look concerned,” Cam says.
“I’m having a terrible day,” Rachel mumbles.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Nope. Not unless you start spilling your secrets.”
“Touché.” Cam pushes his hands into his jacket pockets. “Well, if you’re really having a bad day, I can always get you out of this test. Just say the word and I’ll make it happen.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I’ll be fine, thanks.”
“Yeah, keep telling yourself that.” He reaches out to open the door and allows Rachel to enter the empty classroom first.
The action irks her for some reason. Usually, she doesn’t mind when Dougal does it, but with Cam, it’s a whole other matter. A tiny voice inside her warns her not to trust him. Why, though? He’s just a regular guy, isn’t he? Yeah, he has his quirks as most people do, but something about him gives her pause.
She walks to the middle of the classroom and takes her seat, keeping her sling bag firmly gripped between her ankles. Rachel plants her elbow on the table and rests her forehead in her palm, mentally readying herself for the test.
She feels eyes on her, making her uncomfortable.
It’s nothing, she thinks, but glances to the side, anyway.
Cam sits across the room at his own desk, grinning at her.
Why do I always attract the creeps?
Mr. Davenport’s accident takes the form of another fall—a misstep that has him slipping as he enters the class with the English tests clutched in his hands. He hit his head so hard against the tiles, Rachel’s certain she hears the back of his skull crack. The test papers fly into the air as a flurry of activity commences. Students either panic or take action to help the most despised teacher at Ridge Crest High.
Faculty members arrive in droves, trying and failing to regain order.
The class is eventually dismissed, the English test postponed until a later date, and the ambulance is called.
Rachel passes Mr. Davenport’s desk and sees a figurine lying in the open top drawer.
“Yup,” she pops the ‘p’, her theory proven right. This time, Rachel doesn’t pick up the totem, simply exits the classroom along with the rest of the students.
Cam stands across the hallway, seemingly waiting for her.
“Was that your doing?” She eyes him suspiciously.
“Sorry?” Cam looks genuinely surprised by the question, but that’s not saying much.
Rachel stares at him, not sure if she believes him or not. She takes her place beside him, watching the EMTs rolling the gurney out of the classroom with Mr. Davenport strapped in tight.
“It’s surprising how easily our peers are traumatized. There wasn’t even a drop of blood and look at them.” He juts his chin in Bianca Novak’s direction, who’s bawling her eyes out on Ronald Steven’s shoulder.
There are others in a similar state of despair, either crying or in complete shock. Best friends, Tammy Richards and Valeska Howes—for example—are several shades paler than they had been when they’d first entered the classroom. Tammy is crying in a pretty kind of way, a single teardrop trickling down her cheek. Her response is very subdued, almost ladylike. Valeska, on the other hand, catches flies with her ‘O’-shaped mouth, gaping as she looks between the gurney and the classroom.
“I’ve always said they don’t watch enough horror movies,” Rachel says.
Cam snorts, but manages to suppress his laughter before he can draw attention from the others.
As Rachel takes a step forward, ready to follow the EMTs out of the building, he says, “You don’t really think I’m responsible for Mr. Davenport’s fall, do you?”
Rachel studies him for a long moment, before she says, “Weirder things have happened.”
Instead of arguing with her, Cam simply shrugs and walks down the hallway.
Eight
Bones Don’t Scry
Should I get Ziggy, just in case things get out of control?
Rachel immediately dismisses the idea. She wouldn’t put the Fae light in harm’s way, regardless of the fact that it’s nothing more than a ball of energy with a personality.
Maybe I need to notify Dougal?
Again, she instantly decides against it. He has enough to deal with, and there’s no telling if Mercia’s part of the bargain will pan out.
This is my problem to handle.
“This will do,” Mercia says, setting a large wooden chest on the basement floor in front of the bare north-facing wall. She opens it and takes out several flat, rounded objects, covered in red velvet fabric. “I wouldn’t normally do this outside of a protection barrier, but desperate times call for—” She fumbles one of the objects, catching it before it falls. “Whoa. That was close.”
“Do you need help?” Rachel steps closer.
“Thanks, but if I break one, I just get grounded. If you break one, you literally die.” Mercia carefully places the last rounded object on the floor before reaching back into the wooden chest.
Rachel perches on an upturned crate, whatever it had once held long since gone.
Mercia lifts a large, oddly shaped object from the chest with both hands.
