The Night Weaver

by Monique Snyman

  “Get down!” Rachel orders as she turns her back on the window. Glass shards fly into the kitchen, tinkling to the counters and floor. She ignores the chaos and raises the meat tenderizer into the air, aiming for the searching hand by the back door.

  Three ... two ... one.

  She brings the meat tenderizer down and hears a crunch as bones break. There’s a howl of pain on the other side of the door before the hand disappears. A moment of triumph vanishes in an instant as a different hand appears, clearly belonging to someone else. She repeats the action with the meat tenderizer. Someone cries out.

  “Rachel Cleary,” Mrs. Pearson says in a stern voice that doesn’t suit her. “I am incredibly disappointed with you. Wait until I tell your mother.”

  “Nan, we ‘ave a situation back ‘ere!” Dougal shouts.

  Rebecca White joins Mrs. Pearson, her eyes a similar glistening black. She tuts, and says, “This simply will not do.”

  “Dougal, stop standing around and help me,” Rachel screams, ready to continue her game of Whack-a-Mole. When he doesn’t respond, she chances a glance over her shoulder, only to find herself alone in the kitchen. “Dougal!”

  More familiar-ish faces join the two women in the window, some sneering, others smiling. None of them belong to her mother, but all of them spell doom. How smart of the Night Weaver to send her acolytes to do her dirty work for her.

  Rachel expects someone else to push their hand through the broken window to get to the lock, but this doesn’t happen. Instead, a great force slams against the door, rebounds, and tries again.

  “Orion!” Rachel backs away from the door. “Anyone?”

  “C’mon,” Dougal says behind her, grabbing her by the shoulder. “We’ll deal with them la’er.”

  Eighteen

  When The Blood Moon Rises

  At first, people assume Nancy Crenshaw is a harmless old lady who carries candy in her handbag and knits baby blankets to pass the time. She appears delicate, thanks to her petite ballerina body, papery skin, and snow-white hair. Ever since she’s reached what is often referred to as the golden years, she’s played the part of the somewhat senile, yet always loveable grandma to a T. However, and Rachel knows this intricate detail of her lifelong neighbor better than anyone, Nancy Crenshaw is a woman who can make grown men whimper with a mere look.

  Take Sheriff William Carter, ol’ Bulltwang Bill, for example: usually, he throws his immense girth around whenever he wants something, and he likes to bully those who dare to stand up against his tyranny, but not when it comes to Nancy Crenshaw ... Oh, no. Billy Boy, as she insists on calling him and who is the only person who may do so, gives her a wide berth when she’s in his vicinity. If he’s unable to avoid her, the Wild West show he so often puts on for others simply vanishes. Gone is the fake accent, gone is the vitriol he adds into his dialogue, gone is the holier than thou attitude. It’s all, “yes, ma’am, no, ma’am, apologies, ma’am,” subordination.

  Seeing her walk out of the house, loaded shotgun at the ready, and wearing an expression devoid of emotion would certainly be one of the most terrifying things to behold for any Shadow Grove resident.

  For Rachel, she is a savior made flesh.

  If anyone can deal with a homicidal bogeywoman with a penchant for eating children, then God help her, because Mrs. Crenshaw is made of tougher stuff than myth and magic.

  While Orion is busy trying his best to talk Mrs. Crenshaw out of, in his words, “a suicide mission”, Dougal and Rachel watch them get swallowed up by the persistent darkness outside the house.

  “She has the home advantage,” Rachel says, defending Mrs. Crenshaw’s decision to confront the Night Weaver while struggling to convince herself it’s a good idea. “It’s not like yesterday when we were all out of our depth. Nobody knows this area better than Mrs. Crenshaw. Also, if we don’t stop the Night Weaver, her acolytes are going to turn this town upside down searching for us.”

  “We’re gonna go after her, aren’t we?” Dougal says. “Even if she said we shouldnae leave th’ house.”

  Rachel pulls her pursed lips to the side of her mouth.

  There’s a crash in the kitchen, a breach of their stronghold, no doubt.

  He sighs. “Yer a bad influence, Rachel Cleary, but I love th’ way ye dinnae cower in th’ face o’ danger.”

