Autumn Thorns

by Yasmine Galenorn

  “His name is Viktor?”

  “Yes, and you guess correctly if you are thinking he looks like a wolf. He’s an Arctic wolf–Siberian husky mix. Apparently he’s decided you’re nothing to worry about.” But she said it with a laugh.

  As she led me toward the living room, she glanced back at me, as if reassuring herself I was really there. Ellia was a tall woman, at least five eleven. Her hair flowed in shimmering waves down her shoulders to her lower back, and it had shifted color only slightly in the fifteen years I’d been gone, transitioning from spun platinum to silver. But her face remained unlined; her lips were a little more pursed, her eyes still blue and crackling with flashes of white heat. She was a lean woman, but not gaunt, and tonight she was wearing caramel-colored slacks with a green plaid blazer. She had always struck me as elegant, and when she spoke, her voice registered with a regal, yet ephemeral tone.

  “Come now, Oriel and Ivy are waiting.”

  Oriel, I vaguely remembered. But Ivy? I wasn’t familiar with anyone named Ivy. As we entered the living room, the décor looked the same as it had the week I left Whisper Hollow. Sparse, but refined, in neutral shades of camel and rust and tan, contrasting greatly with the outside of the house, which looked like it belonged in the middle of a dark forest.

  Two women waited on the sofa. One was round and stout, with a cheery smile and golden hair wrapped up into a braid around her head. Oriel. She would have been around my mother’s age, if my mother had stuck around. I remembered that she had taken over the boardinghouse or something, but I had never really had a reason to speak with her when I was a teenager. She was dressed in a green jersey dress, with a brown leather belt that wrapped around her ample belly.

  The other woman looked closer to my own age. In her late thirties or early forties, I’d guess, with shoulder-length black hair, streaked with white like a skunk. It was cut in a fashionable bob. Her eyes were a deep brown, and for some reason, she reminded me of someone, though I couldn’t figure out who. She was wearing a denim pantsuit, though, that looked oddly out of place on her, though she seemed comfortable enough in it.

  Ellia motioned me to a chair off the side of the sofa and I sat on the edge. A tray of cookies and hot cocoa rested on the coffee table.

  I sniffed appreciatively. “Cookies and cocoa? Whatever we’re going to talk about must be bad if you’re already bribing me with food.” I turned to the woman I didn’t recognize. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you. I’m—”

  “Kerris Fellwater. I know who you are. I’ve watched you since you were a baby.”

  At my startled look, she smiled. “I’m not a stalker, I promise. There’s a reason I’ve kept watch. We’re kinfolk, though you don’t know it.”

  I stared at the woman for a moment, not sure what to say. Finally, I settled for, “How could you have known me when I was born? You can’t be that much older than me.” Then the second part of her statement hit me. “Kinfolk? We’re related?”

  She leaned forward, holding out her hand. “I’m Ivy Primrose. I’ve wanted to meet you since you were born, but your grandmother was always the voice of reason—she insisted it wasn’t the right time yet. I live down the street from you.”

  Either she had the best plastic surgeon around, or there was some hidden secret about her that I didn’t know. Still uncertain of what to say but figuring she’d get around to it in her own time, I slowly reached for a cookie and a mug of hot cocoa. Over the years I’d learned that I found out more by being observant than barging in with a slew of questions. Sometimes, being taciturn was a tactical maneuver.

  I decided to stick to my life as a topic. “I wasn’t going to come back, you know. I swore up and down I’d never set foot in this town again. But you know how well that works.” With a laugh, I settled back in the chair and put my feet up on the ottoman. “So yes, I’m back, and here to stay. The Crow Man came to me, and so did my grandmother. The week before she died, she came to me three nights running in a dream. And I saw the Girl in the Window. Well, it was a mannequin in a window, but the Bean Nighe was superimposed over her. I know better than to ignore the summons.”

