Other Books by Monique Snyman
The Night Weaver Series
The Night Weaver (The Night Weaver, Book 1)
Forthcoming from Monique Snyman
Dark Country
Awards for The Night Weaver (Book 1)
Bram Stoker Awards Nominee
Superior Achievement in a Young Adult Novel
Independent Publisher Book Awards (IPPY)
Silver Medal Winner: Horror
Foreword Reviews
Indies Book of the Year Awards
Finalist for Young Adult Fiction
OZMA Book Awards
(Genre division of the Chanticleer International Book Awards)
Semi-finalist
Screencraft CINEMATIC BOOK Competition
Quarterfinalist, The Red List #3 in Horror
Praise for The Night Weaver (Book 1)
“Stephen King’s It meets Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight in this frightening story of horror and fantasy woven together to create a delectable tale of the macabre, romance, and action. Snyman’s storytelling will have people lining up for the next book in the series.”
~School Library Journal
“A sinister and satisfying fantasy that is unique as well as creepy and unsettling. The Night Weaver introduces a world of myth, intrigue, and darkness with considerable technique.”
~Foreword Reviews
“An enjoyable, frenetically paced fantasy.” ~Publishers Weekly
“If YA dark fantasy is your fare, then The Night Weaver is right up your alley. Snyman has begun to build a promising world of intrigue and monsters in the dark. Though don’t assume all that hides in shadows is beastly.” ~HorrorFuel
“There’s a clear M. Night Shyamalan vibe ... a spine-chilling sense of dread on every page of this truly excellent work.” ~Readers’ Favorite
“... weaves together small-town horror with an intricate otherworldly fairytale to deliver a blend of horror and fantasy that captures the essence of young adult terror seasoned with the stuff of grown-up nightmares.” ~The Nerd Daily
The Bone Carver
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 Monique Snyman
All rights reserved.
Original Cover Art by Marcela Bolívar
www.MarcelaBolivar.com/about/
Cover Design by Michael J. Canales
www.MJCImageWorks.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission from the publisher, except where permitted by law.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-64548-009-9
Published by Vesuvian Books
www.VesuvianBooks.com
This one goes out to all the girls who’ve ever felt powerless.
You’re stronger than you think.
Table of Contents
One — Skull And Bones
Two — Hip2B2
Three — Chilled to the Marrow
Four — The Skeleton Key
Five — Rickety Old Things
Six — A Real Pain in the Patella
Seven — Fractured Sense of Self
Eight — Bones Don’t Scry
Nine — Badlands
Ten — Brittle But Not Broken
Eleven — Sidetracked
Twelve — Blood of my Blood
Thirteen — Charnel Melancholy
Fourteen — Skull Cracker
Fifteen — Step on a Crack, Break your Mother’s Back
Sixteen — Jaw Dropper
Seventeen — Bad to the Bone
Eighteen — We are the Hollowed Ones
Nineteen — Right in the Sternum
Twenty — Calcification
Twenty-One — Body of Work
Twenty-Two — The Ghost Boy
Twenty-Three — A Royal Hunt
Twenty-Four — Death Knell
Twenty-Five — Sticks and Stones
Twenty-Six — We Are What We Are
Acknowledgments
About the Author
One
Skull And Bones
The amplified ticking of the auditorium clock grates against Rachel Cleary’s already frayed nerves. Sluggish yet deliberate, every second mocks her inadequacies. A pencil taps rapidly against a desk, shoes either squeak or click or scuff against the linoleum floors, fabric moves as bodies shift to get comfortable. Someone coughs. A sneeze. Then there’s the scratching—fingernails gouge at scalps, drag across skin. Skritch-skritch-skritch.
Every sound adds to Rachel’s annoyance.
The dull thud behind her left eye grows stronger as the noise intensifies. She squeezes her eyes shut, pinches the bridge of her nose to alleviate the pain. It doesn’t help. Panic sets in. Her heart rate picks up speed.
This is it. Bile rises into her throat. This is how I get stuck in this hellhole town for the rest of my life.
When she opens her eyes, the world is unrecognizable—a blurry and misshapen blotch. Colors blend into each other, faces are distorted. Whether this is due to tears in her eyes or the headache pounding against her skull, she doesn’t know. Battling against her impaired state, Rachel blindly reaches for her sling bag on the floor. She stands abruptly, the chair screeching and clattering as it topples. Ignoring this, Rachel navigates her way through the rows of desks.
The walls seem to close in on her, ceiling seems to drop lower.
Someone calls out her name. The voice is muted amongst the various other sounds, unable to break through the anxiety encasing her mind. The air grows thick, unbreathable, tastes toxic.
Her legs are sluggish, making it feel like she’s wading through mud.
When Rachel emerges from the auditorium, sweat clings to her skin and her clothes stick to her body.
She rushes for the closest trashcan, located near the school’s back exit, and grips the sides with trembling hands. Her stomach roils. Stomach acid burns her esophagus, pushing her over the edge. The contents of the omega-3 and protein-rich breakfast evacuate her body, until there’s nothing left but a sour aftertaste.
