The Night Weaver

by Monique Snyman

  “It speaks through its owner. Where are you going with this?”

  “Never mind where I’m going with this,” she says. “Tell me, how does the Akrah work—can it live without a host or is it parasitic? What makes it tick?”

  Orion crosses his arms. “It’s a magical cloak, Clarré. Its only purpose is to feed on darkness and to convert it into energy, which is why we had it in the royal vaults for centuries. It’s an auxiliary power source for its wearer.”

  She narrows her eyes at him. “But it’s sentient?”

  “Yes.”

  Rachel throws out the remnants of her coffee into the sink, places the mug beside his, and clucks her tongue. “No wonder the cloak changed its allegiance. You lot treated it like an object instead of respecting its needs.”

  “It is an object,” Orion says.

  She doesn’t argue, but if Rachel’s learned anything over the past few days it’s that nothing is as it seems.

  Entire universes exist outside the one she inhabits, so it figures that a magical cloak could be subjected to having a hissy fit if mistreated. If scientists and philosophers’ theories on artificial intelligence are correct, then obviously it’s plausible for non-organic algorithms to eventually find a way to replicate and surpass everything that organic algorithms can do. Ergo, emotions—whether biological or non-biological—can evolve.

  She grabs her keys from the counter and heads back to the spare bedroom, formulating yet another plan to beat the Night Weaver at her own game.

  “You want to do what?” Orion asks as he gets into the passenger side of her car.

  “I want to offer the Akrah a new position,” she repeats, turning the key in the ignition. “The only reason it’s with the Night Weaver in the first place is because she actually gives it some respect. Seatbelt, please.”

  As he pulls the seatbelt across his body, she turns her car’s headlights on and reverses out of the parking space. There aren’t any other cars around, aside from the burned vehicle on the opposite side of Ashfall Heights’ parking lot, so she drives across the faded lines marking the spaces in order to avoid the litter and rubble.

  The town is blanketed in darkness.

  Here and there Rachel sees lights twinkling dimly in windows as people go about their daily routines, seemingly unworried about how their nighttime hours extend far into the daylight’s territory. Oncoming headlights of other cars float along the streets like ghostly orbs. In the nooks and crannies along the various buildings, beneath the trees, shadows appear to come alive. They breathe, inhaling and exhaling, shrouding the town and its people like a menacing blanket.

  “This doesn’t look normal,” Rachel whispers as if she’s afraid they’ll be overheard by the townsfolk. “It doesn’t feel right.” She reaches for the pendant around her neck, just to make sure this isn’t some illusion created by Fae Influence. The pendant is solid in her hand, smooth and warm to the touch.

  When they reach Eerie Street, she’s certain the darkness is gradually intensifying. The silence surrounding the area also doesn’t come across as natural. By the time they get to the Eerie Creek Bridge, which is usually alive with a multitude of sounds—water rushing across rocks and wildlife going about their business—the stillness is terrifying.

  There is no moon to penetrate the gloom. No pinpricks of stars to brighten the devastatingly black heavens. It’s like looking through obsidian-colored glasses.

  “This isn’t right,” she says as they turn onto Griswold Road.

  Orion doesn’t break his silence. He just peers out of the windshield with the same calculating gaze Rachel ordinarily uses when she comes across a particularly difficult problem. She slacks off when the headlights no longer illuminate the road ahead of the car.

  “Can you see anything out there?” she asks, clutching the steering wheel with both hands until her knuckles ache. She considers pulling over, but then what? She can’t walk all the way home in this void.

  “Somewhat,” he says. “The road is clear.”

  “Okay, well, there’s a curve somewhere up ahead and I can’t—” She stops herself from saying more as she realizes her panicky tone isn’t going to help either of them get over this hurdle. Rachel steps on the brake, pulls over to the side of the road, and loosens the seatbelt. “You drive.”

  “Wait. What?” Orion protests as she unlocks her door.

  “Take over for me,” she says, opening her door. “You already drove my car once before, so you might as well drive it again.”

  The scowl he wears is a testament to his bemusement. “Honestly, why don’t we just glisser?” he mutters.

