The Bone Carver

by Monique Snyman

  “I suppose this was when there wasn’t much of a town to look at?” Orion interrupts.

  “Yup.”

  “So, what did he see?”

  “Nobody knows, but it couldn’t have been good. The story goes on to say he saw something so terrible it tore his mind apart and broke his will to live. When the bell stopped tolling, the boy screamed and screamed.” Rachel looks up at Orion. “And then, during this madness, the boy fell from the top of the bell tower. Some say he slipped, others believe he was pushed, but some think he jumped. Apparently, he landed face first at the bottom of the steps that led into the schoolhouse.”

  Orion grimaces, an inquisitive eyebrow rising. “That’s grim even by Shadow Grove’s standards.”

  “The story doesn’t end there, though. The tale does, however, always end the same way, ‘The boy still walks the halls of the old schoolhouse, so whatever you do, don’t approach him or you’ll be driven mad.’ The thing is, the so-called Ghost Boy walking around the school is probably Golvath.”

  “Ah,” Orion says. “Well, if it helps, I can’t hear anyone else up there with her.”

  “It helps.”

  When they reach the T-junction in the hallway, she turns right, heading away from the boiler room and possible exit, moving deeper into the gloom of the old schoolhouse. The air feels thicker here, not alive or dead but something in-between.

  “You would’ve made an excellent healer in my father’s army,” Orion breaks the silence. “The soldiers would’ve loved to hear your stories while they were losing their limbs or lives.”

  “I have a terrible bedside manner when it comes to people,” Rachel mumbles.

  “You weren’t half-bad when I got stabbed by the Night Weaver’s Fae light.”

  She grumbles an affirmative, but doesn’t say more. A few steps later, they reach the stone archway. Beyond lies a small circular chamber with a questionable wooden spiral staircase that leads five stories up to the rusted bell.

  “Mercia,” Orion calls up the tower.

  “Do you want the entire town to know we’re here?” Rachel hisses.

  “Look at those stairs.” He gestures at the rotting, thin wooden slats that are already broken in some places, as well as the rickety handrail leaning precariously to the side. “No way am I climbing them.”

  “I could ha—”

  “Not while I still have a breath in my body,” he interrupts her. “Mercia.”

  “I’m sorry, but since when do you get to decide what I may or may not do?” Rachel crosses her arms.

  “Since I gave up my entire existence in the Fae Realm just to make sure my brother didn’t kill you,” he snaps back. “Mercia!”

  “Almost done,” Mercia shouts back.

  “Nova wouldn’t have hurt me,” Rachel scoffs.

  Orion holds up his hands in a trickle of sunlight, showing off the crisscrossing scars that cover his fingers and palms. He turns his hands to show the rest of the ridges marring his skin. “I’ve seen those almost imperceptible flinches when you look at my hands, wondering what happened, what I did to deserve these scars. Well, let me tell you, my brother—the same one you think so highly of—did this to me when I was still a Faeling. Are you certain he wouldn’t have done worse to you if he had the chance—a choice in the matter?”

  “If he wanted to hurt me, he had ample opportunity.”

  Orion squares his jaw, shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Rachel.”

  “Oh, now I’m Rachel again.”

  “If I need to drive my point home, yes, then you’re just Rachel.”

  “Well, Orion, that still doesn’t give you the right to dictate my life for me. If I want to climb those stairs, I will.”

  He makes an animalistic sound of frustration in the back of his throat. “You’re so ... so ...”

  “I’m so what, huh?”

  “So ...”

  Rachel grabs his hand and places it over the umbrella pendant around her neck, keeping a firm grip on his wrist. He struggles to pull away from her for a beat, before exhaling in relief and blinking a few times as he gets rid of the fugue in his mind.

  “Do you feel better now?” she snaps at him.

  Orion looks away from her.

  She releases his wrist and places her hand on his unshaven cheek, nudging his head so their eyes can meet in the gloom. Rachel narrows her eyes at his icy stare, undaunted by the implied threat of bringing up what’d happened, what Orion had said. Bubbling rage cancels out fear and common sense. The tension coagulates. Electricity crackles in the air the longer they stand there, their resolve unwavering.