Retching gives way to dry heaves.
Rachel squats beside the trashcan, still gripping it for all she’s worth. She inhales deeply, exhales slowly, hoping to calm her queasiness.
A ridiculous breathing exercise she learned online won’t work today. Calm? She’s never had the privilege of feeling calm where college is concerned. For the past six years, she’s done everything she could to make herself look good on paper for Ivy League admission boards—all of them searching for “well-rounded individuals.” For two years, she’s been prepping for the SATs, going so far as to take the ACTs as a practice run. She aced those tests.
Officially, all the Ivy League schools she’s applied to should consider ACT scores. Unofficially, though, she’s screwed. There’s no sugarcoating it. She. Is. Screwed.
How could I choke on the most important day of my life? Today was supposed to be easy.
Rachel voices her frustration with a low, guttural scream as she shoots upright. She kicks at the trashcan, wishing she could fling it across the corridor. Fortunately, Ridge Crest High had bolted all the trashcans firmly to the floor to prevent this exact response from students.
She raises her hands to her head as the shock takes hold.
“What have I done?”
Whe
n she left the auditorium without permission, her life’s course had taken an unforeseen detour. This morning, she’d still been certain of her future, but now ... Now, she has to wait months before she can retake the SATs. Months wasted and for what? Because of a stupid panic attack?
“What am I going to do?” she whispers, her voice thick.
She can’t answer the question.
I can’t stay here. She covers her mouth to stifle a sob and squeezes her eyes shut. There’s no getting away from reality, though. Not this time. This is a minor inconvenience. Rachel sucks air into her lungs and holds her breath a moment before exhaling slowly. I can overcome this. Another deep breath. She opens her eyes and squares her shoulders. If all is well and truly lost then you cry. Resolve forces her to pick up her feet, to move forward. She makes her way out of the auditorium’s lobby and into the courtyard, the afternoon sun glaring as the rays rebound from the grayish pavement.
Students sit outside, eating their lunches, oblivious to the turmoil raging inside her. There’s a giggle, some laughter, a lot of chitchatting. A regular day at Ridge Crest High.
Rachel holds her head high as she walks past the benches.
The news will reach them about her spectacular failure soon enough, so there’s no need for her to have a public breakdown, too.
Rachel enters the cafeteria. Voices rebound from the stark white walls and oversized windows. She hurries to the exit, sidestepping the red and black cafeteria tables, evading the students loitering in front of the open red doors leading into the main building. She hones in on the long, almost deserted hallway. Lockers line both walls, large banners with ‘Go Devils Go!’—painted in the school’s chokeberry-red and charcoal-black—hang across the hallway, and posters targeting teenage-related issues decorate the notice boards.
Rachel stops at a water fountain, both to catch her breath and to rinse her mouth. She takes her time, repeating a single thought all the while: Keep it together. Only when she’s pulled herself together again does she continue her trek down the hallway.
Leaning against the locker beside hers is the other new guy, Cameron Mayer. Her cousin, Dougal Mackay, and Cam Mayer were both enrolled at Ridge Crest at the start of the year, but because Dougal is the more popular new student, Cam became known as the “other new guy.”
Cameron is somewhat rugged, favoring a faded leather jacket, biker boots, and ripped jeans. He doesn’t quite fit into Ridge Crest High, at least not in the traditional sense. Sure, he’s figured out how to navigate his way around the various cliques, but he doesn’t seem to be especially friendly with anyone.
Cam isn’t a bad-looking guy, though. He’s a little rough around the edges, but that’s exactly what Rachel likes in her dating portfolio. Bad boys who are still nice to look at. Yup. That’s her favorite type. With his blond hair and olive complexion, those soulful blue eyes, not to mention the enigmatic air surrounding him, he definitely ticks all the boxes on her list.
One small setback and you’re ready to push the self-destruct button? Shame on you, Rachel Cleary.
She couldn’t, however, overlook the fact that Cameron was always there. He usually lingered in the background, just watching her. Granted, this could’ve been her imagination, some residual paranoia after the Night Weaver had stalked her. Either way, Rachel didn’t know what to make of him.
He turns his attention to her, eyes narrowing.
“We meet again,” he says.
Rachel reaches up to enter the combination code on her locker. “Indeed.” She pulls the red metal door open. In the small mirror fastened to the inside of the door, she sees her eyes are bloodshot, red-rimmed.
“You okay?” Cam asks.
“Everything’s just dandy,” Rachel says. She grabs her SAT revisions from the locker—every binder color-coded and every chapter highlighted for optimum results. She’d squandered her opportunity, though. Choked on the most important day of her life.
Keep it together.
A group of cheerleaders and girls on the homecoming committee make their way past, carrying a large banner between them. Rachel glances their way. On the orange banner, black, bold letters: HALLOWEEN DANCE float among glitter. Obligatory jack-o-lanterns, witches on broomsticks, and silhouetted black cats decorate the announcement. She turns away, focusing on the interior of the locker.
“You going?” Cam asks.
“I never go to dances,” Rachel mumbles.
“Why not?”
She huffs a laugh.
