The Bone Carver

by Monique Snyman

  “Are you quite done yet?” All pretense of Nova’s villainy is forgotten.

  Rachel inhales deeply and nods, managing a, “Yup.”

  Nova straightens behind her, and continues with a rather lame, “Leave, brother, and she’s safe.”

  “I have your word?”

  “On my honor as King of Amaris, I solemnly swear to send her back after you’ve left,” Nova answers.

  Orion presses his lips into a thin line, diminishing his flame into nonexistence before he turns on his heel and walks through the Harrowsgate. Nova releases his hold on her. In a flash, Rachel spins around, balls her hand into a fist, and punches the Fae King in the face. He sucks in air through his teeth as the song of swords being pulled from their scabbards play around her.

  “Never use me like that again,” Rachel says. She hides her throbbing fist behind her back.

  He holds out a hand to halt his guard from advancing on them, the shiner already blooming over his left eye.

  “I am the King of Amaris,” he booms over the clearing.

  “I couldn’t care less if you were the King of freaking Hearts. I am tired of men trying to take advantage of me.” Rachel pivots and heads toward the Harrowsgate. “And take a vacation, for heaven’s sake. You need a break,” she calls back, before exiting the Fae Realm.

  Thirteen

  Charnel Melancholy

  Orion’s scarred hands find Rachel’s face when she enters the Human Realm. “Did he hurt you?” he asks, galaxy eyes full of concern as he evaluates her from head to toe. “Are you okay?”

  Rachel shoves him back and walks out of the mushroom circle. She stops in her tracks, lifts a finger into the air, and turns to face him. “You abandoned me in the middle of nowhere. There wasn’t food. I had no way of reaching anyone. And best of all, I had no idea if you would ever come back for me. So, no, I am not okay.”

  “Of course I would’ve gone back for you,” Orion says. “But I had to fix—”

  “Be careful of your next words,” Rachel interrupts.

  He grimaces. “Three-hundred-and-twelve Halflings died when the Sluaghs attacked.”

  The pang of guilt gives her pause.

  Three-hundred-and-twelve?

  Rachel crosses her arms, her knuckles still painful after having punched Nova.

  “If I hadn’t gone back, the loss would’ve been much greater,” Orion continues. “Some of those men had wives and children, Clarré. I had to answer to them as to why their husbands and fathers won’t be going home.”

  The forest seemed colder, icy enough to chill Rachel to the bone.

  “Yes, and I’m responsible for all their deaths, because I led the Sluaghs to your military camp.” She acts the exact opposite of how she feels, and waves one hand through the air. She drops her arm back to her side. “Here’s the thing, though. If you’d actually come back after you dealt with the Night Weaver, I wouldn’t have had to enter that infernal realm to get you.” Rachel stomps toward the rotting tree trunk.

  “They needed me,” he says behind her.

  “I needed you.”

  “You’re being selfish.” Orion walks up to her side.

  She lifts her chin higher, but says nothing to contradict him. Yes, perhaps she was selfish. Maybe she could even be classified as heartless. So what? It’s not like Orion would be the first person to think Rachel is something she’s not. The truth of the matter, she cares a great deal about the dead Halfling soldiers and their families, but she also has a mission to complete. Without Orion, though, it won’t be possible. Shadow Grove may not be a grand kingdom with heated rock pools and toilets that date back to the Dark Ages, but the small New England town is her home. Even if she doesn’t like everyone who lives here, she’ll protect them with her life. Hopefully, it won’t come to dying for Shadow Grove, but she will. She would sacrifice herself for this town she both loves and loathes.

  “You never answered my questions,” he says after as they make the trek back to Griswold Road. “Did Nova hurt you?”

  “I hurt him more,” she mumbles, which earns herself an inquisitive look. “I punched him in the face after you left.” Rachel’s lips tug at the corners.

  “You’re kidding.”

  Rachel shows him her bruised knuckles.

  Orion guffaws as his thumb runs over the back of her hand. “You actually punched him in the face?”

