Dougal leaps over the porch railing and lands in the hydrangea bedding. His powerful legs push him forward, toward the rosemary hedges. He hurdles over the hedges, clears Griswold Road at record speed, and runs toward the Fraser house.
“Nan,” he shouts, rushing to the front door.
Rachel runs after him, pulling her cell phone out of her pocket as she takes the long way around.
Dougal pulls the front door open and disappears inside the house.
“Call an ambulance,” he cries from inside, the fear in his voice chilling her to the core.
Rachel’s thumb moves over the screen.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” the female dispatcher answers after a single ring.
Amy Gilligan, one of the few female deputies at the Sheriff’s Department, always gets stuck answering emergency calls. Rachel’s certain it’s because Sheriff Carter’s sexist, but he’s never publically been called out on his misogyny or bigotry.
“Amy, this is Rachel Cleary. We need an ambulance sent to the Fraser house. Something’s happened to Mrs. Crens—”
“Ma’am, I need a street address,” Amy interrupts her, sounding almost bored.
“Seriously, Amy? You’ve lived in Shadow Grove your entire life, now you suddenly need a freaking street address spelled out for you? Why don’t I draw you a map while I’m at it? Shall I email it to your supervisor or—” Rachel takes a deep breath, calms herself, and rambles off the address.
“I’ve dispatched an ambulance, ma’am. Stay on the line until they reach you,” Amy interrupts again with her unchanging tone.
Rachel rushes up the porch steps and enters the house through the open front door.
Dougal is on his knees beside Mrs. Crenshaw, who lies sprawled at the bottom of the staircase. Her face is twisted in pain, a few bruises bloom on her arms and legs.
“She fell,” Dougal states the obvious in a childlike tone. His hands hover above his grandmother, as if he doesn’t know where to touch or how to make her pain dissipate. “Nan?” he says, voice cracking with emotion.
Frozen in the doorway, Rachel can only stare at Mrs. Crenshaw—the closest thing she has to a grandmother.
“Ma’am, what is the situation?” Amy’s voice is a monotonous murmur, unsuited to the dire circumstances. Why isn’t she freaking out? Mrs. Crenshaw, up until this point, has always been a firecracker. Nothing could keep her down, except for the occasional bout of arthritis. “Hello?”
“It appears Mrs. Crenshaw’s taken a bad fall down the stairs,” Rachel says. She moves to kneel by Dougal’s side. “Mrs. Crenshaw? The ambulance is on its way. Hold on, okay.”
Her fingertips brush against papery skin that is almost translucent with age as she pushes Mrs. Crenshaw’s white hair from her face. Seeing her like this—the same woman who once called herself a “drop of deadly poison”—is unbearable. Rachel’s emotions pummel down the wall of shock, threatening to unravel her from the inside out.
Rachel stands and says, “I’ll go wait for the ambulance. Don’t move her.”
“I’m not an idiot,” Dougal snaps, reverting to his thick accent.
She ignores the retort and walks out of the house before she can lose her composure. He’s in shock, too, after all. On the porch, she clenches her trembling hands into fists and allows her mind to wander to other things—mundane things—because she can’t deal with the present. Maybe later she’ll figure out what to do about the SATs and Mrs. Crenshaw’s spill, but not now. Not here.
The world doesn’t feel the way it should. It doesn’t seem right.
Ziggy sidles up to her side and nudges her shoulder, begging for attention.
The glowing ball floats at eye-level before moving an inch toward the front door, then back to her. Ziggy repeats the action, as if beckoning her back into the house.
Rachel’s shoulders drop in defeat. “I know.”
Ziggy weaves around in the air, repeatedly moving between Rachel and the front door.
“What?”
Ziggy doesn’t edge closer to the doorway, doesn’t enter until Rachel follows. Ziggy slips into the house as she nears the front door. Her gaze drops to where Dougal is holding Mrs. Crenshaw’s hand, tears running down his face. This isn’t a sight she’s prepared herself to witness, even if she knows it’s only natural for him to respond this way.
Ziggy flies into her line of vision and blocks Rachel’s view, demanding her undivided attention.
“Fine.” Her voice quivers with unshed tears.
Ziggy skirts around the living room, flying directly for Mrs. Crenshaw’s armchair, and hangs above the side-table.
Rachel makes her way around the furniture, careful to avoid Dougal and his fallen grandmother. The sirens blare as they near the end of Griswold Road, growing louder.
“What is it?”
The Fae light dips to the side-table, sinking slowly to extend the dramatic reveal. Her eyes narrow in annoyance, but Ziggy shoots away before she can chastise him. With Ziggy no longer in view, she spots the strange object sitting next to the TVs remote control and picks it up, both amazed and horrified by the intricate details that went into crafting the ivory depiction of Mrs. Crenshaw. Rachel lays the figurine flat on her palm. She raises her hand high enough to measure the resemblances more accurately, and allow herself to look between Mrs. Crenshaw and the totem.
Just like Mercia this afternoon.
Red lights penetrate the house through the lace curtains. “Hide yer will-o’-the-wisp,” Dougal says over his shoulder.
Rachel pockets the totem. “Ziggy, go upstairs,” she says just as two EMTs, carrying their gear, enter Fraser house to tend to the injured, unconscious woman. Rachel doesn’t hear the exchange between Dougal and the medics, barely hears her own thoughts anymore. The disturbing implication of the ominous carving is enough to silence the world.
“Rach,” Dougal screams, shaking her by her shoulders. She blinks and meets his icy blue gaze, eyes he’d inherited from his grandmother. “I’m goin’ with Nan,” he says.
“Okay, I’ll pack an overnight bag for her and find you at the hospital in a bit,” Rachel says, her pragmatism kicking into gear. “Do you have your phone?”
“Aye,” Dougal says,