  There’s a shift.

  Anger, pain, and fear trickle away.

  They close the space separating their bodies.

  Rachel moves her hand away from Orion’s cheek and feels her way around his neck, pulling him closer until their lips collide. She feels his free arm snaking around her waist, hand resting against the small of her back. Orion pulls her even nearer. When that doesn’t satiate their desire for closeness, their mouths part and tongues dance. Their breaths combine, hearts seemingly beating to the same fast-paced rhythm. He takes a step forward and she backs up against the arched wall, before his hand changes direction again, finding her hip.

  She pours herself into him—all of her ire, relief, desperation. Everything she’s bottled up since he so unceremoniously left Shadow Grove. In turn, she accepts his pain and dread and anger, every part he’d hidden away since she showed up in the Fae Realm. Rachel deepens the kiss.

  Orion reluctantly pulls away, breathless, and rests his forehead against hers.

  Her chest heaves as she searches for air, dizzy from the kiss. Her swollen lips still pulse, her skin remains tender where his stubble had scratched. The places his hands had lingered are warm, crackling with life.

  They’d both needed someone. Probably anyone would’ve sufficed right then. She’s not naïve enough to imagine the kiss being anything other than a desperate attempt to normalize an abnormal situation. But there is no denying their chemistry. She’s still unwilling to label this something between them as anything other than companionship, or the increasingly sameness of their personalities, but it’s there. That chemistry is real.

  Normal people don’t react like that. Dougal’s words from when he’d been influenced by Golvath rings through her mind, chastising her for her strange behavior in certain situations. Freak out for God’s sake!

  “You do know this thing between us won’t end well.”

  Rachel grins, pushes onto the tips of her toes, and presses another kiss in the corner of his mouth. “We’ll worry about that once it stops being so much fun.” She lowers herself to the ground, reaches around the back of her neck, and unclasps the necklace.

  “What are you doing?” Orion asks. “No. What if—?”

  “I pushed Golvath out of my head this morning without the help of the Ronamy Stone. I’m sure I can do it again.”

  He reluctantly takes the pendant into his fist.

  “Don’t lose it.”

  He releases his hold on her and backs off.

  “Yes,” Mercia’s hiss of triumph echoes down the bell tower.

  Orion’s eyes widen as a golden flame flickers into existence, moving up to his wrist, enveloping his entire arm. “She did it,” he says, looking at Rachel.

  “Well, stop standing around then. Glisser Mercia out of here and then come back for me.”

  Orion extinguishes his flame and quickly fixes the necklace around his neck. A heartbeat later, he’s gone, leaving Rachel alone in the dark against the stone archway.

  “Finally. Some privacy.”

  Twenty-Three

  A Royal Hunt

  Cameron Mayer—or rather Golvath—steps out of the shadow, wearing a smirk that could easily curdle milk. He’s dressed in the faded leather jacket she’s seen him wear so often; his jeans are ripped at the knees, and the biker boots are scuffed up at the toes. Other than his familia
r appearance, though, something about him is definitely different.

  “It’s the ears,” he says, answering her unasked question before pushing his hair aside to reveal his elongated ear, which ends in a sharp tip. “I got tired of hiding them.” He releases his hair and walks up to her, taking Orion’s space. “Now why would you think about a prince when you are in the company of a king? Honestly, Rachel, stop being so mediocre.”

  “I’d much rather be mediocre than homicidal.”

  “He’s not getting back in,” Golvath says, rolling his eyes. “He’s not coming back to save the pretty damsel, because he’s not strong enough. Woe always you.”

  “What’s your deal?” she asks, mentally placing one brick atop the other to protect her thoughts from his probing mind. “I’ve come up with countless theories and none of them really fits, so seriously, like, what’s your problem?”