  “Obviously we can, but what happens to my car when we do? We can’t leave it out here and hope for the best.”

  He leans over to the driver’s seat and looks up at her. “It’s Shadow Grove, not Detroit. What’s the worst that could possibly happen?”

  “Said the drug manufacturer to the under-aged high school girl,” she says, crossing her arms.

  “I’m getting tired of your judgmental tone,” he says, opening the passenger door. “Humans literally can’t overdose from using my products. What I manufacture is medicine, which reduces pain or helps battle disease or heightens the senses. Granted, my sensory enhancing products seem to be the most popular sellers, but it’s not my fault humans haven’t figured out how to have mind-blowing sexual experiences without resorting to medication for assistance,” Orion continues. “Are you coming?”

  Rachel leans inside and switches off the engine, pulls the key from the ignition, and closes the door. “I assume what you slipped me yesterday wasn’t any of the aforementioned products, so what was it?” she asks, pressing the key fob to lock the car.

  “Goldmint,” he says as he walks around the front of the vehicle. “Humans generally relax when they’ve consumed goldmint.”

  “I wasn’t relaxed.” Rachel walks into his arms.

  “I’m aware,” he says. The telltale signals of them traveling through time and space begin anew. Pressure, headache, air whooshing out of her lungs, dizziness, and then bam! In the blink of an eye they are approximately a mile from where they had been. Not that Rachel can see a thing.

  “This way.” Orion takes her by the hand and leads her up a few steps before she hears knocking. “Nancy?” he calls out.

  “Is Rachel with you?” Mrs. Crenshaw calls back.

  “I’m here,” Rachel says.

  “Then come in already,” Mrs. Crenshaw responds. Orion opens the door and weak candlelight spills onto the porch. “Close the door behind you.”

  Rachel releases his hand and enters the Fraser house, with Orion hot on her heels. She sees Mrs. Crenshaw sitting on her favorite armchair, shotgun leaning against the armrest. Dougal is on the sofa, his face bruised and swollen from the beating he’d taken the previous day.

  “A shotgun isn’t going to kill a shadow,” Rachel says. The weapon somehow still manages to glisten in the candlelight.

  “Aye, I told Nan th’ same thing,” Dougal says, waving his hand through the air as if suggesting it’s useless to reason with his grandmother. “Does she listen? Naw.”

  Mrs. Crenshaw doesn’t so much as look up from her lap, where she fumbles with the shotgun shells in a discolored box. “Sit,” she instructs.

  Rachel inches around the other armchair and crosses the living room to take a seat beside Dougal.

  “You, too, Fae.”

  “My name’s Orion—”

  “I’m damn well sure who you are, Prince of Amaris. Sit and listen,” Mrs. Crenshaw says in her ‘don’t mess with me’ voice.

  “I wouldnae cross her if I were ye,” Dougal says.

  Orion rolls his eyes as he takes a seat in the armchair beside Mrs. Crenshaw.

  For a long, uncomfortable minute, the four of them sit together in silence. Suddenly an electric crackling comes from outside, rattling the windows within their panes, rocking the very foundation of the house.

  “She’s trying to break down
the border?” Orion asks with wide eyes, moving toward the window to peer through the curtains.

  “They’ve been going at it since last night,” Mrs. Crenshaw says.

  “They?” Rachel asks.

  “The shadowlings, darklings, midnight minions, whatever you want to call them,” she explains, shrugging. “Some of her friends are on the other side, waiting to get in, I guess. I reinforced the border to keep her trapped in Shadow Grove when I saw her sneaking out yesterday, so I don’t have to go into that blasted forest again to end her miserable existence.”

  “How’s it staying up against her onslaught?” Orion asks, glancing at Mrs. Crenshaw.

  She looks at Orion. “My basement acts as a haven to the pixies, faeries, and knockers when dire times are upon us. As a result, they make sure the border remains up regardless of the situation and strengthen it when I ask them nicely. I think they may be tired after the beating the Night Weaver’s been giving it, though.” Her gaze moves to Dougal, then Rachel. “Why don’t you two go downstairs with some refreshments for our guests?”

  Neither of the teenagers moves.