  Oriel shook her head. “So many try to leave, yet almost everybody born here stays. Or returns.” She cocked her head to the side. “I tried once, you know. Long ago. I got as far south as Portland before the town insisted I come back.” She let out a sigh. “I want to state up front that we tried to persuade Duvall to lighten up on you. We didn’t want you running away. But the old bastard wouldn’t listen. Except for at the end . . .”

  Something in her voice caught me short. “What?”

  With a glance at Ellia, Oriel cleared her throat on a sip of hot chocolate. “Your grandmother wanted us all to meet her the night that she died. She said she had something important we needed to know, and that Duvall would be there with her. That he wanted to tell us something before—” A slight shift told me that she was debating whether to continue.

  “Go on. I want to hear this.”

  “Your grandfather was dying. About three years ago, he developed idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. There is no cure, and Doc Wallace gave him two years—three at the most. About a year back, something changed in his nature . . . I think the fear of what waited for him on the other side of the Veil took hold. He started doing his best to turn things around.” She stopped, waiting for me to digest the information.

  A pit opened in my stomach. Five months ago, I’d received a letter from him—one I had never opened. I had burned it without reading it. “Crap.” They looked at me, but I shook my head. This realization was one I’d have to take to my grave with me. “So . . . Lila and Duvall were supposed to meet with you the night they died? And he wanted to tell you something?”

  She nodded. “That’s right. And whatever it was, was important. Your grandmother stressed that we needed to talk to him now—all three of us. She was crying . . . her voice shaky. When I asked her what was wrong, she told me that her world had just been shattered . . . but she wouldn’t talk about it over the phone. Two hours later, the Lady took them. They went off the road.”

  So the Lady had taken them before Duvall could reveal whatever it was that had apparently caused a change of heart. I stared at my cup. “I wish I’d come home in time to see my grandmother before she died. But I was too stubborn.” I paused, then glanced over at Ellia. “Did you . . . did you play for her? For my grandmother?” A sudden hitch caught in my throat. What if she said no? What if . . .

  Ellia reached out and almost touched my arm, then paused and ducked her head, pulling her fingers back. “Yes, I did. You’ll have to lead the rites over her grave, of course. But I think she heard me, and so far, she rests easy. I doubt she’ll be walking any time soon.”

  Relieved, I let out a long sigh. The thought of Grandma Lila up and prowling the city felt like heresy. I didn’t really want to ask but decided I’d better. “Still no sign of my grandfather’s body?”

  Ellia slowly shook her head. “We haven’t been able to find him. Their car went over the edge at the Lady’s Finger mile marker, down near Juniper Creek. That seems to be one of the prime places lately for the Lady to drag them in.”

  I frowned. The fact that she had kept his body could turn out to be a serious problem, but there was nothing we could do about it right now. “Do you have any idea what Duvall wanted to tell you?”

  Oriel shook her head. Ellia followed suit, but more slowly.

  Ivy, however, toyed with her cookies. “I’m not sure, but I think it might relate to your father, Kerris. And maybe . . . your mother.”

  My father? My father had taken off, abandoned my mother when he found out she was pregnant. I hadn’t thought about him in years—not really. I had no idea who he was, other than his first name and a picture my grandmother had given me.

  “What do you mean . . . You think he knew where to find him?” Not sure why that was the first thin
g out of my mouth, I stopped. I wasn’t looking to meet Avery, the man who had decided his life was better off without my mother and me.

  “I think . . . perhaps that might be the case.” There was still something she wasn’t telling me, and I felt like I was tiptoeing around in the dark, cautiously skirting a can of worms that—once I opened it up—I’d never be able to close again. Sipping the steaming drink, I tried not to think about my grandfather, somewhere under the dark surface of the lake, dancing with the Lady. She reached out for those she wanted. Not even the spirit shamans could counter her desires in that regard.

  Desperately trying to stall, I said, “It’s true that I don’t have the full training I should, but as I said, I think I’ve learned enough to tackle the job. But I need to find my grandmother’s tools. Do any of you know offhand where she might have kept them?”

  The three of them looked simultaneously relieved and worried.