“Okay, let’s see if I remember how this works.” Mercia rights herself and squares her shoulders, staring at the wall. She says a weird word, and the object flies out of her hands and fixes against the wall. Mercia grins as she steps closer and pulls the velvet fabric off from the object, revealing an obsidian disk in an ornate, black frame. Eight crescents are carved into it, just large enough to hold whatever else Mercia’s unpacked from the crate. She returns to the stack of velvet-covered objects and picks one up. She closes her eyes as she unwraps a smaller one, whispering something Rachel can’t hear before the disk flies to the large black mirror and slips into a crescent bracket.
“You’re going to have to tell me what we’re doing,” Rachel says. She crosses her legs. “I can’t figure it out.”
“I’m putting together an interdimensional scrying mirror,” Mercia answers, eyes still closed as she reaches for the second disk.
“Oh.”
Mercia whispers to the object in her hands, which follows its brother into
another empty crescent in the mainframe. One after another, the disks fly to the wall, until all eight smaller obsidian mirrors are in place. Mercia opens her eyes and smiles at her handiwork, pushing the empty chest aside with her foot.
“There.”
“Now what?” Rachel asks.
“Now,” Mercia begins, glancing over her shoulder to Rachel, “I need something personal of Orion’s to focus on. Something he’s touched or—” Her gaze falls to Rachel’s neck. “That’ll do.”
Rachel reaches up to the umbrella pendant and holds it firmly.
“I’m not going to break it.”
“See that you don’t.” Rachel reluctantly takes off the Ronamy Stone. She crosses the basement and hands the necklace over.
Mercia takes the necklace in both hands as she steps up to the black mirror, closing her eyes again. Her words are mere breaths, spoken so.
As Mercia opens her eyes, the pendant glows in purples and blues, with hues of green sometimes flashing intermittently. She raises her hand. The golden chain swings forward and backward, the umbrella pendant almost touching the mirror. Her blonde hair blows wildly around her face as the enchantment becomes louder, more insistent.
An impossible wind rushes through the basement, blowing around loose paper and dust.
Rachel pushes her hair out of her face, staring at the strange frame as it turns counterclockwise. Faster and faster, the frame moves, the smaller obsidian surfaces reflecting extraordinary landscapes. Images take shape, impossible worlds are revealed. There’s a realm where black peaks stab at cerulean skies and rough cliffs disappear beneath angry purple waters. Another realm shows darkness and fire and cities built into mountainsides. Another mirror reflects a world of glass, where people are ruled by technology and machines are worshipped like gods. There are castles built in the sky, societies that live underwater, and unimaginable creatures.
Mercia’s voice crescendos across the phantom wind’s howling.
Suddenly, the frame halts its movement and the large oval mirror shows Orion standing beside a black stallion, dressed in an unfamiliar uniform. Black armor gleams beneath the red insignia emblazoned over his chest. Twin deer, on their hind legs—the same one she saw on Mercia’s goldmint pills. And hanging on his belt is a sheathed broadsword, the silver hilt depicting a stag’s head—antlers and all.
Mercia stops chanting and lowers the glowing pendant. She tilts her head as she gazes at the mirror.
“He’s in the Fae Realm,” Mercia says. She places her free hand against the surface, the image rippling like water. “It’ll take about three days on foot to reach his camp, but the journey is not without danger.” She pulls her hand back and fishes a brass compact from her jean pocket. Mercia whispers a few words, and the glow of the pendant fades. A moment later, the wind hushes and the images on the mirror vanish. “That’s sorted.” She pivots and holds out the necklace to Rachel. “Once you give me the goldmint, I’ll give you the map.”
Rachel replaces the necklace around her neck as she moves to the old armchair where she’d set her sling bag, then rummages until she finds the plastic baggie. As she turns around, Mercia’s relief is almost tangible. Her shoulders relax as she exhales. Rachel returns to hand over the baggie.
“Okay.” Mercia pockets the goldmint. She takes a step closer and opens the brass compact to reveal yet another set of obsidian mirrors. “I transferred the map into this travel-sized mirror.” An image of the ACCESS PROHIBITED sign takes shape in the reflective area. “The top mirror shows Orion at any given moment. The bottom one will show you the next landmark to look for on your way to him. So, basically, it’s your map. Once you go past the signpost, the image changes. Simple yet effective, don’t you agree?”
Rachel grumbles an affirmative as she stares at the mirror. “You said something about danger?”
“I don’t exactly know what made me say it. The terrain isn’t friendly, sure, but it’s something else. I think what I sensed relates more to the people Orion’s hanging around with ... They’re giving off iffy vibes,” Mercia explains, handing over the compact mirror. “Just keep an eye out for trouble and you’ll be fine.”
“That’s it?”
Mercia shrugs. “That’s it.”
Dubious, Rachel studies Mercia’s expression, searching for something insincere. Surely there’s more to this trip than simply walking for a few days. The Fae Realm is, after all, a whole other dimension, with unknown dangers and whatnot.