  “Don’t look at me like I’ve gone mad. Go.” Mrs. Crenshaw waves them off.

  “Refreshments such as ...?” Rachel asks

  “Milk,” Orion mumbles. “They also enjoy honey, cookies, sweetmeats, and cheese. Give them whatever gifts you can, and they’ll be grateful.”

  Dougal gives Orion the side-eye as he stands, saying something in his mother tongue, a cutting remark no doubt. Orion turns in his spot, flashes Dougal a smile and responds in fluent Gaelic, as if he’s lived in Scotland his entire life. Even in the flickering candlelight, Dougal’s blanching at the exchange is obvious.

  When Orion finishes, Rachel stands, too. “Can you make me a Fae light, please?” she asks, possibly off-topic to whatever transpired between the two males. He directs his attention to her, opens his palm, and forms a golden sphere. It bounces up and down a couple of times in his hand before gliding through the air to hover beside her head. “Thank you.”

  “Be careful of the pixies. They have a tendency to bite,” Orion says as he turns back to face the window.

  “Good to know.”

  Rachel makes her way through the dining room and toward the kitchen, following Dougal out of the living room.

  “When did the power go out?” she asks, opening the fridge as Dougal lights another candle, which stands on the kitchen counter. She’s curious about what they said in Gaelic but decides not to ask.

  “Sometime last night,” Dougal says. “Ye shouldn’t be friends with th’ fair folk, Rach. They’re tricky bastards at th’ best’a times.” He opens the pantry and rummages around inside for the cookie jar.

  “I’m more than capable of looking after myself,” she says, pulling a jug of milk out of the fridge.

  “I am sure ye are,” he mutters.

  “What did you two talk about just now?” Rachel places the bottle of milk on the kitchen table before going to find saucers in the cupboard above the kettle. Stacks and stacks of saucers, all differently shaped and decorated, sit on one shelf. She pulls one stack down and balances it in her hand.

  “It doesnae matter.”

  Another crackle wracks the world, shaking the house and its contents. Glasses and china tinkle as they quiver, while kitchen utensils turn to noisy, chunky chimes when slammed together on the hooks beside the stove. Rachel shoots her hand out to the basement door to stabilize herself, praying the roof doesn’t collapse and the walls don’t crumble.

  “She’ll bury us in this house,” Dougal says angrily, as if he’s read Rachel’s thoughts.

  Rachel pulls the basement door open and directs the Fae light down the stairs with a slight hand gesture. The glowing ball bounces forward, illuminating each step enough for her and Dougal to descend without incident. The last thing they need is to miss a step, break their necks, and make the Night Weaver’s life easier. The basement is empty, though, quiet aside from a tiny whisper which is quickly shut up when she reaches the bottom of the stairs.

  “Don’t mind us,” Rachel says, not knowing how else to greet the creatures who’re nowhere to be seen. She unstacks the saucers and sets them on the floor beside each other. The Fae light bobs deeper into the basement, taking its light with it. “Come back here,” she mumbles.

  “Who’re ye talkin’ tae?” Dougal asks, breaking the chocolate chip cookies into quarters before he places the pieces into one saucer.

  “The Fae light,” she says, righting herself. Rachel looks to where the Fae light hovers. “I’m not going to repeat myself.”

  “Och! Ye sound jist lik’ Nan sometimes.”

  The Fae light reluctantly returns to her side, losing a bit of its bounce. “Don’t wander off when I need you.” She reaches out to it and tickles the bottom, creating tiny ripples on the surface.

  “It’s a ball o’ light, a will-o’-the-wisp,” Dougal says. “Ye treat it lik’ a pet.”

  Rachel bends and unscrews the milk bottle. “I treat it with respect. I mean, there’s literally magic in our backyards and you don’t seem in the least bit impressed. You can’t even begin to understand how dull this town was before all this.”

  “I come from a small town, too, Rach.”

  “Then what is it with your aversion to these great and wonderful things, these ethereal creatures we have the privilege of encountering simply because we’re descendants of the original Fraser and MacCleary settlers?”

  Dougal shakes his head. “It’s a long story fer a different time. Finish up. I need tae go check on Nan.”