  “Thanks. Now let’s go save this dump of a town,” Rachel says, pushing away the smile that threatens to break free.

  She follows in Orion’s and Mrs. Crenshaw’s footsteps with Dougal by her side, listening intently for any sign of the Night Weaver’s physical presence in the claustrophobic silence, wondering where the rest of the mom club is hiding. All she can hear is Orion telling Mrs. Crenshaw to retreat, saying he’ll take care of the dangerous Black Annis himself. It’s not the most convincing speech.

  “He’s a persistent bastard, eh?” Dougal says by her side.

  “He’s not too bad.”

  “I cannae figure out why he seems tae care so much aboot people he barely kens.”

  “I could say the same thing about you. Apart from your grandmother, you have no reason to risk your life,” Rachel responds gently, smiling at him.

  “Aye, but I ‘ave nothin’ better tae do with mah time ‘til Joe Farrow calls me back tae work,” he whispers. “Yer light’s goin’ out.”

  Rachel looks at the Fae light, which grows dimmer as they walk across the lawn—probably no more than a few feet behind Orion and Mrs. Crenshaw. “It happens, unfortunately,” she says.

  “If I couldn’t defeat the Night Weaver with an entire army at my disp—”

  “Oh, keep quiet already,” Mrs. Crenshaw interrupts Orion. The click sounds as she chambers a shell. “Help me aim this thing in the right direction.”

  “You’re just going to piss her off more,” he retorts.

  “I cannae see a thing,” Dougal says softly.

  The shotgun cracks and an earsplitting shriek fills the air.

  “Sounded like a hit to me,” Mrs. Crenshaw says, followed by a double tinkling sound as, Rachel assumes, the spent shells fall onto the asphalt road. A second click sounds, signaling the new shells being loaded in the chamber.

  Another crack, another hit. The Night Weaver’s haunting wails go on for a good long minute before they abruptly end.

  “And those shells are filled with ...?” Orion asks, almost impressed.

  “An old family recipe,” Mrs. Crenshaw says.

  All of a sudden, a large piece of fabric slithers around Rachel’s body and tightens around her waist. Air is expelled from her lungs with a whoosh. Rachel is plucked off her feet. She finds her voice and screams, flailing as she reaches out to grab onto something—anything. Flying backward into the darkness, unable to see how high or how far she’s traveling, Rachel thrashes wildly, calling out to Orion and Mrs. Crenshaw and Dougal. She comes to a stop, her limp body suspended by the single binding around her middle. She hangs in the air like a rag doll, her hair tickling her cheeks as the strands wave around in the breeze, waiting to be shaken or dropped by her demented captor.

  “Annoying girl,” the Night Weaver hisses in her ear. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  Rachel can’t come back with a snarky response, can barely breathe thanks to the constricting, thick fabric—probably the Akrah’s doing—squashing her insides, but she does find the strength to look up. The Night Weaver’s blue face, illuminated by some unseen light, is in full view. Her black eyes glisten with malice as her nostrils flare and her teeth grind together.

  “Pathetic child,” she says, sneering. “Your suffering will be my privilege.”

  “You sure like the sound of your own voice, don’t you?” Rachel says, narrowing her eyes in defiance. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “You will be.” The Night Weaver’s sneer turns into an ugly smile as she bares her needle-like teeth. One metallic claw runs down Rachel’s cheek, a dangerously sharp caress that sets her nerves on fire. If the Night Weaver wishes to h
arm Rachel, she can easily cut her into ribbons. Instead, her gaze lowers, piercing the darkness as she glares at something Rachel can’t see. “Foolish.” She clucks her tongue before turning her attention back to Rachel. The Night Weaver tilts her head, studying her prey. “I’m at odds at how I should proceed,” she says. “Do I break you, cut you, or eat you? There are so many possibilities.”

  “Rachel,” Mrs. Crenshaw’s voice reaches them from far below.

  The Night Weaver grins, the sight making Rachel’s stomach churn.

  “Perhaps ... Oh, perhaps I shouldn’t begin with you at all. Instead, I can start my revenge by making you watch as I slowly flay that old woman who shot me. I could turn your mother into one of my darklings in front of you and make her do the most ghastly things. Yes.” She grins. “Yes, your eyes reveal true fear now, girl. How noble you are.” The Night Weaver cackles. “Then, I can move on to the boy. He’s such a big boy for his age, strong and healthy. He’ll take a while to break, but I’m sure it’ll be an enjoyable experience for at least one of us.”

