The Bone Carver

by Monique Snyman

  He watches as she swan-dives off an unrecognizable cliff, so graceful, so elegant.

  A telling thump rings across the plains, the sound reverberating in Rachel’s heart until she shatters.

  Golvath peers over the edge at the girl’s broken body where she lies cradled in a cluster of sharp rocks. Blood already pools around her, staining the boulders.

  Gone. Just like that.

  The memories flit through her mind of all the girls he’s loved and the various ways he essentially murdered them. He stabbed one girl to death—over and over until his muscles ached from exertion. The act was done with such brutality that even Golvath had been disgusted with the end result.

  “Too messy,” Golvath says into her mind. “I won’t do that again.”

  Another girl walked into the ocean on his command and never resurfaced after a wave went over her head. Then there was the girl who ran out in front of a horse-drawn carriage, a death by trampling.

  The most horrifying of all his kills, however, was when he’d forced a girl to starve herself to death. He’d enjoyed seeing her wither away, enjoyed her suffering as she tried explaining that yes, she wanted to eat, but she literally couldn’t swallow a morsel without his say-so. They’d thought her mad and sent her off to—what Rachel believes may have been—a convent, while Golvath had continued tormenting her with food for almost a year.

  Dozens of teenage girls of all races, from completely different worlds, had died because of his infatuation and cruelty.

  “You’ll be my first strangulation.” There’s smugness in his almost-victorious thought.

  Her limbs go numb. Parts of her brain shut down, due to the lack of oxygen. The sensation of needles and pins pricking her fingers and toes comes next. Her lips tingle, her tongue feels swollen. Is her heart slowing? She can’t tell.

  Ziggy flits into her line of sight, hovering for a few crucial seconds behind Golvath’s head before torpedoing straight for the unsuspecting Fae. The golden sphere smashes into the side of his face, throwing him off-kilter. Flesh burns under Ziggy’s touch, bubbles and sears to the bone.

  Golvath stumbles to the side. It’s enough for him to loosen his hands from around her neck.

  Rachel sucks precious oxygen into her lungs, inhaling and exhaling rapidly, replenishing what Golvath denied her. She twists to take some pressure off her back, dizzy from the rush of blood to her brain. Rachel hangs onto the sidewall, mostly to keep herself on her feet.

  She looks back.

  Golvath is uselessly swatting at Ziggy as he hurls crass insults at the Fae light. More importantly, she notices the disfigured, gray-toned face on the other side of the bell tower. Tufts of oily hair are plastered against its skull, his nose is missing, and one ear hangs on by a piece of skin. One half-decomposed hand presses onto the sidewall, finger bones on display wherever the skin has withered away.

  The Sluagh’s milky eyes survey the situation on the bell tower, then turns his full attention on Golvath.

  He throws his leg over the sidewall, torn pants flapping in the wind, entire patches of skin missing from his limb. The second hand appears, holding a rusty broadsword. The Sluagh flops over the sidewall, onto the walkway, and slowly gets back to his feet.

  Rachel looks around until she finds Orion hovering in the sky near her. His large flaming wings drip molten lava, supernova eyes gazes back at her. Although his mouth is moving, his voice is lost through the spell.

  An unholy cry fills the air. Rachel shoots her attention to Golvath, who’s finally noticed the approaching Sluagh. The sword rises above the Fae’s head. Ziggy flies off then, just in time to avoid the blade slicing down into Golvath’s shoulder, past his collarbone, and stops somewhere near the top of his ribcage. Blood spurts across the bell tower, staining the stone and covering the rusty bell.

  “Jump,” Mercia’s scream suddenly finds its way to Rachel, the spell broken with Golvath’s far too quick death.

  The Sluagh uses an inhuman amount of strength to lift Golvath’s limp corpse off the floor. He shakes the body like a rag doll, struggling to release his blade. Golvath’s corpse strikes the bell—a deafening clangor rolls through the town. Rachel’s molars vibrate from the knell and her skull pounds. The Sluagh tries to loosen his broadsword by tugging at his weapon. He lifts Golvath into the air again.

  Shake, shake, shake. Dong!

