Without warning, the Night Weaver—or rather the Akrah—dives straight down to avoid another one of Orion’s attacks. Rachel screams, grappling for something more substantial to hold on to, tears running down her cheeks from this ungodly rollercoaster ride.
They level out again, giving her an opportunity to catch her breath, before she shouts at Orion, “Can you stop already?” Rachel hopes he will let up so she can talk to the Akrah before all deals are off and death is the only option left on the table, but from the precision movements he’s making there’s no telling if he will.
“You’re wasting your breath,” the Akrah says. “A Fae doesn’t simply stop when they are asked nicely. They enjoy the kill too much.” There is no fear or anxiety in the Akrah’s tone, which is oddly soothing under the circumstances.
“Well, how do we stop Orion from hunting you?” she cries out, digging her nails into the Night Weaver’s shoulders. “Do we submerge him in liquid nitrogen?”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Of course, you don’t,” Rachel says, laughing hysterically, although there’s nothing humorous about the situation. “How do we stop him?”
“We can’t stop him,” the Akrah says in a matter-of-fact tone. The Night Weaver’s gaze meets Rachel’s. The emotionless expression no longer has a calming effect; instead, the coldness makes her dread what might happen next. “If you survive, I may feel inclined to revisit your offer. Goodbye.”
The fabric suddenly unwraps itself from around Rachel’s waist, retreating to the cloak’s hem. It releases its hold on her completely, allowing gravity to have its way with her.
Nineteen
Supernova
She grasps at nothingness as she falls back to Earth, her deafening scream lost in the high winds that rush past her ears. The darkness makes it impossible to calculate how far she is from the ground, and there’s no way to estimate at what velocity she’s free-falling. She can’t do anything to save herself from imminent death, not this time.
Meanwhile, Rachel simply cannot comprehend why she ever wanted to sacrifice herself in the lair. It must’ve been temporary madness; a brief affliction of the Superman complex. Here she is, flailing, literally falling head over heels, waiting for the inevitable end to this tumultuous journey, and she doesn’t want to die. Not now. Not like this.
“Orrrrriooooon!” His name tears from her throat in a final, desperate attempt to avoid a grotesque death.
Topsy-turvy, down she goes, seemingly faster and faster. Where she’ll land, nobody knows ... How will she land, she wonders, butter-side up or butter-side down? It probably doesn’t matter. As long as it’s swift and painless, she decides. There’s not more she can ask for, considering her light’s going to be snuffed out whether she likes it or not.
There’s an unexpected jolt interrupting the fall, like a bungee cord pulling her back from certain death. Her organs jerk, too, shocked by the sudden change in direction. She gradually slows, as if the laws of physics have done a one-eighty, and the wind dies down around her. Her scream grows louder now, a raw cry for help, which she cuts off when she comes to grips with the fact that she’s not plummeting at high speed to meet the unmoving ground anymore. She drifts weightlessly like a snowflake, gracefully swaying hither and thither.
“Miss me, Clarré?” the calm, familiar voice says from somewhere below her.
Rachel drops into his waiting hands. He moves her around so her feet can touch the glorious ground without it ending in a splat. She holds on to her rescuer, shaking from head to toe, afraid if she lets go she’ll continue falling to her death. It’s only then that she realizes she’s bawling her eyes out. Big, ugly tears roll freely down her cheeks. Rachel sobs as she slams one of her fists into his shoulder in frustration. Feeling the solid body underneath her hand is heaven, so she does it again, and again, crying harder. Gratitude and joy intermingle with rage as she goes limp. It’d been a close call—too close.
“You’re all right,” Orion says, still holding her up. “You’re alive.”
Rachel hides her face in his shoulder and continues to cry, inhaling his scent with every sob. She’s enveloped by a heady mix of warm cinnamon and grapefruit, with blood mandarin and minty citrus notes, along with masculine leather—he’s a safety blanket of smells.
“You could’ve killed me,” she says through her tears.
“Yes,” he answers. “But I didn’t.”
“That’s not—” She pulls away from him, almost goes down thanks to her uncertain footing and jellylike legs, before grappling at his shirt to keep upright. “You could’ve lied to make me feel better.”