“I’ll see you around.” She shuts the locker door and gives him a half-smile as she takes a step away.
Cam responds with a grin that promises a whole lot of trouble, and pushes his hands into his jean’s pockets. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“I’ll try.” Rachel walks past, glancing back only to find him still watching her. Despite the SAT disaster, in spite of her own chastising, she appreciates the attention.
Rachel turns down another hallway, heading toward the original schoolhouse.
Ridge Crest High started off as a tiny schoolhouse with three classrooms and an outhouse. As Shadow Grove’s population grew, so did the school. First, more classes had been added onto the original building, then an office. Before long, and thanks to the generous donations of alumni, Ridge Crest High had expanded into a U-shaped double-story building which sports an auditorium, cafeteria, Olympic-sized indoor swimming pool, and enough classes to easily fit three-thousand students. Since there aren’t three-thousand high schoolers in town, a lot of space goes unused, falls into disrepair, and quickly becomes forgotten.
The pool, for example, hasn’t been filled once in Rachel’s high school career. There is no swim team, no coach, and certainly no funding for the upkeep.
She repositions her bag on her shoulder as she slips into the least popular girls’ bathroom—unpopular due to its proximity to the abandoned classrooms and because it hasn’t been renovated since the 1960s. There’s nothing wrong with it, of course. All the toilets flush, every faucet has running water, and it’s almost always empty. It’s just not as pretty as the other bathrooms.
The door whines as it opens, squeals as it shuts. She makes her way deeper inside, her ankle boots squeaking with every step. The white tiles are cracked in some places, completely missing in others. Graffiti covers the faded pink walls and seaweed-green stalls—messages ranging from someone-hearting-someone to slurs about students from back in the day.
Labored breathing catches her attention, coming from inside one of the stalls. It’s either panicked panting or heavy petting. Rachel isn’t completely sure which scenario she prefers to have walked in on.
“Hello?” she calls. Rachel cautiously steps toward to the occupied stall. “Are you okay in there?”
A few tiny white pills scatter every which way, and roll to a stop one after the other. Rachel bends down and picks up the nearest pill, upon which twin deer on their hind legs are engraved on either side. She has seen the insignia in Orion’s greenhouse. Rachel frowns, returning her attention to the stall.
The breathing grows more desperate. A loud slap against the metallic wall echoes against the tile. A body slides down and a pale hand sticks out through the opening between the floor and door.
Rachel drops her bag and grabs the hand, pulling as hard as she can until the girl is closer to the gap. When her other hand comes into view, a medical ID bracelet hangs around the girl’s wrist. She grapples for the girl’s wrist, turns the bracelet around and sees the word ‘EPILEPSY’ engraved into the sterling silver plate. Rachel cusses under her breath. She can’t open the locked stall door in time to help. There’s also no way anyone will be able to hear her cries for help.
Rachel crawls around to the empty stall beside the occupied one.
Mercia Holstein, the quiet girl who’d suddenly turned ‘grade-A hot’ overnight a couple of years back, lies on the cracked and discolored tiles, her body still. With her eyes shut, her lips partially open, she stiffens as the spasms set in. Rache
l pushes the pill into Mercia’s mouth and hopes for the best.
Rachel leans her forehead against the cold stall wall. “Please don’t die,” she whispers. She presses her fingertips against Mercia’s neck to keep track of her pulse.
“I won’t die.” Mercia slurs her words, eyes flickering open.
Rachel releases a breath. When they were kids, Mercia’s seizures had been traumatizing to witness. As they got older, and kids got meaner, the bullies began using Mercia’s fits as social media fodder. Rachel can’t recall the last time Mercia had an epileptic episode, though.
Mercia turns around and props herself onto her elbows. “Can you help me find the rest of my pills? There should be three left.”
Rachel gets to her feet. “Yeah.”
Mercia groans as she pushes herself up on the other side of the partition.
“Are you okay now?” Rachel searches the floor and picks up the first of her spilled medication. No way in hell is this medication FDA approved. Even Orion, with all his charms and magic, couldn’t pull that feat off. “Are these—?”
“Goldmint.”
“Relaxants, yeah, I know.” Rachel bends over to pick up a second pill. The first, and only time she’d ingested goldmint—thanks to Orion’s nasty little trick—she hadn’t relaxed whatsoever. If anything, Rachel had become Ritalin-focused, which isn’t a typical side-effect according to the manufacturer of this otherworldly drug.
The stall door opens and Mercia stumbles out into the open. “They work. They alleviate almost all of my symptoms immediately.” She makes her way over to the washbasin. “Don’t judge me.”
“I’m not judging you.” Rachel picks up the last of the pills and walks back to where Mercia leans against the washbasin. Blonde curls frame her face, barely a hair out of place, but they seem lackluster against her abnormally pale skin. “Where’d you get them?”
“There’s a dealer on campus, but I’d rather not name any names. The goldmint supply is dwindling and I need it more than most.” Mercia’s deadpan tone is accompanied by a sigh. She holds out her hand for the pills and Rachel drops them into her open palm. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Rachel picks up her discarded sling bag.
The Bone Carver Page 1