  Rachel throws her leg over the sidewall, gritting her teeth as she battles her own body, the exhaustion and pain almost unbearable at this point. She takes one last big breath before rolling off the edge.

  As she plummets back to earth this time, she isn’t looking at the ground. Her eyes are fixed on the diorama heavens, where fluffy white clouds float in an almost three dimensional formation. The sun shines brightly, warming her face, while a cool breeze gently flows through the town. For Shadow Grove, especially in autumn, the day is lovely—perfect to spend outside before the big chill hits.

  Her hair whips and her shirt billows around her body. After almost being strangled to death, screaming is out of the question.

  Before she can even come to grips with the fact that she’s willingly fallen off a five-story tower, Orion swoops in to save her. Her breath hitches as he catches her in his arms, carrying her like a bride. Orion gradually descends back to the ground.

  “This is becoming a habit,” he says, a ghost of a smile in the corner of his mouth.

  Her throat is raw, the bruises around her neck are tender, and she’s simply too tired to respond. So, Rachel does the only thing she still has energy for: she closes her eyes and drifts away.

  Twenty-Five

  Sticks and Stones

  The front door slams shut with such force, the glass panes rattle in their frames.

  “Mrs. Cleary?” Mercia’s voice travels upstairs, full of nervous angst. “Rachel’s asleep if you—Mrs. Cleary?”

  There are footsteps on the stairs, the gait forceful, albeit not unfamiliar. Rachel climbs out of bed and walks toward her bedroom door, which was left ajar by whoever last checked on her. She peers out of her bedroom.

  Her mother stands on the second-floor landing looking back at her.

  Her larynx is still swollen after her ordeal with Golvath, but Rachel manages to croak, “Mom?” She opens the door wider.

  Jenny stares at Rachel for another long moment, before she turns toward her own bedroom without saying a word. The nightdress Jenny’s worn since she jumped out through the kitchen window and ran off that morning is unimaginably dirty, like she’s been swimming through mud, and her bare feet are crusted with heaven knows what. Still, she appears to be fine physically. Mentally, however, she might not be all right.

  The main bedroom’s door closes, leaving Rachel both concerned and dumbfounded.

  She’ll be better in the morning, Rachel tries convincing herself, but it’s useless. There’s no telling what Golvath did to her mother’s mind, no saying what venom he spewed. Whatever hope there may have been to reconcile their strenuous relationship could be forever lost.

  Mercia climbs the stairs, her expression reiterating Rachel’s own worries.

  “You should be in bed,” Mercia says when she notices Rachel standing in the dark.

  “My m—”

  “I’ll handle whatever problem this is,” Mercia interrupts. “And I told you to rest your voice.”

  Rachel halfheartedly salutes her.

  Mercia and Orion had tended to her, healing whatever damage they could, and the bruises were already fading around her neck. Internally, however—especially mentally and emotionally—Rachel’s tenderness remains distinct. She waits as Mercia walks off to the main bedroom and watches as the young witch softly knocks on the door.

  “Mrs. Cleary, can I come in?”

  There’s no answer.

  “Mrs. Cleary? I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine,” her mother responds. “Leave me be.”

  There’s a pause, before Mercia says, “Are you sure?” />
  Rachel hides in the shadows as she watches Mercia attempt to fix the situation. How can anyone fix something that might be broken beyond repair, though?

  “I’m sure you are confused, but if you just—”

  The door swings open and an intimidating figure resembling Jenny Cleary fills the entrance. Steel eyes stare Mercia down, an uncharacteristic resolve resides in Jenny’s jaw. There’s coldness in her now, a severity Rachel has never known.

  “I’ve never been more lucid in my life, child,” Jenny says. “Run along home before your mother finds out you’re at the infamous MacCleary house.” She says nothing explicitly hostile, but the threat is clear. Leave or I’ll make you leave.

  Mercia glances over her shoulder, concern evident in her expression. “I’ll be back at first light to check on Rachel.”

  “You do that.” Jenny shuts the door in Mercia’s face.

  Rachel moves out of the shadows as Mercia crosses the distance of the hallway, whose face has turned ashen.

  “What was that about?” Rachel whispers, her voice as brittle.