“Lying to one’s allies sets a bad precedent,” Orion says, pushing a strand of her hair out of her face. The intimate action doesn’t correspond with his indifferent words. “I have to go after her. She’s up to something and I don’t like it.” He opens his hand and a Fae light forms in his palm. Orion hands it over to her, whispering, “You’re close to home, but don’t try to make your way back until the darkness dissipates.” He releases her from his hold, holding out the Fae light.
“She’s afraid of you,” Rachel says quickly, accepting the light source. “The Night Weaver doesn’t want to break through the barrier to let something into Shadow Grove. She wants to get back to Orthega. She wants to get away from you.”
“I’m aware, Clarré, which is why I’m going to give her what she wants,” he says, a sly grin developing as he speaks. He reaches out and touches her cheek, gently trailing his fingertips across her skin. “If I don’t return, don’t come looking for me.”
“That sounds like a goodbye,” she says, eyeing him suspiciously. “Becoming a martyr isn’t worth it, Orion. Believe me—”
Orion places his hand behind her neck, leans closer, and presses his soft lips against her forehead. “If I do this, the Night Weaver’s influence over the townsfolk disappears. Everything will be back to relative normalcy as soon as she’s crossed over into the Fae Realm.”
“You’re going to do something stupid, aren’t you?” Rachel says as he pulls away, even though she knows it’s all for naught. “I’m not going to see you again, am I?”
“You’ll see me again, I’m sure,” he says.
Rachel shakes her head, new tears threatening to fall. She watches through blurry vision as golden flames ripple across his body, encircling him in an enigmatic, almost heavenly, glow. Orion glances up into the pitch-black sky, donning a mischievous smile, one that spells danger. Then he’s off, without giving her so much as a second look. She watches him fly away—fly!—until he’s only a bright, moving pinprick in the sky, looking like a satellite entering the atmosphere.
Golden lightning streaks across the artificial night sky, no more than a flash to brighten the gloom. It is answered by a blaze of violet and blue, which outlines the clouds above. A sound akin to thunder rolls across the town, rumbling violently. Another sickly violet vein of light cleaves the ether, followed by the signature cackling of the Night Weaver.
“Damn you, Faerie Boy,” she whispers, angrily brushing her tears away with her free hand whilst clutching the Fae light against her chest with the other. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”
Against his advice, Rachel walks up Griswold Road with only the Fae light to guide her. She keeps an eye on the ongoing battle overhead, even if all she can see is multicolored flashes, and the most she can hear is the dominant claps of power and the haunting laughter or hysterical wailing of the Night Weaver.
There’s absolutely no way for her to gauge who’s winning this fight.
Determined not to wander off into the darkness where darklings undoubtedly lurk, she walks slowly. The last thing she wants is to get killed by one of the Night Weaver’s strays.
The battle rages on, with no sign of stopping in the immediate future. The Prince of Amaris and the Night Weaver are, after all, evenly matched in this world, thanks to the Akrah Cloak’s impressive power.
What a moron, she
thinks, sniffing. Did you even think your plan through, Orion? How are you going to cross the border if it’s still up?
“Next time, use your brain,” she shouts up to the sky, not knowing if he’ll be able to hear her, before she puts some speed into her movements. Soon, Rachel is jogging up Griswold Road, listening to her soles slapping against the asphalt underfoot to make sure she stays on track. She keeps the Fae light extended, which slows down her progress, but at least it’s better than being stuck in the middle of nowhere with only a freaky lightshow for company.
Her thighs begin to burn from the effort of running uphill, her calves quickly joining in to make the jog especially unpleasant. She doesn’t stop. She can’t stop. Instead, she pushes herself into a full run.
Ten minutes later, she finds herself in front of the Fraser house, where Mrs. Crenshaw and Dougal watch the spectacle from the porch.
“Ye’re alive,” Dougal says, sounding unsurprised. “Gottae hand it tae th’ Fae fer keepin’ his word.”
“We’ve got to ... bring the border ... down,” she says, running up the steps.
“Over my dead body,” Mrs. Crenshaw says.
Rachel points toward the sky as she catches her breath. “He’s going to ... force the Night Weaver ... back to—”
“Th’ Fae Realm?” Dougal says, ending her sentence for her.