  She shrugs and pulls her hand away, half-hugging herself against the cold. “Nova’s going to nurse a shiner for at least two weeks.”

  “He could have had your head,” Orion says. “He still can.”

  “At this point, Nova needs to get in line,” Rachel says. “There’s a Miser who needs to be put in place, Greg’s acting all kinds of weird, Mrs. Crenshaw is in the hospital after shattering her hip, and I owe you money.”

  Orion frowns. “Why would you owe me money?”

  “I had to trade goldmint for a map.” Rachel pats down her pockets and groans. “Crap. I forgot Mercia’s mirror in the cabin.”

  “The Holstein girl?” he asks, and Rachel nods. “She’s a regular. Don’t worry about the money.”

  “One less thing for me to worry about,” she says. “Thanks.”

  “So, what’s this Miser getting up to?”

  Rachel tells Orion all about the situation she’s left behind as they make their way out of the forest—everything from finding a boneless body in the school’s boiler room to discovering the bone carvings.

  As they exit the forest, he says, “You do realize my powers are inhibited in the Human Realm, right? Here, I’m only at ten percent strength.”

  “Your ten percent is still better than my hundred percent,” Rachel answers, staring longingly at her home. “Okay, so I have your keys—”

  “I don’t need keys, remember?” Orion cuts her short. He gives her a half-smile, the first one she’s seen since he’d gone after the Night Weaver. “I’m going home to take a shower, get some more appropriate clothing on, and order an extra-large pizza. If you need me, you know where I am.”

  “Cool,” she says, feeling weird about parting with him so soon after the whole thing in the Fae Realm. “You’re not going to run off again?”

  He looks off, studying the Fraser house and avoiding her eyes. “You heard what Nova said.”

  Resentment. That’s what he’s hiding from me.

  Rachel sighs. “Whatever’s going on between the two of you, it’s festering, and innocent people are suffering. Sort out your nonsense before the anger devours you both whole.”

  “Mhmmm. See you soon, Clarré.”

  When Orion disappears again, she rolls her eyes and walks up to her quiet, empty home, where she finds the spare key hidden beneath the wicker seat’s cushion. She unlocks the door and Ziggy flies into the house, meandering up to her bedroom.

  The gloomy reception is evidence enough that nobody’s been in there since she left.

  Rachel heads to the kitchen, where she’d left her cell phone charging, and unlocks the screen. Notifications for over a dozen messages run up the screen—most of them from Greg. She scrolls through the messages, raising an eyebrow. The first message is one asking to meet up. Then there’s a Where RU? text. The concern continues for a while, before he seems to undergo a sudden personality change and goes off on her for ignoring him. Derogatory terms are used, some creative language, which is unlike Greg.

  Rachel moves onto checking her missed calls—all of them from Greg. Voicemails—all left by Greg.

  “Take a hint, sheesh,” she mumbles.

  Rachel dials Dougal’s number.

  She counts the rings until the recorded voice tells her the number she has dialed is currently unavailable, and that she should try again later. Later is out of the question. Rachel redials, waits, before—

  “Pick up the phone,” Rachel ends the call as the recorded voice blathers on.

  The third try is as unsuccessful as the others.

  Calm down. Rachel heads for the staircase. Merci
a promised she’ll take care of him, so just call her. She scrolls through her contact list until she finds Mercia’s number.

  There’s a knock on the front door before she can hit the dial button.

  Rachel changes course, ventures back into the foyer to answer the door. Mercia, her hair a mess and the bags under her eyes obvious, sighs in relief.

  “I thought it was you.” Mercia steps inside the house. “Did you find Orion?”

  “Hello to you, too.” Rachel closes the door behind her. “Were you waiting in the hydrangeas all this time?”

  “Funny,” Mercia mumbles. “Look, did you find him or not?”

  “Yes. He’s at his place taking a shower.”