  “Her mind seems fine,” Mercia responds in the same quiet voice, not answering the question. “The only weirdness I sensed was a rage at everything.”

  Rachel nods. She is angry, too, after all. How had the universe allowed a being as heinous as Golvath to exist for so long? It’s unfair to all of his victims and their families.

  “I’d lock my bedroom door if I were you, just in case your mom’s rage needs an outlet,” she continues. “Or would you rather come home with me? We can do that. My mom has her misgivings about the Clearys, but she won’t mind when I explain the situation, I promise.”

  Rachel smiles as she rests a hand on Mercia’s shoulder. She shakes her head. With Ziggy by her side to keep her safe, nothing in this house will harm her. The Fae light won’t allow it. Besides, this is her mother. Jenny doesn’t have a violent bone in her body. Her mother can be indifferent at times, yes, but never physically abusive.

  “Okay, well, you have my number if you need me,” Mercia whispers. “And Dougal’s right across the street, too.”

  “The worst is over,” Rachel says. “I’ll be all right.”

  Though every part of her aches in ways she never thought imaginable, Rachel finds the strength to see Mercia to her car. It’s the least she can do after everything they’ve been through. Nevertheless, Mercia’s reluctance is as obvious as the moon is bright. Eventually, Mercia does take her leave, and Rachel returns to her bedroom.

  She locks the door ... just in case.

  Rachel gets back into bed and pulls the cover up to her chin. She listens for anything untoward, wondering if she’ll ever have a good night’s rest again. Silence is her only company tonight. That and an exhausted Fae light. Poor Ziggy. His shimmer has been completely lost, the brilliant gold slowly fading into a dull color.

  Her eyelids grow heavier, limbs become lead. How deep is her exhaustion? The surrounding darkness is a sweet seductress, tempting Rachel back to where Golvath’s victims live on forever.

  Rachel gives in and drifts off, visiting the sisters she couldn’t save, but who are finally free.

  Sunlight spills through cracks between the curtains, pooling on Rachel’s bed, the carpet, and painting the walls. She groans as she blindly reaches for the emoji pillow and pulls it over her eyes, hoping to fall asleep again. Rachel lies there for a few minutes, unmoving, before throwing the pillow aside.

  Wide awake, she lifts the covers and looks down to where Ziggy is resting by her feet.

  “You’re sleeping in, aren’t you?” she half-croaks.

  A single, dim flash answers her.

  “So unfair.”

  Rachel sits upright and stretches, her bones creaking and popping after her dreamless sleep. After a long soak in the bath to soothe her aching muscles, she has a plan to get her life back to a semblance of normalcy. First, Mrs. Crenshaw will be returning home soon and they still haven’t moved her things from the upstairs bedroom to a more accessible location on the ground floor. Then, Rachel needs to figure out if she can retake the SATs—after defeating Golvath, a standardized test will be a piece of cake. Also, there were some college applications still waiting to be submitted.

  Getting back into her usual routine won’t hurt.

  She stands, yawns, and drags her feet toward her bedroom door where her toes touch the smooth surface of something that doesn’t belong at the edge of the rug. Rachel looks down, her mind not yet running at its full capacity, and finds a white manila envelope lying in a pool of sunshine. She picks it up, stifling another yawn as she tears open the top and pulls out the contents.

  A scribbled yellow Post-It note is attached to a heavier folded-up piece of paper, reading:

  I can’t do this anymore.

  Rachel shakes her head, blinks a few times before unfolding the larger document. A blue frame surrounds the official contents of the certificate. Her name is typed into the first horizontal block, her gender beside it, along with her date of birth in the next space. She’s seen her birth certificate countless times before, so why would her mother—? Wait. This can’t be right. There must be a mistake.

  “Mom, what the hell is this?”

  Rachel wills the typed letters to reconstruct themselves and change back to how she remembers them.

  She reaches out to steady herself against the door, her heart sinking to her stomach as she stares at the document.

  “No,” she whispers, unwilling to accept what she’s seeing. She reaches up to touch the umbrella pendant, which Orion had returned to her the previous day, before she unbolts her bedroom door.