Rachel nods, grateful to use the time to suck more air into her lungs.
“How far did you run, child?” Mrs. Crenshaw asks, grimacing. “Never mind. Look, if I open the border, it’s a free for all at this point. Anything hiding in the forest can sneak into Shadow Grove while the barrier’s down. What about when he wants to come back? That means the barrier will drop twice, which gives the nasties two chances to sneak in. It’s too risky.”
“Too risky?” Rachel asks in a higher-than-normal tone. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Crenshaw, but Orion is risking his life for human beings, people he’s never met, because there won’t be a town left if he doesn’t.” She looks up at the sky as another clash of gold and violet power lights up the sky, and a deafening rumble shakes the ground beneath her feet. “If you don’t bring the barrier down, there’s a good chance we’ll all live in perpetual darkness.”
Mrs. Crenshaw stubbornly huffs and crosses her arms.
“Nan, ye must admit, Rachel has a point,” Dougal says. “He hasnae asked a thin’ fer helpin’ us.”
“Please, Mrs. Crenshaw?” Rachel presses. “Orion helped to save Dougal, he saved me twice, and he’s—”
“Okay, okay, I’ll do it,” Mrs. Crenshaw interrupts Rachel’s speech. She shuffles across the porch and toward the front door. “Just remember the three of you are responsible for whatever gets into Shadow Grove once this barrier goes down. Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rachel says.
“Aye,” Dougal concurs.
“Stay here,” the old woman says, disappearing inside the house.
Rachel turns her attention back to the riotous sky, sees color slicing through the night. Suddenly, a golden ball grows larger as it heads straight down towards them. She gasps, expecting the worst, but as it approaches, she notices it’s too small to be Orion. In fact, it’s only one of those lava balls dropping to the ground—Thank the stars. The lava ball winks out of existence as it touches her mother’s hydrangeas across the road.
“Ye lik’ him,” Dougal whispers beside her.
“What? No, I don’t,” Rachel says, folding her arms. “I’ve just got high stakes on the outcome of this fight.”
“If ye say so,” he mutters. “I hope ye ken what yer doin’. The fair folk are renowned tricksters.”
“Stop mothering me, Dougal,” she says, annoyed.
He shrugs. “Fine, but dinnae come cryin’ tae me when yer up th’ duff and he’s nowhere tae be found. They do that, ye ken? Fae loves tae leave when trouble’s at its worst.”
She blinks slowly, turning to face him. “I can’t figure out half of what you said, but I still feel like I should punch you.”
Dougal considers her words and then nods. “I would probably deserve it, too, but my warnin’ stands.”
“The barrier’s down,” Mrs. Crenshaw announces from inside the house. “Keep an eye out and let me know immediately when they’re inside the forest.”
“Aye,” Dougal calls back, gaze swiveling to the forest.
An indigo-colored ball with sickly purple veins careens from the air and crashes onto Griswold Road, rolling to a stop between the Fraser and MacCleary houses. Rachel watches as swathes of black fabric, glowing with blue and purple power, unfold to reveal the beaten and bruised Black Annis within. The Night Weaver stumbles out of her makeshift cocoon, black blood dribbling from the corner of her mouth. She sways from side to side, her shoulders slumped over in defeat.
Orion, in all his golden glory, lands on his feet some fifty yards away. Rachel notices four scratches running the length of his upper arm, blood pouring from the deep gouges and dripping onto the ground. His hair is a disheveled mess, his eyes the color of supernovae. He doesn’t show an ounce of discomfort or a trace of weakness in the way he prowls toward his enemy.
Rachel takes a step forward, wanting to assist the Fae, but Dougal holds her back by placing an arm in her way.
“Dinnae distract him,” he says seriously.
The Night Weaver glances in Rachel’s direction. “I accept your offer,” the Akrah Cloak’s androgynous voice says.
Rachel grimaces. “I’m pretty sure my offer expired when you dropped me. Sorry.”
The Night Weaver looks back at Orion, who’s stalking closer with a couple of flaming balls of molten lava in his hands that drip thick drops of light onto the asphalt road alongside his blood.
With her hands up in surrender, the Night Weaver takes a step back, toward the forest.
