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Mrs. Crenshaw’s panicky breathlessness is emphasized by the way her dainty feet shuffle hesitantly across the gritty floor. There’s an uncharacteristic worry in her voice as she says, “Make yourself useful and create more of those glowing ball thingies.”
Rachel fears for her elderly neighbor’s wellbeing. What if Mrs. Crenshaw has a heart attack? What if she falls and breaks her hip in this incredible darkness? There are too many variables working against the old woman, regardless of her fierce stubbornness, to allow her to come along further.
“They’ll just feed on the light,” Orion responds in a calm, collected tone of voice.
Something slimy and cold touches Rachel’s ankle. She jumps away, heart pounding as she discerns a silhouette of whatever’s in the darkness. “Orion, can you get Mrs. Crenshaw out of here safely?” she quickly asks, suppressing a shiver of revulsion.
“Don’t you dare, Rachel Cleary,” Mrs. Crenshaw growls her warning.
“Yes,” he says, ignoring the old woman’s protest. “Will you be okay for a few seconds by yourself?”
Before she can answer him, something elongated smacks across her ankle, curls around her calf, and crawls up her leg. She’s half-certain it’s a tentacle with suckers kissing her skin.
“Y-yup, but come back fast.” Every part of Rachel’s skin creeps with increasing disgust as this unseen entity moves higher up her leg, making slurping noises as it goes. Slime runs down her leg and collects on the brim of her sneaker, a thick mucus discharge of some kind that smells like rot. It could be an alien snake, maybe a weird octopus’ arm—maybe something completely different.
Mrs. Crenshaw shouts, “Unhand me. Let go o—”
Silence falls.
It’s almost as if every Darkling has taken a collective breath, anxiously anticipating Orion’s return. The tendril around her leg creeps higher. She reaches down and tugs at the tentacle. It rebels by constricting tighter, squeezing hard enough to make her snatch back her hand. Rachel suppresses an urge to touch it again and somehow force herself free from its nauseating undertakings, to pull the ghastly tentacle off and to stomp on it until the thing—because it can’t be called anything other than a thing—shrivels up and dies.
She balls both her hands into fists and inhales deeply through her mouth, the putrid stench somehow tasting even worse than it smells. She gags, covers the lower half of her face with the back of her hand, and clears her mind of all thoughts involving the sordid thing now crawling up her thigh.
“Rachel?” Orion’s voice rebounds from the vaulted ceilings and the laughter surrounding them begins anew.
Something bumps into her knee, almost making her lose her footing. She blindly kicks out with her free foot and connects with something solid, which crunches sickly beneath her sneaker. This time she can’t stop herself from cringing.
“Over here.”
In the distance, she hears a distinct punch. Flesh meets flesh. A nearby crash echoes. The laughter fades as a battle wages in the darkness.
“Hold on,” Orion calls out. “I’ll be right with you.”
“I literally can’t go anywhere,” she says, the tendril already moving up to her hips, wrapping her in a tight, slick embrace. The slime drips down, covering her lower body in goo.
“Problems?”
“Nothing serious, I hope,” Rachel says. “Tell me something interesting while I wait?”
His laughter is unlike the Darklings’ tittering and giggling and cackling. There’s warmth there, a pleasant geniality. It’s infectious enough to make her smile without having any reason to do so.
An enormous crack reverberates through the tunnel and dust—she truly hopes it’s only dust—rains down. This darkness is more than an obstacle. It plays with your head; makes you imagine the worst. It’s psychological warfare at its finest.
A few more forceful impacts sound, violent and remorseless. “What do you want to know?” he asks, hardly sounding winded.
“I don’t know. What does Nebulius mean?”
She hears bones crunch and sickening squelches coming from somewhere closer. A terrified screech, both angry and afraid, sounds. It’s cut short by another loud crunch.
“Nebulius means heavenly bodies,” he says.
“Okay. Let’s try something more difficult. Misty’s note mentioned something about her vengeance starting when the Miser rises. What’s all that about?”
Hands land on her shoulders. “Orion,” she yells, heart thumping like crazy. If she could see anything at all, her reaction might’ve been less frantic, but the blinding darkness is so comprehensive she can’t help herself.
“It’s me,” he says gently, not without humor. “To answer your question, the Miser is what we call the members of the Dark Court. Aurial are members of the Light Court. Now, what’s the problem?”
Rachel moves her hands over his arms and up his shoulders. They travel to his neck, over his chiseled chin, touching high cheekbones, before coming to a rest on either side of his face. After making sure it really is Orion, she says, “There’s something wrapped around me and it’s moving up my waist.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“Thank you for stating the obvious, Faerie Boy. I can’t see anything either, but it’s there. I feel it.”