  It’s a lie, another trick. Golvath must’ve survived. That’s the only explanation.

  Her mother’s bedroom door is wide open, the bed never having been slept in. Even from a distance, she can see the destroyed photographs still littering the bed. Anxiety threatens to take over, to tear apart her already-fragile mind.

  “Mom?” she croaks. Rachel marches down the hallway, ready to demand answers. “Mom, what’s the meaning—?” She cuts herself off as she enters the room and finds the wardrobe doors hanging open, empty.

  Rachel glances at the dressing table. The drawers are all lying on the floor empty. Jenny’s jewelry box isn’t where it usually stands either and her hairbrush is gone. A quick search of the en-suite bathroom divulges a similar picture—the toothbrush is absent, the bottles of shampoo and conditioner are missing, the medicine cabinet is empty of anything essential.

  She pivots and rushes back into the bedroom, out into the hallway. Rachel bounds down the stairs, her physical ailments forgotten, and searches for her mother. Clutching the offensive piece of paper, Rachel regards the remnants in the living room. In the corner of her eye, Rachel’s gaze falls upon the open front door, where the morning sun brightens the outside world.

  Nausea twists her stomach into knots.

  She couldn’t have gone far.

  The most naïve part of her believes her mother is sitting on the porch, coffee in hand, beginning her day as she usually does. Rachel steps closer to the door, her heart drumming hard in her chest.

  “Mom?”

  The two wicker chairs are vacant. Rachel moves off the porch, searching the lawn and hoping to find her crouched in the garden, pulling weeds from the earth or tending to the hedges. It’s not impossible, just highly unlikely.

  “Mommy?” Rachel manages to call out, turning her attention to the empty driveway.

  Her legs give way, and Rachel crumples onto the thick, green lawn. She stares at the space where the white Hyundai i10 usually waits, wishing it back.

  Rachel prays to the universe to take pity on her and return her life to what it had been before she’d crossed paths with the Bone Carver, before he’d poisoned her hometown. She wants to go back to before she learned of the Night Weaver preying upon the children of Shadow Grove, hurting those who were already in so much pain. All she wants—no, needs—is to return to living a lif
e of ignorant bliss.

  The despair is too much for her to bear. Time has no meaning anymore, life makes no sense. The creased birth certificate in her hands took everything away. Everything Rachel had ever thought true about herself, about her very existence, is gone.

  It’s okay. Everything’s going to be all right.

  More lies.

  Things will never be okay again.

  As soon as she laid her eyes on Misty Robins’ name on her birth certificate, in the place where Jenny Cleary’s name should have been, she knew nothing will ever be the same again.

  If this birth certificate is authentic, then Rachel is the progeny of a Halfling noblewoman who’d sworn revenge against the Nebulius dynasty. She is the daughter of a woman who’s indirectly responsible for the death of Orion and Nova’s father—King Auberon.

  Who else knows the truth? Does Mrs. Crenshaw know she isn’t Jenny’s daughter? Does the town council have a hand in hiding her real parentage?

  It doesn’t matter.

  Liam Cleary, the father she’d lost so many years ago, the man she’d worshipped even in death, had been the biggest liar of all. Yes, Rachel can blame Jenny for systematically withdrawing affection toward her, for shunning her responsibilities as a parent, even for her callous departure. But Jenny Cleary, the woman who’d essentially raised her, is as much a victim of her father’s deception as Rachel. She had tried telling Rachel the truth while under Golvath’s influence, but it’d fallen on deaf ears.

  “There’s a monster in that house. I’m not your mother.”

  Yes, Rachel must be a monster if she’s in any way related to Liam Cleary. There’s no question about it anymore. As for Misty, she can’t forget the allegations that’ve been made against her, can’t shake the image of what horrible things she purportedly did to Orion’s father.

  Misty Robins had killed two guards at the Royal Vaults and emptied out the treasury of anything she could use against the Nebulius royals. She’d handed out some of those artefacts to the prisoners she’d helped escape from Leif Penitentiary. The Night Weaver got the Akrah cloak—a sentient cloak that fed on darkness. Another artefact, the Travolis Ring, had been used to kill King Auberon. No, not just kill. Disembowel.