  Ellia shook her head, a somber look crossing her face. “Your grandmother kept them hidden. Through most of his life, Duvall fought her calling. He hated what she was. They’re probably still hidden away somewhere in the house.”

  “Then, first order is to find them because normally, she would have helped me to gather my own, and gifted me a few of hers. If I can find her kit, so much the better.” I worried my lip. “You said the dead have been walking more, even while Lila was alive?”

  “Yes. Even though we worked together to persuade as many families as we could to perform the rituals over their dead, we were still noticing a rise in spirit activity. And that from more than just those who went to their graves unprepared. The dead are returning from the Veil. Haunts . . . Mournfuls . . . the Wandering Ones. I fear that next, we’ll see a rise in the Unliving crossing back over. And only a spirit shaman can take on the Haunts and the Unliving.”

  And this was why the Crow Man had summoned me. But there was one little problem. “Over the years, I have developed some rites and rituals but I don’t know how they’ll work here in Whisper Hollow. And Lila was the only one who could teach me.”

  Oriel spoke up. “We can guide you. We can’t teach you—the spirit shamans keep their secrets—but we’ll do our best.” She reached across the coffee table to give me a gentle pat on the hand. She cocked her head to one side. “Penelope might be able to help us out.” She paused, then continued. “Kerris, you know I guard this town. That’s part of my job—to keep Whisper Hollow and its secrets safe. I worked with your grandmother on occasion, when the need arose. Her gifts ranged beyond merely turning the dead back to their graves—she was a very strong spirit shaman. So are you, but you just don’t realize it yet.”

  So Oriel was more of an interested bystander. I glanced over at Ellia. I knew how she fit into the equation. But Ivy . . . There was something about her. I finally quit evading the subject. “How do you play into all of this?”

  She paused, staring into her cocoa mug. After a moment, she sat back, crossing her legs smoothly. Regarding me quietly, she finally said, “I’m your grandmother. Your father was my son.”

  Cue a dozen bombs going off one after another.

  Ellia caught my cup as I let go of it. As hot chocolate splashed across the knees of my jeans, as well as all over the floor, she set the cup on the table, then handed me a napkin before returning to her seat. As I dabbed at the liquid, the room plunged into a deep silence, freezing us all.

  Your father . . . The words echoed inside me, ricocheting like bullets. Your father was my son . . . words I never thought I’d hear. Especially from a woman who looked like she could be my older sister, rather than my grandmother.

  “I’m a shapeshifter. Your father was one, too—he was matched to your mother.”

  Of course . . . shapeshifters were very long lived, aging normally till they reached their twenties, and then the process drastically slowed. That was why she looked so young.

  My world shifting with every breath, I searched for something to say. I didn’t know how to respond. I’d long ago given up hoping to ever find out about my father, and now the opportunity was sitting right here in front of me. I thought about just getting up and leaving—this was all far more than I had expected to face and I had no clue how to react. Finally, I cleared my throat and looked over at her, into those clear brown eyes. No wonder she had seemed familiar to me—she was my blood kin.

  “I suppose . . . you’d better tell me everything.” Though I spoke calmly, inside I was screaming, pounding on the walls in a tantrum born out of both frustration and joy. I’d given up hope long ago of ever knowing about my father and why he had left before I was born, and all along, the answer had been living right down the street.

  * * *

  When I was three, my mother disappeared. Tamil just vanished one day, never to be heard from again. For a long time, I thought I saw her—she’d be there, around the corner. Or I’d turn to find her standing behind me, watching me with worried eyes. But I’d blink and she’d be gone and eventually, I stopped seeing her. I told myself she ran off to find my father, and that someday, they’d come back to get me. Someday never came.

  My father was gone before I was born. When I was old enough to realize that other kids had fathers and I didn’t, I asked Grandma Lila why. She just shushed me, telling me he had gone away for a long time and that he was very important and was on a secret mission for the government. Being a highly imaginative child, I bought her story. And later, when I asked her if my mother was with my father—hiding like spies in some foreign country—she just murmured a soft answer that could have been yes or no. What I didn’t realize was that her stories were a source of wicked arguments between her and Grandpa Duvall. I learned the hard way when I was eleven. On that day, I asked him when Daddy would be allowed to come home.