  “You truly are a monster,” Rachel growls.

  The Night Weaver beams with pride, almost as if Rachel’s given her a compliment. Another claw runs down her cheek, too gently not to be considered intimate. Rachel shivers in response, pulls her face away from the cool metal, and squeezes her eyes shut.

  “Hold on, I’m coming to get you,” Orion’s shout interrupts her terror.

  The contents of Rachel’s stomach shoot into her throat as she drops, though the binding around her waist doesn’t release. She gasps when suddenly she halts again.

  “No,” she shouts back. “Get back inside the house!”

  “Please come, Prince,” the Night Weaver laughs. Another deafening crack sounds, one that doesn’t belong to the shotgun, as an invisible force moves through the air and collides with the barrier encircling the forest.

  It hits Rachel then. This whole display of the Night Weaver, trying to break into the forest under the cover of darkness, isn’t because her friends are waiting for her on the other side. It’s because she wants to get out of Shadow Grove and return to Orthega. Why now, though? Why is she so desperate to go home after centuries of living in the forest where she has an all-you-can-eat buffet?

  Her eyes widen as she realizes the truth.

  Fear.

  The Night Weaver is afraid.

  Rachel rakes her mind as she searches for an explanation for the sudden onset of fear. What can possibly make a predator scared? Mrs. Crenshaw, bless her soul, may be a force to reckon with for the residents of Shadow Grove, but Rachel isn’t delusional enough to believe the old woman is the reason for this frantic attempt to get back to Orthega.

  Orion.

  “Of course,” she whispers, connecting the dots.

  The Night Weaver was initially banished from Orthega by the Prince of Amaris, and up until yesterday, she hadn’t known he was in town. Rachel figures his showing up out of nowhere, creating all kinds of havoc in her lair, might be the reason why she’s gone mental.

  Before she can shout her current theory to her companions, who are presumably still somewhere below her, she’s jostled around in the air as the Night Weaver crisscrosses the night sky with unnatural speed. Rachel’s teeth chatter as she’s shaken around from side to side.

  A golden bolt suddenly flashes past Rachel’s face, narrowly avoiding hitting her. She gasps, watching the arrow of light disappear into the nothingness behind her.

  The Night Weaver cries out in delight, clapping as if she’s just watched a magician do a trick.

  “Try again, Princeling. Maybe next time you’ll hit her,” the Night Weaver jeers.

  Rachel’s heart drops to the pit of her stomach as the Night Weaver gains altitude again, carelessly pulling her along for the ride. The air becomes thinner, but the darkness doesn’t disappear. There is, however, a reddish ball hanging just above the horizon. It’s too early in the year for the Harvest Moon to make its appearance, too early in the month for a full moon, too. It’s most likely the sun, she decides, seen through a veil of night. A Blood Moon of a different kind.

  Rachel reaches around her so she can grab onto the Akrah Cloak’s hem for extra support—falling from this height, even if she can’t see how high she truly is from the ground, will be fatal. She twists her right hand around the piece of elongated fabric which had wrapped around her waist, and somehow manages to hoist herself to take some weight off her midsection. She breathes easier, giving her abdominal muscles a well-deserved reprieve. She climbs higher, feels her biceps and triceps burn.

  Her life is hanging by a thread ...

  I hope I live long enough to use that saying without it sounding like a stupid cliché.

  Rachel has no other option than to come up with a plan to get the situation under control. If she falls, she’s dead. If the Night Weaver takes her away from here, she’s dead. If Orion’s aim is off by an inch with his Fae light bolts—Do you want to get me killed by throwing more of those things, Faerie Boy?—she’s dead.

  Before she can implement any sort of plan, a golden angel of destruction appears in her peripheral vision. Rachel turns to face the glint of danger hovering behind the Night Weaver and her breath hitches. Orion, or some heavenly creature resembling him, stares with supernova eyes at his foe. He bares elongated canines at the Night Weaver’s back, while Fae light drips like molten lava from his body and fades into oblivion as it falls. There’s something animalistic about the way he looks, about the way he calculates, about the way he moves to stay out of the Night Weaver’s sight.