  “Good. That’s good.” She nods. “Listen, I came to give you something.” She pulls a pink flash drive from her pocket and holds it out. “This Fae is stronger than I anticipated. I tried. I really, really tried to keep everyone safe, but it’s too strong.” Her eyes twinkle with unshed tears, the bags underneath prominent. “I should have given you access to the town council’s archive before I sent you off to find Orion, but I didn’t think it would be this bad.”

  “What are you talking about?” Rachel asks, taking the flash drive.

  “I zapped all the information in the archives onto the flash drive. Everything. I thought it would help me figure out what we’re dealing with, but there is so much information on there. You’re better at both research and puzzles than I am, though.”

  “Mercia, hold up. What’s going on?”

  Mercia chews on her bottom lip, fear rolling off her in waves. “It’s bad.” She begins pacing across the foyer, her hand going back to her hair. “Seven kids at school are already hospitalized, and then the bone carvings just kept on coming. I can’t be everywhere at once. I can’t save everyone at once.” She gulps loudly, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “It’s okay. Don’t—”

  Mercia breaks down, sobs wrack her body. “Just find out what’s doing this, please. People around town have started finding bone carvings now.”

  “Okay, okay.” Rachel holds up her hands in surrender and heads toward the stairs. “It could take a while, though.”

  Mercia wipes the tears away with the back of her hand and nods. The poor girl looks like she hasn’t slept since Rachel left.

  “I’ll wait,” Mercia whispers.

  Together, they head toward Rachel’s bedroom, where Mercia plonks down on the bed. She stares out of the window, looking like a wilted flower, and releases a heavy sigh.

  “How’s Dougal? Where is Dougal?”

  “He’s at the hospital, keeping an eye on his grandmother. After everything that’s happened, he didn’t want to leave her by herself.”

  “Makes sense. Are you okay?” Rachel asks.

  Mercia averts her gaze from the window, looking up at Rachel through half-lidded eyes. “Do I look okay?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Mercia gives her a thumb’s up and turns her attention back to the window.

  Rachel nods as she opens her laptop, waits impatiently for it to come to life. She pushes the flash drive into the USB port. A program opens, which looks more like a website, filling the entirety of her laptop’s screen. The headline—in white, bold letters on a pitch black background—proclaims it as: THE UNOFFICIAL HISTORY OF SHADOW GROVE. A menu is situated below the headline with a search bar and revolving images—illustrations, lost artwork, and old photographs—located directly beside it.

  “Nice,” Rachel murmurs. She scrolls to the search bar to type in some random terms, which yields numerous results. She plays around a bit, narrowing down the search, by typing in phrases like: bone carving, omen, Fae, and influence. The first result on the list is titled: The Collected Stories of Renaud Dupont. She doesn’t recognize the author or the book, but the summary description is highlighted with every term she’d entered. “It’s as good a place as any to start,” she says, and clicks on the link.

  GOLVATH THE LONELY

  In a long-since forgotten kingdom, a young servant girl gave birth to her elderly master’s babe. The child would be his only heir, his only legacy. Illegitimate son or not, the ruined, small kingdom would be left to the child upon his father’s death. And death would come swifter than anyone had anticipated. Before the babe’s first month of life, before his naming day had even arrived, the old king died in his sleep, leaving behind his ever-increasing debts and a dwindling people in the hands of the nameless babe.

  Some of the dead king’s people left, fearing war would reach their borders, until only a handful remained. But nobody came to collect on the king’s debts. Nobody came to claim the lands or abandoned villages.

  Soon, those who had stayed, either due to being unable to travel or because they felt they owed the dead king their loyalty, also perished. One after the other, the remaining villagers died from disease, illness, or old age, until eventually no one was left aside from the servant girl and her son, whom she named Golvath.

  They could have left the ruined kingdom, should have left like the others, but lost merchants and travelers who passed through the desolate lands brought stories of sweeping illnesses, raging wars, and unyielding blights from their neighboring kingdoms. These tales, whether true or not, scared the servant girl so much she kept her son hidden in a crumbling stone tower whenever a strange face came near. Nevertheless, she ventured down to meet those passing through, hoping to restock supplies. With nothing to pay for these life-saving provisions, she offered herself to those who would not show charity to a poor, lonesome woman, stuck in a penniless and abandoned kingdom.