  Grandpa Duvall, who was well over six feet, long and lanky with eyebrows the color of ink, and thin, and scary as hell, glared down at me. “Never. Your grandmother’s been feeding you a pack of lies about him, and you’re old enough to know the truth. Your father skipped town when he found out your mother was pregnant with you. He disappeared, leaving her in the lurch. That’s why she ran off, you know—she couldn’t handle raising you alone. So let that be a lesson to you, young lady. Don’t go getting yourself knocked up without a ring on that finger.”

  I stared up at him, assessing his answer. Grandpa didn’t sugarcoat anything, and he was always a little too eager to squash any joy or enthusiasm. The gleam in his eye told me he had enjoyed destroying my dreams. And right then, I realized just how much I hated him. He was a hard man, and I’d learned to stay away from him when he was in one of his moods. He never hurt me, not physically, but I knew the hard way that he enjoyed tormenting people.

  As I stood there, staring right back at him, he never wavered. Without a word, I turned and walked out of the room. Ten minutes later, I was sobbing into Grandma Lila’s skirts. Half an hour later, I knew little more than I had before, except that he—like my mother—had simply vanished. There was no secret government job, no mission, no romantic liaison half a world away. Just two people who had loved each other, gone missing three years apart.

  Lila had given me a picture of them, though she warned me not to tell Grandpa Duvall about it. Tamil and Avery were standing together, he behind her with his arms wrapped around her shoulders. They looked happy—my mother’s eyes were smiling. But Avery looked distant, almost frightened. I tucked the picture away behind a book on my shelf to hide it should Duvall come searching my room one day. I still had it, in my jewelry box.

  The one thing I did realize on that day was that I would never love my grandfather. Our relationship was tenuous to begin with, and after that—no matter how polite he was, no matter what he said—I kept my feelings protected from him. He was a stranger to me from that day on.

  * * *

  You’re sure that you’re Avery’s mother?” The questions barraged my brain, but I managed to
keep my mouth shut. It wouldn’t do any good to swamp her.

  “Yes, your other grandmother.” She paused, glancing at Oriel and then Ellia. “This is so not the way I wanted you to find out. I tried to get Duvall to let me tell you when you were young, but the old bas—” She paused.

  I held her gaze, shrugging. “Call him whatever you like. I fell out with him when I was young, and my only regret is that our feud separated Grandma Lila and me.”

  Ivy nodded. “Yes, he was a bitter man. Duvall wouldn’t let me near you, not even when your grandmother tried to intervene. He threatened me, and . . . when your grandfather made threats, he followed through. Lila kept me updated on your progress. She gave me pictures of you.” This was said almost shyly, and as I gazed into the softened face, I realized that none of this had been Ivy’s fault.

  “Grandma Lila could handle Duvall to a point, but he had a nasty temper. He never struck her, not that I knew, but he was cold and bitter and a poor excuse for a human being. I never understood why she married him. Spirit shamans are supposed to have guardians—a shapeshifter born to each of us. But she didn’t. At least, not that I know of.” I ducked my head, wishing that Lila could be sitting here with us, free from him. “Tell me about my father, please. Did he really run out on my mother like Duvall told me?”

  Ivy let out a soft sigh. “Avery loved your mother. One morning, shortly after Tamil announced she was pregnant, Avery went out to go buy supplies, and then he was supposed to head up to Timber Peak to go hunting. He never returned. My ex-husband—Roger—came back to Whisper Hollow as soon as I called him. He led a group of searchers, but they found no evidence Avery had ever walked into those woods. The store he normally bought his gear from hadn’t seen him that day. Roger stayed for two months before finally giving up and returning to the city. It almost pulled us back together, but Whisper Hollow is a dangerous place for him, so I told him to leave. He wasn’t born here, and . . . the town doesn’t like him. His clan is . . . different. If he stayed, Whisper Hollow would offer him up to the Lady, I fear.”