Twenty
The Most Precious Things
Within a few days, the residents of Shadow Grove have all seemingly forgotten about the nocturnal anomaly that had affected the town. They hardly acknowledge hearing bloodcurdling screams as the darklings burned alive when the sun erupted from its prison in such a spectacular manner. There’s no mention about the strange colored lightning which had filled the skies when Orion and the Night Weaver battled in the heavens, no talks about anything suspicious happening near the Fraser and MacCleary houses on Griswold Road in the days preceding the peculiar event that’s been emblazoned onto Rachel’s mind.
Those people who’d been lured into doing the Night Weaver’s bidding have apparently lost their memories, but Rachel doesn’t believe anyone could go on normally if they have so much time unaccounted for between the first kidnapping and the Night Weaver’s expulsion.
That being said, Rachel does suspect the Night Weaver’s influence isn’t strong enough to stretch beyond realms.
There wasn’t a big homecoming party for the missing kids when they returned to their families. People went on as if they’d been around the entire time, four-year-old Eric Smith’s mother included. So, the children who’d been kidnapped simply followed in the adults’ footsteps, either by truly forgetting about their ordeal in the Night Weaver’s lair or merely by saying so, in order to avoid being branded as insane by Shadow Grove’s oh-so-sensible residents. Whatever the reason for the so-called collective memory loss amongst those who were involved, it worked in everyone’s favor and none more so than for Sheriff Carter—the man who abducted Dougal and somehow coerced her mother into joining the Night Weaver’s cult.
How much of her mom’s behavior was directly related to the Night Weaver’s influence? Was she capable of kidnapping children just to spend a few precious moments with someone she’s lost?
Probably. Everyone has a price. What had been the sheriff’s price? Human beings are capable of heinous things if they can convince themselves it’s worth the consequences ...
Bulltwang Bill went on the record with a made-up story of what had happened to the children—Well, folks, we had a regular ol’ Lord of the Flies situation with these scoundrels. They ran off to live on the rundown dairy farm near the highway. Yes, the one between Shadow Grove and the city. Scavenged for food like little beasts, I hear. But they’re safe now; safe and sound.
Nobody contradicted his statement. Not a single soul, Mrs. Crenshaw included, held him accountable for his role in the Night Weaver’s plan.
Repeat a lie long enough and loud enough and eventually everyone starts believing it.
There’s still no word on Astraea Hayward’s location, though. Rachel and Dougal had gone back to the Night Weaver’s lair and searched every part of the tunnel for the missing teen, but there was no sign of her ever having been there. Perhaps the rumor of her literally vanishing into thin air in front of witnesses isn’t a rumor at all. Maybe, for once, the truth is actually being spread?
In Shadow Grove anything is possible.
As Dougal climbs into the passenger seat of her Hyundai, Rachel turns to look at the forest entrance, searching for the Fae prince who’d saved her hometown from a tyrannical overlord with a thing for black décor. When nothing stirs within the forest, Rachel sighs and climbs inside.
“It’s been a month,” Dougal says, strapping into the seat. “At some point, ye need tae realize he may nae come back.”
She turns the key in the ignition, ignoring Dougal’s relatively sound logic. Still, it doesn’t make her feel any better about leaving the heavy lifting to one person. Fae. Whatever. The last Fae light Orion had given her hadn’t faded like the others. It’s in her bedroom, usually hovering above her desk or bouncing up and down on her bed. The Fae light is the only way she knows he’s maybe still alive.
Rachel reverses out of the driveway and onto Griswold Road before pulling away.
“How’s yer maw?” he asks. Dougal knows the answer full well, seeing as he’s almost always over at their house when Rachel’s not over at his.
Rachel shoots a look his way. “She’s exactly how she was this morning.”
“Still freakin’ oot aboot her missin’ clothes?” He chuckles.
“Yes,” she says, exhaling through her nose.
Rachel suspects her mother’s so-called memory loss is a farce. She doesn’t spend her time filling the gaps in her foggy memory. Instead, she’s obsessed with figuring out who screwed with her wardrobe. On the bright side, at least things at home are systematically returning to normal—they eat dinner together every night now, without Sheriff Carter’s eau de ugh filling up the space, and they’ve started to talk again. It’s not like old times. There’s still a barrier between them, one Rachel can’t figure out how to cross. But at least she’s home again.
Dougal fumbles with the radio. “Naw other kids have gone missin’, yeah?”
“Nope,” Rachel says. “Greg would’ve texted me if there’d been any news of more missing children. Don’t worry about it.”
“Ye two have gotten pretty cozy, eh? Always textin’ and chattin’ ...”
“Are you jealous?” Rachel grins, glancing his way.
“Naw! Maw’s made it perfectly clear we’re nae tae become kissin’ cousins. She showed me th’ family tree and told me aboot th’ discrepancies in it. Then she went on tae say she doesnae want her grandbabies tae have webbed feet.” He grimaces and visibly shudders.
