“I literally just fou—”
Mercia throws the figurine against the wall, shattering it into pieces. The shards ricochet across the bathroom.
Rachel barely ducks in time to avoid one of the pieces hitting her squarely between the eyes. Whatever amicability there’d been between them has been obliterated, just like the creepy figurine.
Speechless, Rachel watches as Mercia picks up her bag, turns on her heels, and storms from the bathroom. The door squeals shut, and an oversized, fading graffiti masterpiece proclaims HIGH SCHOOL SUX.
“Preaching to the choir, here,” Rachel whispers, still unsure of how she’s gone from hero to zero in a matter of seconds.
Two
Hip2B2
Red, ochre, and brown leaves dance across Griswold Road on a crisp autumn wind. The convoluted colors liven up the dreariness of the late afternoon but do nothing to alleviate Rachel’s mood. A chilly gust of wind nips at her exposed arms, whispering promises of the approaching cold. She pulls the sleeves of her shirt down and pushes her windswept hair out of her face. Her gaze moves toward the ACCESS PROHIBITED sign, where a splatter of the Night Weaver’s blood still dapples the faded words, staining the rusted metal edges black.
Nobody in Shadow Grove ever talks about how children had gone missing this past year. Not a single person mentions the strange light show in the pitch black sky when Orion and the Night Weaver had battled it out. And while Sheriff Carter knows the children were kidnapped by grieving townsfolk—and offered as sacrifices to the Night Weaver in return for spending time with their departed loved ones—there have been no repercussions for anyone involved.
Granted, if the sheriff doesn’t cover up Shadow Grove’s countless tragedies and scandals, the town council would certainly have done so.
Rachel purses her lips as she tries not to listen to the faint melody coming from deep inside the forest. The sound is indistinctive, but has a familiarity to it she simply cannot place. Ever since Orion had gone after the Night Weaver, Rachel’s been hearing the seductive tune, and she has battled against the song’s allure for almost as long.
“Oi, Rach.”
Rachel snaps her attention to where the auburn-haired Scotsman walks across the lawn, approaching the porch with his hands pushed into his jacket pockets.
“Yer daydreamin’ again,” Dougal says in a cheerful tone, but the worry in his ice-blue eyes is unmistakable.
She shifts in the white wicker chair, uncomfortable after having been caught staring at the forest.
The wood creaks as Dougal makes his way up the steps. “Ye all right then?”
“Fine.” She drops her gaze to her hands, only to find her thumb’s cuticle raw after having picked at it throughout this horrible day.
“I heard—”
“Yeah,” she cuts him off before he can remind her of how badly she screwed up.
“Did ye talk to yer ma?”
Rachel shakes her head.
“Greg?” Dougal asks.
The muscles in her brow constrict into a frown. She looks up at Dougal. “Greg and I had some fun over the summer, but that’s all it was—fun. So why would I speak with Greg over matters that are none of his concern?”
Ever since the football jocks took a liking to him, Dougal has preferred to spend his time with them. Girls have also taken notice of him, thanks to his tall, muscular physique and icy eyes. His distinctive brogue has faded, too, but not so much that he has lost all his exoticness.
“Why’d you really come over?” Rachel asks.
Dougal shrugs. “Ye looked lonely out here by yerself.”
“I’m always by myself,” she mumbles.
“Aye.” Dougal sighs.
Rachel stands and walks to the porch’s railing, surveying the quiet, dense woodlands that lie beyond the ACCESS PROHIBITED sign. Nothing seems out of place in there. It’s as disturbingly silent as ever.
Her gaze travels to the Fraser house. “Something’s wrong,” she says.
“Are we talkin’ typical small town wrong or fair folk wrong?” Dougal asks.
Rachel shrugs, not knowing how to explain the sudden dread in the pit of her stomach. It could be residual paranoia from the SATs? No. This is different. She reaches up to hold onto her umbrella pendant, making sure her tether to reality is still in place.
Dougal walks up beside her, studying the area, seeming to gauge the validity of her feeling.
“I should get Ziggy,” Rachel says, unable to shake the foreboding now crawling across her skin. She heads inside the house, walking with purpose toward the staircase. “Ziggy,” she calls out. Her thumb moves over the smooth surface of the pendant, which Orion had forged for her from the Ronamy Stone, an artifact that protects the wearer from Fae influence. Her thoughts churn with growing unease.
The golden ball of Fae light bounces into view and stops on the staircase’s landing. It hovers in midair for a while before descending.
“Took you long enough,” she says. Rachel reaches out to tickle the Fae light’s surface, and Ziggy shimmers in delight. She makes her way outside, where she finds Dougal still standing at the porch’s railing, now frowning. “See something?”
“No, but I think I heard somethin’.”
Rachel turns back to Ziggy. “Will you do a perimeter check for me, please?” The golden sphere responds by flying off the porch. Ziggy flits across the lawn in choppy movements, flying this way and that.
“Och, I still can’t get used to the way ye treat yer ball o’ light,” Dougal mutters.
“We’ve gone over this already. His name is Ziggy and I’d appreciate it if you stop calling him something else,” she says, crossing her arms.
“Ye’re stranger than a platypus, ye know?”
“Don’t start with me, Scotsman.”
Ziggy moves swiftly around the lawn, zigging and zagging in search of whatever may be lurking about. The Fae light halts its progress when it closes in on the ACCESS PROHIBITED sign, hovers in place for a prolonged beat, before rushing across the road. She holds her breath, hoping Ziggy will