“A Prince of Amaris is obliged to show mercy if his opponent is—” the Akrah Cloak’s voice is cut off as Orion hurtles one of those lava balls her way, striking the Night Weaver in her chest. She shoots back from the force, falls onto the road, and lies still for a moment. Her finger twitches, the blue glow emanating from her very core dulling slightly.
“I am the disgraced Prince of Amaris, lest you forget,” Orion booms in the ominous voice from earlier, a commander’s voice. “On your feet, Miser.”
The Night Weaver struggles back to her feet, leaning precariously to the side. The Akrah Cloak dangles limply around her as if it has also lost its will to fight.
“You are not your brother, Princeling,” the Night Weaver wheezes the words, sidestepping a rosemary hedge at the edge of the MacCleary’s lawn and almost toppling over a second time.
“That’s what everyone tells me,” he growls back, lifting his hand as he readies to throw the next ball of lava.
The Night Weaver takes another step back, her blue glow dimly bouncing off the ACCESS PROHIBITED sign of the forest. She glances at the sign, her eyes widening before she takes another tentative step back. A few more steps and she’ll be in the forest once more.
Rachel watches her with keen eyes, waiting for the Night Weaver to realize the barrier is down, hoping Orion has the rest of his plan figured out.
“You are not a coldblooded killer,” the Night Weaver and Akrah Cloak’s voices shriek in unison. “Not like dear King Nova ...” They laugh when he seems to flinch at the words.
Orion smirks, forging another ball of lava in his free hand. “No, but I am a born and bred warrior. Your life means nothing when weighed against your crimes.” He tosses the next ball of lava at her, purposely missing her person but singeing the Akrah Cloak’s hem.
“Mercy! Show us mercy,” the double voice screeches. The Night Weaver takes another step back, chest heaving with exhaustion and fear. Her eyes roll wildly around in her head, searching for an escape. The Akrah Cloak, rendered powerless after its run-in with its previous owner, keeps on playing possum.
“Take off the Akrah Cloak and I may reconsider killing you,” he says in a
n utterly emotionless tone.
The Night Weaver narrows her eyes. “You mean to leave me defenseless in this world, while an Aurial Prince lives a stone’s throw from my domain? Have you seen what these ... creatures ... do to one another?”
Orion stalks closer, clearly deeming her questions beneath him. The Night Weaver stumbles backward again, falls into the lush brush spilling out of the forest’s opening, and Rachel sees her face change. Hope shows in her pained expression, the chances of her survival are improved. The Night Weaver scrambles back to her feet with the assistance of the Akrah Cloak before she turns and runs into the dark forest.
“Close the barrier when I’m through,” Orion barks the command over his shoulder, absorbing the lava balls back into his body. He sets off after his enemy, a beacon of light moving quickly past the ACCESS PROHIBITED sign and beyond the visible tree line.
“Noo, Nan,” Dougal shouts an instant later.
“Now!” Mrs. Crenshaw repeats the command from somewhere inside the house.
Pitiful screams resound throughout the town, coming from everywhere and nowhere as the deep nocturnal heavens begin to dissipate. The shadows retreat, taking the Night Weaver’s darklings along with them. The azure sky with its spectacular diorama of clouds and bright yellow sun breaks free of its supernatural bonds, revealing a beautiful mid-morning scene. Slowly, the screams die down and are replaced by the birds greeting the new day with song.
Rachel stares at the forest entrance, the ACCESS PROHIBITED sign remaining untouched even after the Night Weaver’s violent attempts at escaping Shadow Grove.
Come on, Faerie Boy. Make quick work of her.
She watches and waits for him to return, but the interior of the forest remains unchanged. Not a single leaf rustles in the slight summer breeze, nothing creeps across the forest floor, not a tweet or a hoot resonates from within. It’s deathly still. No more than a graveyard of trees nobody wants to acknowledge exists. The forest is normal again—or whatever passes for normal in this town.
Rachel forces herself to look away from the forest’s entrance, pushes her worries for Orion away—she’ll deal with them later—and turns her attention to Dougal. “Care to give me a ride to my car? I need to go find my mom.”
The Night Weaver Page 22