Rachel laughs. “Aye, I was wonderin’ if they’d told ye.”
“Are ye mockin’ mah accent noo, Rachel Cleary?”
“You bet I am,” she says, giggling. “As for Greg, you don’t have to worry. We’re just friendly.”
“Friendly?”
“He’s a good kisser,” Rachel says and shrugs. “Maybe you’ve not realized it, but Shadow Grove is a small town and the pickings are slim. You take what you can get.”
“Yer such a romantic,” he says, sarcasm dripping off his words as the car passes the Eerie Creek Bridge, heading toward the farmlands.
Rachel reaches up to her necklace and takes the umbrella pendant between her index finger and thumb.
“Yer maw invited us over fer dinner tomorrow night. Said she had some news tae share. Any idea whit she’s on aboot?”
She releases the pendant. “It’s the first I’m hearing of it. Sorry.”
Dougal sighs and sits back in his seat.
Rachel looks over to him. “What?”
“This town is dull, ye ken? Since the Night Weaver’s left, nothin’ interestin’ has happened. I’m ... bored.”
“I did warn you when you first came to Shadow Grove, didn’t I?” She purses her lips in thought, wondering how she can cheer him up, before she says, “At least we have the barn bashes to look forward to, the Fourth of July is around the corner, and if you want to get a little exercise, there’s always the End of Summer Fun Run.”
Dougal grimaces.
“Jeez, fine, we’ll go into the city one day and watch a movie or something, but you’re paying for the popcorn,” she says. When he doesn’t respond, she continues, “Maybe, while we’re there, we can go check out the all-ages nightclub.”
His expression smooths out. “Noo yer talkin’ my language, Rach.”
By the time they reach Berfield Farm’s rustic barn, painted in bright red with white trimmings, the barn bash is already in full swing. Loud beats and electric screeches fill the night air. Through the open doors, colorful lights spill out onto the grassy field in rapid succession. Students from Ridge Crest High stand outside in clusters, talking amongst themselves near their cars or beside the barn, each holding a red plastic cup in hand, some sucking on their vapes and blowing large puffs of white, sweet-smelling smoke into the air.
“This is whit I call a partie,” Dougal announces as she parks the car in an open space near the barn’s doors. He loosens the seatbelt, eyes sparkling with excitement.
“Want me to show you around a
nd introduce you to some people?” Rachel asks.
“Naw, a dinnae wantae put ye out. I already see Joe Farrow Jr.,” he says. “Meet ye back here at eleven-thirty?”
She nods. “Have fun.”
Dougal smiles as he heads off to join his employer’s son, Ridge Crest High’s first-string fullback.
Whatever happened to shite fitba? Rachel wonders, pressing the key fob to lock the car doors. She watches him go, and as he nears Joe Jr. the rest of the football team surrounds him. They slap him on his back, make jokes, and almost instantly he’s part of their fold.
Some people just have it easier than others when it comes to high school.
“Hey,” the familiar voice says, startling her out of her thoughts. Rachel turns and sees Greg standing there, dressed in what goes for semi-casual around these parts—jeans, button-up shirt, and a pair of designer sneakers. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
“I’m always fashionably late,” she says, leaning back against her car. She studies him and says, “Shouldn’t you be inside mingling?”
He takes a step closer. “I mingle early, before our peers can get wasted and pass out.”
“Clever.”
“I’ve been known to have my moments of brilliance.” Greg leans against the car and towers over her.
Rachel tilts her head back to gaze into his eyes. Does he know what Orion is, or care that the Fae prince has gone missing?
Maybe Orion isn’t gone. He could be lying low, especially since Mrs. Crenshaw caught sight of him.
“Have you seen Orion Blackwood around?”
Greg seems taken aback by the question. “No. I haven’t seen him. Sorry.”
His expression is full of confusion, much to Rachel’s amusement.
“I thought ...”
“You thought?” she repeats.
He hesitates, and says, “I just thought only cheerleaders liked pompoms.”
Rachel glances down at her hippie-chic outfit, one of Mrs. Crenshaw’s revamps, and grins. “You thought wrong.”
He chuckles as he inclines his head closer to hers. “Well, the pompoms suit you. You look amazing tonight.”
“Thank you.”
She averts her gaze, and her heart skips a beat when she sees a twinkle of naughtiness in his eyes. Before Rachel can get drawn into whatever mischief he has planned, she looks around and sees a few partygoers staring at them. She turns back to him.
“People are going to talk, I hope you know that,” Rachel says, using his own words against him.
“You’re far too worried about what people say,” he responds and leans even closer.
Rachel smiles up at him and pats his chest gently, feeling the muscles hidden beneath his shirt. Her gaze moves to look over his shoulder, to where there’s movement. Of course, Eddie Roberts is lingering nearby with yet another girl on his arm. Holland Keith, captain of the cheer squad, is also far too interested in what’s happening with Rachel and Greg.
“We have an audience,” she says.