  “You are m—”

  “No, no,” she interrupts, wagging her finger. “Don’t put this on me, Golvath. From what I’ve heard, you’ve been pulling this same exact stunt for ages. You see a girl you like and then you build her up in your mind until she’s some pure, untouchable goddess. Then—and please correct me if I’m wrong—you throw a hissy fit and turn the entire village into mindless minions because you’ve convinced yourself she’s out of your league.” Rachel drops her arms to her sides. “What is that about? I mean, you didn’t even give me a chance to respond, and I’m actually not that hard to impress.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Rachel Cleary; you’re no goddess,” he says. “If anything, you’re Fae-bait.”

  Fae-bait?

  “Well, screw you, too.”

  Golvath flinches, astonishment blanching his face.

  Rachel pushes away from the stone archway and walks up to him, incensed and unafraid, until she’s in his face. “You’re pathetic.”

  The crack is as unexpected as the force behind his slap. Rachel stumbles back, covering her burning cheek with her hand. The glare she shoots him could easily penetrate Kevlar, but the maniacal laugh bubbling out of her throat is far more effective in unnerving the Fae than any weapon she could’ve wielded.

  She moves back to her original position, unable to keep her sneer at bay. Rachel narrows her eyes and releases her cheek. “Do it again. I dare you.”

  Instead, he asks, “Who are you?”

  “If Mrs. Crenshaw was around, she’d say you sound like a broken record,” Rachel replies.

  Golvath sneers. “Nancy Fraser? The same Nancy who dubbed me The Bone Carver? Oh, I showed her.”

  “You put Mrs. Crenshaw out of commission for a couple of weeks at most. Be thankful you’re dealing with me instead,” Rachel hisses in defiance.

  Golvath’s eyes bulge, a throbbing vein appears on his forehead. “Who are you?”

  “I am your worst nightmare.”

  As if summoned by her words, Ziggy flies into Golvath’s face, effectively blinding him. Rachel seizes her opportunity and runs down the hallway as fast as her legs can carry her, forgetting all about pacing herself. Golvath bellows, his outrage making the entire building tremble.

  “Ziggy!”

  Ziggy flies to her side, flashing bright gold as he keeps up with her. His glow fades the farther he travels. The golden sphere dims and entire patches diminish. Soon, Ziggy fades to gunmetal.

  Rachel can’t bear to witness the Fae light lose its vibrant coloring or blinking out of existence altogether. “Are there any Sluaghs nearby?”

  One flash.

  “Close enough to the school?”

  Ziggy flashes once more.

  “It’s not an entire horde, beca—”

  Two flashes interrupt her.

  “Bring it here as fast as you can,” Rachel instructs.

  Ziggy glides a few feet ahead before making an abrupt U-turn. The Fae light shoots back the way it’d come, quicker than she’d ever thought it could possibly move.

  “Nobody outruns me,” Golvath screams, his feet pounding the floor behind her. “Nobody escapes me.”

  “Go see a therapist, you creep.” Rachel readies herself to slide into the upcoming hallway leading into the more modern parts of the school.

  Golvath’s rage turns feral as he roars obscenities, the thunderous sounds bouncing from one bare surface in the hallway to the next. His hatred catches up with her, slamming against the brick walls she’s built around her mind. Parts of her wonder if he’s right, if his vitriol is justified. Maybe she did treat him unfairly by not giving him a real shot. Perhaps she does deserve—

  Without slowing down, Rachel squashes the weird thoughts—none of which belong to her—and mentally fixes the crack in the wall.

  “That won’t work on me again,” she screams without glancing back.

  His heavy footfalls slow ever so slightly as another enraged temper tantrum ensues.

  Rachel puts out her hand to grab onto the wall. She propels herself around the corner and into the adjoining hallway.

  You’ve successfully goaded a serial killer into chasing you, so now what? What’s the plan? She has no idea what comes next. All she can think to do is to stay out of Golvath’s reach until Ziggy lures a mythical creature back to her. Whether a Sluagh is any match for Golvath is a whole other story, one she prefers not to worry about while she’s running for her life, but the concern is real. There’s also the possibility of making a bad situation worse.

