Other Books by Monique Snyman
The Night Weaver Series
The Night Weaver (The Night Weaver, Book 1)
Forthcoming from Monique Snyman
Dark Country
Awards for The Night Weaver (Book 1)
Bram Stoker Awards Nominee
Superior Achievement in a Young Adult Novel
Independent Publisher Book Awards (IPPY)
Silver Medal Winner: Horror
Foreword Reviews
Indies Book of the Year Awards
Finalist for Young Adult Fiction
OZMA Book Awards
(Genre division of the Chanticleer International Book Awards)
Semi-finalist
Screencraft CINEMATIC BOOK Competition
Quarterfinalist, The Red List #3 in Horror
Praise for The Night Weaver (Book 1)
“Stephen King’s It meets Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight in this frightening story of horror and fantasy woven together to create a delectable tale of the macabre, romance, and action. Snyman’s storytelling will have people lining up for the next book in the series.”
~School Library Journal
“A sinister and satisfying fantasy that is unique as well as creepy and unsettling. The Night Weaver introduces a world of myth, intrigue, and darkness with considerable technique.”
~Foreword Reviews
“An enjoyable, frenetically paced fantasy.” ~Publishers Weekly
“If YA dark fantasy is your fare, then The Night Weaver is right up your alley. Snyman has begun to build a promising world of intrigue and monsters in the dark. Though don’t assume all that hides in shadows is beastly.” ~HorrorFuel
“There’s a clear M. Night Shyamalan vibe ... a spine-chilling sense of dread on every page of this truly excellent work.” ~Readers’ Favorite
“... weaves together small-town horror with an intricate otherworldly fairytale to deliver a blend of horror and fantasy that captures the essence of young adult terror seasoned with the stuff of grown-up nightmares.” ~The Nerd Daily
The Bone Carver
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 Monique Snyman
All rights reserved.
Original Cover Art by Marcela Bolívar
www.MarcelaBolivar.com/about/
Cover Design by Michael J. Canales
www.MJCImageWorks.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission from the publisher, except where permitted by law.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-64548-009-9
Published by Vesuvian Books
www.VesuvianBooks.com
This one goes out to all the girls who’ve ever felt powerless.
You’re stronger than you think.
Table of Contents
One — Skull And Bones
Two — Hip2B2
Three — Chilled to the Marrow
Four — The Skeleton Key
Five — Rickety Old Things
Six — A Real Pain in the Patella
Seven — Fractured Sense of Self
Eight — Bones Don’t Scry
Nine — Badlands
Ten — Brittle But Not Broken
Eleven — Sidetracked
Twelve — Blood of my Blood
Thirteen — Charnel Melancholy
Fourteen — Skull Cracker
Fifteen — Step on a Crack, Break your Mother’s Back
Sixteen — Jaw Dropper
Seventeen — Bad to the Bone
Eighteen — We are the Hollowed Ones
Nineteen — Right in the Sternum
Twenty — Calcification
Twenty-One — Body of Work
Twenty-Two — The Ghost Boy
Twenty-Three — A Royal Hunt
Twenty-Four — Death Knell
Twenty-Five — Sticks and Stones
Twenty-Six — We Are What We Are
Acknowledgments
About the Author
One
Skull And Bones
The amplified ticking of the auditorium clock grates against Rachel Cleary’s already frayed nerves. Sluggish yet deliberate, every second mocks her inadequacies. A pencil taps rapidly against a desk, shoes either squeak or click or scuff against the linoleum floors, fabric moves as bodies shift to get comfortable. Someone coughs. A sneeze. Then there’s the scratching—fingernails gouge at scalps, drag across skin. Skritch-skritch-skritch.
Every sound adds to Rachel’s annoyance.
The dull thud behind her left eye grows stronger as the noise intensifies. She squeezes her eyes shut, pinches the bridge of her nose to alleviate the pain. It doesn’t help. Panic sets in. Her heart rate picks up speed.
This is it. Bile rises into her throat. This is how I get stuck in this hellhole town for the rest of my life.
When she opens her eyes, the world is unrecognizable—a blurry and misshapen blotch. Colors blend into each other, faces are distorted. Whether this is due to tears in her eyes or the headache pounding against her skull, she doesn’t know. Battling against her impaired state, Rachel blindly reaches for her sling bag on the floor. She stands abruptly, the chair screeching and clattering as it topples. Ignoring this, Rachel navigates her way through the rows of desks.
The walls seem to close in on her, ceiling seems to drop lower.
Someone calls out her name. The voice is muted amongst the various other sounds, unable to break through the anxiety encasing her mind. The air grows thick, unbreathable, tastes toxic.
Her legs are sluggish, making it feel like she’s wading through mud.
When Rachel emerges from the auditorium, sweat clings to her skin and her clothes stick to her body.
She rushes for the closest trashcan, located near the school’s back exit, and grips the sides with trembling hands. Her stomach roils. Stomach acid burns her esophagus, pushing her over the edge. The contents of the omega-3 and protein-rich breakfast evacuate her body, until there’s nothing left but a sour aftertaste.
Retching gives way to dry heaves.
Rachel squats beside the trashcan, still gripping it for all she’s worth. She inhales deeply, exhales slowly, hoping to calm her queasiness.
A ridiculous breathing exercise she learned online won’t work today. Calm? She’s never had the privilege of feeling calm where college is concerned. For the past six years, she’s done everything she could to make herself look good on paper for Ivy League admission boards—all of them searching for “well-rounded individuals.” For two years, she’s been prepping for the SATs, going so far as to take the ACTs as a practice run. She aced those tests.
Officially, all the Ivy League schools she’s applied to should consider ACT scores. Unofficially, though, she’s screwed. There’s no sugarcoating it. She. Is. Screwed.
How could I choke on the most important day of my life? Today was supposed to be easy.
Rachel voices her frustration with a low, guttural scream as she shoots upright. She kicks at the trashcan, wishing she could fling it across the corridor. Fortunately, Ridge Crest High had