Greg glances over his shoulder and says loud enough for all the nosy eavesdroppers to hear, “Don’t mind the gossipmongers, Rachel. Their only purpose is to spread juicy news because they’re too bored with their own lives.”
“Shhh,” Rachel giggles, pressing her hand over his mouth. She feels him grinning against her fingers and palm as he slowly turns back to look her in the eyes. She removes her hand and her humor evaporates. “This is still just a summer fling, right? When school starts in the fall we’ll go back to normal?”
“Yeah,” Greg says, his smile faltering. “Unless—?”
“No, we’re way too competitive for this thing between us to become serious. We’ll destroy each other the first chance we get.”
Greg leans closer to her again. “So, what’s the problem?”
She pushes herself onto the tips of her toes and whispers against his lips, “Just making sure, Greg. Just making sure.”
Rachel and Dougal make their midnight curfew with mere minutes to spare. She rushes up the porch steps because Dougal insists on making sure she’s safely inside before he heads across the road and waves goodbye before closing and locking the door behind her.
Her mother had been nice enough to leave the porch and living room lights on, but there’s no sign of her having waited up for Rachel’s return.
Change is gradual. Give it time.
She takes off her shoes and quietly makes her way upstairs. Once she’s on the landing, Rachel looks toward the main bedroom, the door having been left wide open, and sees her mother sleeping on the bed. She listens for any weird noises, residual influences from the darkling that had briefly taken refuge in the MacCleary house. Nothing.
Mom’s safe. Relax.
Satisfied, she heads to her bedroom. As she opens the door, the Fae light flies closer, acting like a happy puppy that hasn’t seen his master the whole day, and hovers near her shoulder.
“Hello again,” she whispers to the sphere of light, raising her free hand to tickle its surface in greeting. “I told you I’d be back soon, didn’t I, Ziggy?”
Her Fae light, which she’d named Ziggy, responds by moving away from her in zigzag motions.
“Someone’s in a bad mood,” she mutters, heading toward the wardrobe. Rachel opens the doors, sets her shoes on the floor, and pulls out a pair of pajamas from a shelf. Unlike her mother, she still has most of her clothes thanks to Mrs. Crenshaw. Ziggy returns to her side before it flies back to the bed. “Make up your mind or I’m switching on the light.”
She changes clothes in the gloom, the music from the barn bash still fresh in her mind. Rachel hums and sways to the song playing in her head, her muscles remembering the way she’d danced until she couldn’t dance anymore. She turns in place to see Ziggy bobbing over a box on her bed, neatly placed in front of her pillow.
Rachel’s hand moves up to her umbrella pendant, which she closes in her fist. She walks closer to her bed, studying the ivory-embossed box tied with a golden ribbon to embellish the gift. Her eyes narrow in suspicion. Nobody comes into her bedroom, not even her mother unless they’re arguing. She glances at Ziggy.
“Is this your doing, Ziggy?” she asks, turning her gaze back to the box.
Ziggy simply bobs in place, gravity-defying magic at its best. It moves out of the air and nests on top of her pillow.
She takes a deep breath as she pulls the box closer to the edge of the bed and lifts the lid. Golden tissue paper protects the contents within, which she slowly pulls aside to reveal the lilac silk beneath. Rachel covers her mouth, stifling a gasp or a sob or some other surprised sound from escaping into the night. She sits down on the bed, gently running her fingertips across the brocaded bodice, tracing the familiar golden thread. Her heart beats with indescribable joy as she carefully lifts the dress from the packaging.
“How?” she breathes the word, inspecting the exquisite craftsmanship that had gone into creating this glamorous 1950s evening dress.
A golden envelope flutters down as the layered skirts of the dress unfold, drifting to the carpet on a nonexistent breeze. Rachel stands up from the bed, gently spreads the dress—the exact garment her father had gifted her mother on their ten-year wedding anniversary—across her mattress before she turns around to pick up the fallen envelope.
Beautiful cursive letters in black ink spell out the word Clarré, making her heart race faster. She turns the envelope over and removes the ivory card within, reading and rereading the words written in the same elegant handwriting until her vision blurs with fresh tears.
I saw this magical dress and it made me think of you.
About the Author
Monique Snyman’s mind is a confusing bedlam of glitter and death, where candy-coated gore is found in abundance and homicidal unicorns thrive. Sorting out the mess in her head is particularly irksome before she’s ingested a specific amount of coffee, which is equal to half the recommended intake of water for humans per day. When she’s not playing referee to
her imaginary friends or trying to overdose on caffeine, she’s doing something with words—be it writing, reading, or fixing all the words.
Monique Snyman lives outside Johannesburg, South Africa, with her husband and an adorable Chihuahua. She’s the author of MUTI NATION, a horror novel set in South Africa, and Bram Stoker Award® nominated novel, THE NIGHT WEAVER, which is the first installment in a dark fantasy series for young adults.
www.MoniqueSnyman.com
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