“Show me,” he says, covering her hands with his, and allowing Rachel to guide them to her waist, to where the constricting tentacle now sits, unmoving. “Here?” Orion asks when she stops.
“Yes. What is it?”
“It’s a type of Darkling. A rare one,” he says, fingers pushing into the space between her body and the creature.
She feels his hands grip the width of the tentacle, sliding down slowly until he reaches the point where her navel is before he gently tugs at it. The Darkling responds by squeezing and curling tighter around her body, trapping Orion’s hand in the space between. He tries a second time, slowly loosening the creature’s grip, but the entity’s reaction is the same. It clamps fast, strangling her waist.
Rachel gasps and reaches for his forearms, digging her fingernails into his wrists as she desperately sucks oxygen into her lungs. “Stop.” It feels like her insides are being liquefied by the pressure the Darkling exudes, squeezing her like she’s a ripe, juicy orange. “Please, stop.”
More and more voices surround them, laughing at their expense, drowning out all other sounds.
Orion leans closer and says in Rachel’s ear, “Trust me, Clarré.”
Using both hands, he pulls harder at the Darkling, bending it slowly. The crisp sound, reminiscent of breaking a fresh carrot, quietens the taunting laughter. The creature around her waist battles back by sucking harder at her exposed skin, constricting even more. She’s ready to start screaming from the pain when a golden light—similar to the Fae lights he’d created earlier—envelops his hands and brightens the gloom. The tentacle glows reddish-brown under his touch, illuminating the cracks where he bent it.
“Almost there ...”
The shrieking begins, grisly dying sounds echoing through miles and miles of tunnels. An indescribable cacophony, the uproar of outrage, joins in as the remaining Darklings scream along with their burning brother, almost as if its pain is their pain.
Rachel watches the reddish-brown turn white-hot, the coloring and cracks spreading across its serpentine body. She doesn’t burn along with the Darkling, but its deadlight eyes dim as its surface sizzles and floats away like burning tissue paper drifting on a breeze. An unpleasant odor, unlike anything she’s ever smelled, fills the space. It’s something between decay and sulfur and assaults her nostrils. Her gag reflexes are stimulated again, causing her to dry heave.
“Don’t vomit on me,” Orion urges over the ruckus.
She offers him a queasy smile as she holds her breath, waiting for him to finish burning the infernal entity off her body. Just as Rachel feels herself becoming faint from a lack of air, she can move freely again. Not wanting to get any of the residual smoke into her lungs, she clasps her hand over her mouth again and breathes in shallow breaths.
His warm hand finds hers in the darkness. The rough exterior of his palm, riddled with callouses and peppered with scars, presses against hers, before she laces her fingers with his. With her thumb, she traces one of those linear marks running up the side of his index finger, crisscrossed with other thicker welts. At first, she wants to ask if he’d lost a fight with a blender, but when her fingertips graze against the back of his hand where more raised scars mar his skin, she decides not to make jokes.
He leads her through the darkness, carefully navigating the area in near-blindness.
“I feel like I should take you on a date after this is over,” Orion says.
“You wish.”
Chuckling, he says, “Harsh, Clarré. Harsh.”
“What’s with you calling me Clarré all of a sudden?”
“It’s your new nickname since you insist on calling me Faerie Boy.” He halts his advancement and Rachel stops by his side. A soft droning, a repetitive sentence spoken with the fervor of zealots, comes from nearby. “Here’s the plan: I’m going to go in and keep the Night Weaver busy while you sneak in afterward and save the kids.”
“Solid plan, but there’s a problem.”
“Which is?”
“I can’t even see my hand in front of my face,” Rachel says. The golden glow forms in his hand, swirling and churning and growing brighter as it shapes itself into a sphere. “That helps.”
“Keep it in your hand, otherwise it’ll die out faster,” he says, placing the ball of light into her cupped palm. “Now, close your hand into an open fist.”
Rachel obliges and the sphere becomes smaller, shining through her skin and bones. She unfurls her fingers again and the sphere grows bigger.
“There we go. Are you ready?”
“One last thing before we walk towards certain death ...” Rachel releases his hand and moves it up to his neck. She pulls him down to her level and presses her lips against his with the same intensity as when he’d kissed her earlier.
Orion snakes one hand around her waist and rests it against the small of her back.
Her heart both races in excitement and pounds hard with desire. Before the kiss can turn into anything else, Rachel pulls away from him. She moves her hand down his shoulder and pats him gently on his chest. “There’s nothing quite like kissing a guy your mother won’t approve of to help get the adrenaline pumping. Don’t get yourself killed, okay?”