  “Your grandmother is no pushover either, especially when she’s in her current mood,” Rachel says, carefully filling the first saucer with milk before moving on to the next.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  She looks up to see the knocker she’d encountered in the cave the previous day, the teenager wearing a little hardhat and utility belt. “Problems?” she asks. The knocker nods. “In the basement?”

  He waves her over.

  Rachel rights herself and pushes the five-gallon bottle into Dougal’s arms, still looking at the knocker. “Finish up,” she says as she walks over to the corner.

  The teenaged knocker disappears between some boxes and emerges from behind them. Rachel peers closer to see an even tinier knocker, lying on his side, clearly unconscious. “He got hurt?” she asks.

  The older knocker nods, and then points at the Fae light bobbing in the center of the basement, which keeps the gloom from overwhelming them.

  She glances over her shoulder, returns her attention to the hurt knocker. “Oh, so that’s why the light was over here.” Rachel snaps her finger and the Fae light hurtles closer. “Now what?”

  The teenaged knocker hooks his hammer into the utility belt around his waist, cups his hands together as he steps closer to his fallen kin, and then parts his palms over him—suggesting the light should fall over the hurt knocker.

  “Wash him in the light?”

  The knocker nods, smiling broadly.

  “All right, I’ll try. Otherwise, I’ll call Orion to come help you.”

  Rachel moves a few of the boxes away to get closer to the fallen knocker and reaches for the ball of light. She cups her hands as she’s been instructed to do, holding the sphere in both palms, and bends down.

  “Here goes nothing,” she whispers, letting the Fae light wash over the tiny knocker. The ball melts as she releases it, covering the entirety of the little body on the dirty floor. His ashen skin glows with life once more, tiny fingers curl into a small fist as the Fae light heals whatever ailments the poor guy’s been stricken with.

  “It’s working, right?” she asks the teenaged knocker.

  He nods again, blinking away tears. The Fae light pulls out of the knocker’s body and regroups in the air above him, slowly re-forming into a sphere.

  “We can leave once yer done playin’ with th’ wee folk,” Dougal says behind her.

  “Did you see wh
at I did?” Rachel asks, awestruck by the magic she had been able to do with only the Fae light at her disposal. Stardust be damned, this is her new favorite thing about Fae.

  “Aye,” he says. “Verra pretty. Now, grab yer toy and come on.”

  Rachel sighs, watching the older knocker hug the little one before she guides the Fae light back to her side. She turns in place and follows Dougal out of the basement.

  The earth suddenly trembles, almost knocking Rachel off her feet. A pronounced and terrible rumbling accompanies the shaking. Boxes topple over and a ladder clatters to the floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots a variety of creatures erupting from their hiding places, searching for safer areas to wait out the latest attack on the border. Dougal loses his footing and grabs onto the banister to stop his fall. Dust rains down while crashes resonate from the first floor. Rachel grabs onto Dougal’s arm as another unexpected quake takes her by surprise.

  Panicky whispers, high-pitched squeals, and nervous titters surround them as they make their way up the basement stairs on uncertain legs.

  “We need tae stop her,” Dougal shouts to be heard over the commotion, pushing Rachel up the stairs ahead of him.

  He’s not wrong. The only reason anybody—human, Fae, or otherwise—would go to such extreme lengths is if there’s something worthwhile on the other side. Rachel decides then and there she’d rather not find out what the Night Weaver so desperately wants to reach inside the forest.

  As she stumbles back into the kitchen, the world still shaking beneath her, a fist smashes through the window beside the kitchen door.

  “What the—?” She struggles to her feet as the bloody hand blindly searches for the lock, the arm reaching deeper.

  Rachel rushes to the kitchen island to find a weapon, the hand inching closer to the lock.

  “Och! We dinnae ‘ave th’ time fer this bullocks,” Dougal grumbles, stumbling up the stairs.

  Rachel finds a meat tenderizer and heads for the door, ready to break the hand if she has to. Mrs. Pearson’s face appears in the window, her eyes shiny black orbs set in a too-pale face. She scans the interior and pins her unholy gaze on Rachel. The almost unrecognizable woman pulls her arm back and balls her hand into a fist, before—