  “You can’t go anywhere.” His voice sounds fainter, farther away, as if he’s stopped running after her. “Eventually I’m going to find you.”

  “Bite me,” she mumbles, passing the girls’ bathroom where she had found the bone carving of Mercia. How long has it been since then? Two weeks? More?

  Think about the plan.

  Nothing forthcoming is feasible in the long run, but—

  She turns into the main hallway, slowing down considerably so as not to stumble when she rushes over the debris. One misstep is all it’ll take to give Golvath the upper-hand. Rolling an ankle, spraining a foot, even breaking a toe can become a death sentence.

  She won’t give him the satisfaction of making it any easier.

  Her phone vibrates in her pocket.

  She runs away from the smell of the cafeteria, the decomposing body in the pantry, all while hoping Holland and the other two townies who’re searching the school have preoccupied themselves somewhere else.

  Rachel slows as she comes to the administration office’s open door and slips inside. She walks around the receptionist’s desk and into Principal Hodgins’ office, before gently closing the door. Finally, Rachel pulls her phone out of her pocket and reads the messages sent from Dougal’s phone.

  R U OK?

  Rachel slides down onto her haunches, leaning her head against the wall. She closes her eyes for a minute, catching her breath, before she musters the strength to respond.

  Hiding in Hodgins’ office. Could use help.

  She moves as soon as the message is sent. Back to the Black Box in search of a weapon—she’ll throw Golvath with a Gameboy or one of those really old Nokia 3310s if she has to. Maybe, if she targets his head, he’ll get a concussion or something. Luckily, she remembers seeing some knives in there earlier. Rachel finds a makeshift shiv and places it on the cabinet’s surface before spying Mercia and Dougal rushing toward the window.

  “Hold on,” Mercia says when she closes in, her voice muffled, like she’s separated by water instead of glass.

  Rachel nods, keeping herself from making too much unnecessary noise.

  “Orion’s trying to break in through the cafeteria,” she continues. “It won’t work, he knows it, but—”

  Rachel points to her phone before quickly typing: Stop talking. He’ll find me. She sends the message to Dougal, who shares it with Mercia.

  She mouths, “Oh.”

  Rachel types again, telling them about sending Ziggy to find a Sluagh and how she and Dougal shouldn’t be anywhere near here when it arrives.

  Slua
gh don’t kill witches, Mercia’s message reads.

  Rachel raises an eyebrow and points to Dougal, mouthing, “Not a witch.”

  Mercia’s shoulders drop as she says out loud, “I’ll keep him safe.”

  Rachel looks at her phone again to begin her response when a sound just outside the principal’s office catches her attention. She glances to the door, listening for a discernable sound, while locking her phone and slipping it back into her pocket. Blindly, Rachel picks up the shiv and hides the long hilt—made from a toothbrush’s handle—against her wrist. With a quick glance at the window, she gestures for them to leave and takes slow, calculated steps toward the door.

  Her heart races as she clutches the shiv for dear life. Adrenaline pumps through her body, making her want to run, fight, or both. Logic tells her not to do anything stupid.

  Wait, think, outsmart the enemy and use his weaknesses against him.

  The intercom crackles to life overhead and screeches in that hollow, deafening way. Rachel grits her teeth as she stares at the door.

  “Rachel Cleary, Rachel Cleary, please report to the office immediately,” Golvath announces, keeping his voice level. “Or ...” There’s a sigh on the other side of the door. “Or I’ll have to debone your mother and make a spice rack from her spine.”

  The crackling intercom system dies, lending finality to his words. Rachel, however, doesn’t move, hardly breathes. She simply listens to the on-goings in the administration office, waiting to make her next move.

  Rachel has no idea what her next move is yet.

  Survive. That’s the plan.

  The receptionist’s swivel chair moves across the plastic floor protector while something heavy slams down on the wooden surface of her desk. There’s a disgustingly loud slurp, followed by an equally loud gulp.