“I’ll try my best.” Orion’s voice is husky, seductive.
“You’d better because I might need you in the future when I have the urge to be rebellious again.” Rachel pushes herself onto the tips of her toes and brushes her lips against his a final time before stepping away. “Lead the way.”
Orion walks ahead of her, toward the voices repeating a one-sentence mantra in a language Rachel can’t understand. The tunnel opens into a large chamber with a high ceiling. In the center, a meager flame burns inside a metal trashcan, making more smoke than light. Rachel spots the mom club and a few men she’s seen around town, all standing in front of a distorted, elevated throne. Sheriff Carter stands at the front, his blubbery figure recognizable even from this distance.
The Night Weaver perches on her throne, basking in the adoration of her devotees. She has a raven-like quality about her, seemingly resting on a gravestone, ready to caw at the first passerby so she can steal their soul. She’s in her element here; a queen of death in her court of rot.
“Where are they?” Rachel whispers. “Where are the kids?”
He points to the farthest wall—no, it’s not a wall. The hollowed-out tree grows alongside others, which are so densely packed together they form a realistic-looking wall. Inside the hollowing, however, something bulges outward, like a black tumor ready to explode. Rachel gazes across the wall of trees and finds others with similar black lumps, malignantly spreading to every part of the chamber. An oily sheen coats those devilish sores, gleaming in the faint firelight as shadows dance across the macabre wall decorations.
The shadows flicker in and out of existence, humanoid, yet monstrous in shape, creating a grim atmosphere.
“Do you see those trees covered with the black membranes?” he whispers back.
“Yes,” Rachel says.
“She keeps the children in stasis for years, feeding off their fear, then she moves on to their souls, before eventually eating the empty shells they’ve left behind,” Orion explains. He remains quiet for a while, evaluating the chamber, and says, “Do me a favor? Run if it looks like I’m losing. Call for the knockers and they’ll guide you to the entrance.”
“Okay,” she says. “You won’t lose, though?”
Orion grimaces and shrugs. “It’s best if I have a Plan B in place. Cockiness gets people killed, you know.”
Rachel rolls her eyes. “Go annoy her, Faerie Boy, so I can do my part.”
He winks and casually strolls out of the tunnel to enter the chamber. Orion studies his nails, acting like he doesn’t have a care in the world, and heads past the flaming trashcan. He sidesteps a pile of debris littered across the floor and pushes through the congregation of adults with a courteous ‘pardon me’ or ‘excuse me’, interrupting their adulation. The chanting stops and a confused mumbling starts up as the Night Weaver’s acolytes stare at the disruptive newcomer.
Rachel spots her mother in the crowd, wearing a blank expression, and she wonders—for the umpteenth time—whether there’s anything left of the woman who’d given birth to her.
Orion sets his hand on the raised dais, tilts his head, and says, “I love what you’ve done with the place.”
The Night Weaver’s cloak lifts her off the throne, angles her upright in the air and the tattered hem spreads out every which way. From afar, she looks like a demonic peacock ruffling its feathers as a predator comes into its line of sight. Her acolytes scatter out of the way of danger, whether they’re compelled to do so or because their instincts override her influence. Rachel can’t be sure, but she uses the opportunity of disorder to dim her Fae light and sneak inside the chamber.
“You dare to enter my domain uninvited?” the Night Weaver asks.
“Inertia has rendered you soft.” Orion barks a laugh. “The Night Weaver I know wouldn’t have partaken in idle chitchat. Is it possible that one of Orthega’s most feared criminals, the infamous Night Weaver who fills the nightmares of Faelings across the Realm, has lost her—what’s the word—pizzazz?”
Rachel reaches the nearest hollow tree with its distended tumor, located in a corner on the farthest wall from the throne. The membrane consists of slimy black ribbons covering the hollowing, which feels semi-hardened, but is still full-on gross. She imagines the children inside undergoing a pupation period, transforming into beautiful butterflies instead of withering away as the Night Weaver drains them of everything they are. Imagining good things is all she can do to prevent the fear from getting the better of her.
She places her hand against the oily substance, which squelches through the gaps between her fingers and squirts onto the back of her hand. She meets resistance with her palm. The gross-factor involved in penetrating the squishy, thick membrane underneath those icky ribbons is the stuff of nightmares. She pushes her arm elbow-deep until she feels something solid on the other side and stretches her fingers to trace the object—a familiar chin, tight-lipped mouth, and an improperly-healed nasal fracture on the bridge of the nose.
Dougal.