  She watches as he raises one hand and Fae light forms in his palm. It’s not the bouncing, happy Fae light she’s seen in the past. This is a ball of pure solar rage, radioactive and blinding.

  Her heart races as she looks between him and the nothingness below. One wrong move on his part and they’ll have to scrape her remains off the road with a trowel.

  With the ease of a gymnast, graceful and almost too beautiful to watch, Orion pitches the Fae light directly into the Night Weaver’s back.

  Light will always defeat darkness.

  The Night Weaver screeches as the Fae light hits, searing away a gaping piece of the Akrah Cloak and part of her leathery skin and flesh. She spins to face her attacker, throwing Rachel around from the force.

  The Night Weaver hisses like an angry cat. “You.”

  Orion grins at her, showing off his new, fearsomely elongated canines. “A surprised Miser is a dead Miser,” he growls, irises dancing with spite. A second Fae light forms in his hand and his grin grows broader, deadlier. “Run.”

  The Night Weaver doesn’t dally around to make conversation this time—she sets off in the opposite direction.

  They fly so fast, Rachel can hardly fill her lungs with the thin air which howls in her ears. Her eyes sting from the cold, but she can’t close them. Instead, she turns to look over her shoulder and sees Orion in the distance, catching up with ease before he backs off again. The idiot plays with her like this for a good few minutes, while Rachel dangles helplessly.

  The second ball of Fae light suddenly crashes into the Night Weaver’s back, dripping down the smelted matter onto the Akrah Cloak and slowly destroying the integrity of the fabric. A deafening ripping sound echoes in Rachel’s very bones. She looks up, eyes widening as she sees the tear growing larger with each twist and turn and stomach-churning flip. Rachel reaches up and pulls herself even higher up the Akrah Cloak, while her palms sweat and her heart pounds and her body aches.

  “Ak-k-krah,” Rachel says, bouncing from the persistent movement through the air. “Akrah-h-h,” she repeats louder as she tugs at the fabric around her hand and elbow now.

  The Night Weaver’s movements slow somewhat and the fabric seems to come alive by itself, curling around her for more support and hoisting her higher until the wrinkly hag’s face appears in front of her again. They continue to move despite this, to dodge the onslaught of lava balls being catapulted their
way.

  “Yes?” The Night Weaver says in a voice that doesn’t belong to her. It’s a reasonable androgynous voice, ancient and somnolent.

  Rachel gulps, her ears popping from the altitude. She’d gotten the cloak’s attention, but now what?

  “Hi,” she begins, trying to buy some time while her thoughts struggle to organize themselves, so her mouth doesn’t get her killed. She had come up with a proposition for the Akrah Cloak earlier, one she’d hoped it would find intriguing enough to, at least, consider. Without the Akrah, the Night Weaver wouldn’t be so powerful, which might help them beat her once and for all. “I was wondering why you put up with the Night Weaver,” she continues. “It seems to me like you gave up one crappy life in the dark for another crappy life in the dark.”

  “I feed on darkness,” the Akrah says in its monotonous and sexless voice.

  “Yes, but there are different types of darkness, aren’t there?” Rachel says. “How I understand it, up until now everyone’s just been feeding you the literal stuff. Not to mention, you’re living a half-life, spent in the confines of caves and vaults. Shouldn’t your glory be celebrated?”

  “Indeed.”

  “What if I told you I can give you all that you crave?”

  The Night Weaver’s eyes narrow in question, but she isn’t in control of her own body in that instant. There’s a curiosity there, a glint in her bottomless gaze.

  Rachel holds her head high, beaming with confidence, and says, “What if I can give you an endless supply of the most delicious darkness in existence, while you’re living it up to the fullest in the light?”

  The Akrah Cloak, wearing the Night Weaver’s face, seems to consider the offer for a nail-biting moment, before the voice asks, “What do you want in return?”

  Now we’re getting somewhere.

  “Swear your allegiance to the MacCleary and Fraser bloodlines and promise to answer our call if your assistance is required for some reason or another. Simple.”