“Don’t look at me like I’ve just signed your death warrant.” Mercia steps toward the wooden chest. “Seriously, there are simpler ways to kill you if ending your life was my intention. Besides, why would I, when you’re one of the few people I, like, don’t entirely hate?”
Rachel pockets the compact mirror. “Yesterday—”
“I wasn’t thinking clearly,” Mercia cuts her off. “I’m so used to everyone making fun of me and my condition that I sometimes forget there are actually a few decent people in this town. Don’t think I didn’t notice you slapping Eddie Roberts’ phone out of his hand sophomore year when I—” She stops talking as she hunches down and opens the lid on the chest, averting her gaze. Mercia clears her throat. “Females typically wear pants and tunics when they travel long distances in the Fae Realm. You should also braid your hair, that way you won’t stand out too much when you come across any locals.”
“Okay, but what if I don’t find Orion and I need to get back to the Harrowsgate? Will this thing show me the way?” Rachel bites the inside of her lip.
“Even magic has its limits,” Mercia says. “Go, get ready.” She looks up. “You’re burning valuable daylight.”
“You’ll help Dougal, right?” Rachel asks.
“I give you my word as a Holstein witch. I’ll help keep everyone semi-safe.”
“Semi-safe?”
“Well, it’s not like I’m all-powerful. If I were, don’t you think I’d have this situation under control by now?” Mercia snorts. “Now go. I need to pack up the mirrors.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Rachel takes her leave, heading for her bedroom to pack the essentials. A lot can go wrong in three days, especially in an unknown realm where she cannot distinguish between friend and foe. If something goes wrong, she’s on her own. Nobody will come looking for her. There’s no cell phone signal, no Wi-Fi, no emergency services.
Rachel settles on taking only the bare minimum. This includes: a thick rolled-up blanket, her toiletries, a lighter, extra underwear and socks, enough food to last her a week, and a water bottle. She decides on a pair of black jeans, a white winter’s shirt that laces up in the front and looks medieval to the untrained eye, as well as a pair of black hiking boots. At the last minute, she adds a heavy-duty torch and extra batteries, as well as a second outfit into her backpack—black leggings and a thick winter jacket with a faux fur hoodie and cuffs. That’s the best she can do on such short notice.
“Rachel,” Mercia shouts from downstairs as Rachel braids her thick, red hair. “If you take any longer, you might as well wait until morning.”
Rachel ties the ends of her hair and picks up the faux leather backpack she plans on taking along. “Come on, Ziggy. Let’s go find Orion and bring him home.”
The Fae light flies ahead of her as Rachel exits her room and makes her way back downstairs, where Mercia stands in the foyer, the chest of mirrors waiting outside the front door.
“Took you long enough,” Mercia mumbles. “You have the compact mirror?”
Rachel touches her front pocket. “Yes.”
“A first-aid kit for emergencies?”
“Yup.”
“Water, food, and—”
“I can open the bag for you to check if you want?”
“Sorry, it’s not every day I send someone off into the unknown.” Mercia crosses her arms. “The Fae light I saw flying past is going with you, right?”
Rachel nods.
“And that’s your sleeping bag?”
“It’s a blanke
t,” Rachel corrected her. “I couldn’t find my sleeping bag.”
“Don’t you think it’s kind of important to have a sleeping bag when you’re going out into an unknown wilderness?”
“Yes, but the sleeping bags are probably somewhere in the attic, and time is running out.”
“Okay.” Mercia grimaces. “Good luck then, I guess.”
“Your enthusiasm is infectious,” Rachel says in a deadpan tone as she walks toward the open front door. “I sent Dougal a text telling him you’ll be helping, along with your number.”
“And?”
“You should explain the witchy business to him,” Rachel says. She locks the front door behind them. “He’s a little close-minded on some things, but eventually he’ll come around to the idea of you having magic.”
“Close-minded in what way?”
“Well, Dougal isn’t the type of person who’ll divulge your secret unless it is a threat to someone he cares for, but he won’t be too happy about having to work with a witch either.” Rachel descends the porch steps and walks across the lawn. “Truth be told, it’s likely he’ll be speaking in Gaelic every time you go near him, which isn’t half as bad as it sounds.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mercia says. “Don’t get yourself killed, okay?”
“It’s definitely not on my to-do list,” Rachel calls back. She steps onto Griswold Road.
“Oh.” Mercia’s voice halts her. “When you go through the gate, just think about Orion, otherwise you may end up somewhere completely different. The Harrowsgate sometimes has a mind of its own.”
The Bone Carver Page 8