She slips her hand back through the hole, grabs the edge of the membrane, and tears one-handedly at the thick, slimy covering entrapping her friend. The gooey, palm-sized pieces fall away easily enough, and soon Dougal’s entire face is uncovered. Using her sludge-covered hand, she grabs him by his shoulder and shakes him. Rachel whispers his name loudly, hoping he’ll wake from his unnatural sleep. She glances behind her, sees Orion and the Night Weaver still catching up, while the acolytes’ attention is fixed solely on them.
“Dougal,” she hisses again, shaking him harder. “Wake up.”
Nothing happens.
Hoping he won’t be angry, she raises her hand and slaps him hard across the cheek, leaving a black, sticky handprint against his pale skin. His eyes shoot open and his jaw goes slack as he readies to yell. Not wanting to take chances, she covers his mouth with the same sticky hand, muffling his enraged words.
“Shush,” she says, looking over her shoulder again. “She’ll hear.” Dougal nods in understanding, and Rachel slowly removes her hand. “Can you get out by yourself?”
“Aye,” Dougal whispers back, already tearing through the remaining membrane. “Go. I’ll help get the weans out.”
Rachel moves on to the neighboring hollow tree a few steps away. She repeats the process of sticking her hand through the membrane but saves time by immediately tearing a large piece of the gooey substance off. She drops it to the ground, leaving a big enough hole to ease a small child out. Eight-year-old Dana Crosby sits there, her eyes shut tightly and her face ashen, too big to fit through the hole Rachel’s created. The poor girl looks like she could use a good meal and a long bath, but otherwise, she’s physically sound. Mentally and emotionally, it’s a whole other story, Rachel’s sure.
If any of these kids remember what they’ve been through, the local therapists are going to make a lot of bank soon.
Rachel struggles for what seems like forever to rip open the tough membrane of Dana’s prison cell in the hollow tree. Eventually, as she becomes so desperate to release the girl, her own comfort no longer matters. She bites at the membrane, tearing it apart with her teeth. Thick, inky liquid runs from her mouth and drips down her chin and onto the front of her shirt, staining the fabric. She spits out the oily fluid and wipes her face with her already ruined shirt. The Fae light in her left-hand acts nervously, pulsing faster—on what she decides to call its ‘low setting’—the longer she struggles.
Dougal, now free, takes over the task of helping Dana out.
Rachel moves on to the next protruding growth against the wall, then the next, and the one afterward. Meanwhile, she keeps a wary eye on Orion, who’s insulting the Night Weaver to keep her interest from wandering off to what’s happening in the shadows. Somehow, someway, he knows exactly which of the crone’s buttons to press, because more than once it seems like she must hold herself back from attacking him. Behind Rachel, Dougal wakes the kids one after the other, then leads them into the tunnels two-by-two and returns for the rest. He’s efficient and able to keep the children calm and quiet during their great escape.
As Rachel nears the last couple of hollow trees, located behind the asymmetrical throne of trash, something crunches underfoot. Well-hidden by the dais, she opens her hand slightly for the Fae light to grow brighter, lifts her foot, and looks at the ivory fragments beneath the sole of her shoe. She bends down to study the odd garbage, wearing a grimace.
A little voice inside her head, the one that always warns her when things aren’t kosher, tells her to look up. Rachel’s gaze moves across the gritty stone floor, across to the back of the dais.
More of the ivory fragments litter the ground, surrounding a pile of blanched bones. Thousands of different types of bones—femurs and vertebrae and phalanges and ribs—belonging to countless victims, lie there in a heap. At the top, a tiny, cracked skull with hollow eye sockets stares back at her.
Her heart skips a beat.
The harrowing imagery takes a moment to process, and she tucks away the information for later evaluation. She stands up ever so slowly, her legs wobbling as she gathers her courage, and drags herself to the next cocoon.
The child’s skull is seared into her memory.
Such a tragic, indescribable end to an unlived life.
“Prince, you try my patience with your lies.” The Night Weaver’s menacing voice indicates she’s had enough of the cajoling.
Rachel agrees; it’s time Orion put an end to her existence.
She goes about opening the last cocoons with cold, systematic movements, struggling to keep the visual of the skull tucked away in one of her mind’s many compartments. If she starts wondering who the kid was before the Night Weaver sank her claws into some unsuspecting adult, she’d not be able to function. She won’t be able to help get the living kids to safety.
Rachel shuts her eyes and inhales deeply, clearing away anything in her mind that could put her out of commission. Later, when this is over, she’ll allow herself to have a good, long cry over the lives lost, thanks to the Night Weaver’s insatiable hunger and horrendous brutality.