  Golvath was spared seeing his mother bartering for the necessities that would keep them alive, but he grew up as all children do, and eventually came to grips with what his mother did to keep him fed and clothed.

  He used to keep himself busy by whittling wood, carving animals and soldiers, in the hopes of creating a companion for himself.

  When he was old enough to venture into the village by himself, he would slip away while his mother entertained their guests to explore the ruins at the foot of the tower.

  Some of the houses had been abandoned in such a hurry after his father’s death that plates and stoneware had been left on the tables. Clothes and toys were scattered amongst the debris. As a boy, he used to imagine what type of people had lived in these houses, judging solely by what they had left behind. He grew bolder with his explorations as the years wore on, and moved farther from the stone tower, until he reached houses where those occupants who had held on to the very end had perished in their beds, chairs, gardens. And with nobody there to bury the corpses, the bodies had rotted away where they lay until only bones remained.

  Golvath was so desperate for companionship, and so naïve, that he didn’t find the skeletal remains disconcerting. In fact, he found the sun-bleached bones nothing more than a new material on which to practice his whittling.

  It took Golvath a while to get used to working with the bones, for they were much softer than wood and their porous nature made them prone to splintering and fracturing. Some bones were too small, some were broken, some wholly impractical to work with. Still, he honed his skills as best he could. Eventually, the carvings he made from the villagers’ remains became magnificent pieces of art. He kept them to himself, though, too greedy to share his new obsession with his mother for fear that she would take away his beloved carvings.

  In his eighteenth year, as he was coming into his inherited powers, he sat beside his mother’s bed and held her hand as she whispered her final words. “I have protected you as much as any mother can protect her children. I have given my life so you can live yours, so you might reign as your father once did. Go out into the world and find yourself a wife, and when you return, my sweet boy, rebuild this kingdom so your children might have a better future.”

  Golvath would leave the land of his birth soon after his mother’s death, but he was unprepared for the world that lay beyond. So unprepared, in fact, h
e could not speak with a single soul who crossed his path. How would he ever fulfill his mother’s dying wish if he could not even speak to the fairer sex?

  The uncrowned king of a forgotten kingdom, lost amongst the various cultures of Orthega, had no other choice than to use his inherited abilities to forcibly sway a maiden’s heart.

  The first maiden, who had hair as white as snow, was fortunate to be saved from Golvath’s enchantment by another suitor before the day of their wedding. The enchantment of the second maiden, who had lips as red as rubies, was broken by her father, who had rallied the town against the drifter. Golvath was run out of every town and village in Orthega after his devious plans were discovered, until his only options were to either return to his decimated kingdom alone, nothing more than a failure, or to continue his search in another realm.

  As fate would have it, Golvath found himself near the Grimwhorl at the time, and decided to continue his search for a bride.

  So beware, young maidens, one and all. For Golvath the Lonely may be watching you, waiting to steal you to a kingdom of ruin.

  Rachel frowns as she stares at the monitor, the story’s ending utterly unsatisfying. Renaud Dupont was certainly not up to the Grimm Brothers’ standards of storytelling, that’s for sure. But was this who she’s dealing with right now? Golvath the Lonely? And what was a Grimwhorl? So many questions run through her mind, and so few answers present themselves.

  She clicks the return button and scans through the next few search results, most of which seem to be journal entries by a variety of authors on the horrors that the people of Shadow Grove had endured over the years.

  Rachel takes a break from her research to shower and put on some clean clothes, have some lunch, and tend to her blistered feet. Afterward, she quietly makes her way back to the room, where Mercia is fast asleep, and reaches under her bed. She searches around until she finds her keepsake box, lifts the lid, and slips Nova’s poem inside. With that done, she returns to her desk.