She opens her eyes and punches a big enough hole in the second-to-last membranous cell. Becky Goldstein sits inside, an expression of dread prominent on her sleeping face.
Don’t think about it, Rachel. Don’t think about the things they’ve had to endure. Just get them out.
On the other side of the throne, out of Rachel’s line of vision, she hears a whip-like strike, like a wet towel slapping through the air. A whoosh is followed by a crash against the throne, which rattles unsteadily on its elevated pedestal.
“Misty Robins used you like she used the rest of the Miser,” Orion shouts as a second crack cleaves the air. “She promised you freedom and power when she released you from Leif, didn’t she? Instead, you were nothing more than a victim to further her treasonous agenda.”
“Misty gave me the vengeance I craved,” the Night Weaver screams back.
“What vengeance?” Orion laughs as a golden light brightens the gloom. “Your sisters turned you over to King Auberon, claiming you were preying on Black Annis younglings.”
“Lies.” Another deafening crack sounds. “I never touched Black Annis younglings.”
“Your own kin accused you of raiding the nests, feeding for months off those precious and rare younglings before—” Orion’s words are cut off as something clatters to the ground. “You’re no match for a Prince of Amaris.”
“We need to hurry,” Dougal says upon returning to Rachel’s side, breathless.
“Is it bad?” she asks, still working on the last membranous covering.
“The adults left. They ran right past the weans without lookin’ back,” he says, easily pulling Becky out of the hollow tree and into his arms. “The other Fae is toyin’ with the Black Annis, but I don’t know how long she’ll fall for his games.” Dougal cradles Becky in his arms, gently waking her up with soothing words.
“Is he okay?” Rachel asks, peering around the throne to catch a glimpse of Orion.
“Rach, there isn’t time to worry about what’s goin’ on somewhere else,” Dougal says. “Get the last wean.”
Rachel shakes her head as if she can shake her worries away, but it’s impossible. She returns her attention to the otherworldly womb-like prison and peels away a large piece of the membrane to reveal the little boy held captive inside. The boy can’t be older than four, small enough for Rachel to lift out of the tree with one hand and swing onto her hip. His head rests against her shoulder. She doesn’t bother waking him, there’s no time and he doesn’t need more fuel for his nightmares anyway. Still, as Dougal convinces his sleepy charge to get up, hold his hand, and rush through the shadows, she can’t help feeling if she follows, she’ll be abandoning Orion.
“Dougal,” she hisses before he can get out of earshot.
He turns around. “Aye?”
Rachel walks closer. “Take the boy,” she says.
He takes the child without question, saying, “This is fair folk business, Rachel. We’ve no right gettin’ involved.”
“Your grandmother is waiting outside,” Rachel says, ignoring his statement. “Do you have your phone?”
“Aye.”
She looks at Becky, the oldest child to be found in the Night Weaver’s lair and takes her cell phone out of her skirt pocket. She quickly unlocks the screen with one hand, bends her knees to get to Becky’s level, and looks the twelve-year-old straight in the eyes.
“You know where to find the flashlight app, right?” she asks.
“Y-yes,” Becky whispers.
In the background, there’s a crash followed by a groan. The Night Weaver cackles with glee.
Rachel straightens as Orion gets back on his feet, his galaxy eyes almost black with rage.
“Becky, you’re going to have to be brave and help Dougal get the littler kids out,” Rachel says softly, handing her phone over. “Can you do that?”
“I ... I don’t ...” Becky looks up at Dougal with wide, fearful eyes, clutching Rachel’s phone tightly. She inhales deeply, nods, and says, “I’ll try.”
“Atta girl,” Dougal says.
Rachel gives Dougal a halfhearted smile. “Whatever you do, don’t come back for me.”
“Rach—”
“Don’t, please,” she interrupts him. “I’m going to try my hardest to get out of this alive, but if I don’t ...” Rachel inhales deeply, hating the possibility of how this could turn out for her. She forces a smile, and continues, “Make sure the kids get home safely. Tell your grandmother she’s my favorite person in the world. Also, if it looks like my mom isn’t dealing well with the aftermath, get in touch with my aunt in Bangor.”
“Och, Nan’s gonna kill me.”
“Run now, grumble later,” she says, glancing over a pile of rubble to see Orion holding a glowing sword, forged of Fae light. He swings it expertly at the cloak as the fabric reaches out to him, testing his defenses.
When she turns back, Dougal has already left with the remaining children.
Her gaze drops to the ball of light dancing in her hand. It grows larger and brighter as her fingers unfurl while she mentally readies herself to risk her life for a stranger from a strange land.
