The Bone Carver

by Monique Snyman

  “That?” Rachel says, pointing at a heavy bench lying on its side.

  “It’s too heavy to maneuver into place in time,” Orion answers. “Find me a broom or a mop or something that’ll fit in between the handlebars to strengthen the hold.”

  Rachel steps across the filth, navigates her way behind the serving counter. Things don’t look any better in the kitchen. Large stainless steel pots and pans have been pulled off the stoves and out of the ovens, the remnants of whatever the lunch ladies had been making spoiling in the open air. All the ingredients that’d been left out of the massive fridges are in a state of decay—meat, vegetables, fruit, milk. Oversized flies buzz around, sluggish from their feast while maggots crawl around.

  A shudder crawls up her neck.

  Don’t think about it.

  Rachel scans the kitchen. A broom lies amongst the wreckage, half-covered in what could have been lasagna. She hops across a particularly foul-looking puddle of gunk and crouches to reach for the handle.

  Loud thumps and crashes sound from the door, accompanied by an authoritative, “Clarré.”

  “I’m coming,” Rachel calls back, picking up the handle, disregarding the grossness of having to touch the squishy old food clinging to it. She gags as she rushes back, only to find Orion using his body to keep the doors shut.

  “Quickly,” he says, twisting slightly away from the door.

  An almighty kick from the other side sends Orion skidding backwards, revealing two twisted, desperate faces in the gap between the opening doors. Rachel doesn’t know the attackers, though she can recall seeing the woman around town now and then. Her face is streaked with dirt and her black hair is matted with dried, flaking blood. The man is in even worse condition—mud cakes his tattered clothes, while his skin is peppered in purple bruises.

  What had happened to them while they’d awaited their orders?

  Through sheer strength, Orion pushes them back into the hallway, aligning the handlebars once more.

  Rachel shoves the broom into the small space, but the flimsy thing flexes with each impact, the wood splintering from the force.

  “The broom won’t hold for long.” Rachel rubs her hands clean on her jeans. When he doesn’t answer, she looks to where Orion had last stood and finds the space empty. “Faerie Boy?”

  “Give me a second.” Orion’s voice travels from the other side of the cafeteria, where he is testing the glass doors one after the other. Nothing budges.

  “Maybe try breaking the glass?”

  “Won’t work,” Orion mumbles, giving up. “It’s an ancient blanket spell, which basically acts like a fumigation tent where magic is concerned.” He steps over an upturned chair, walking back to where Rachel waits. “We’re trapped until Golvath decides differently.”

  She glances at the lacrosse stick and broom, both looking as if they’ll snap at any moment. “What do we do about them in the meantime?”

  He grimaces as he searches the cafeteria. Orion looks up at the ceiling, and his frown smooths out, the concern disappears from his eyes.

  Rachel follows his gaze to the vent grille, which is large enough to fit them both if they can reach it. However, it would certainly not hold their combined weight.

  Orion makes his way over to the nearest chair. He lifts the chair, flips it over, and with the subtlety of a wildebeest, drags the piece of furniture into position underneath the vent. Using the chair as a boost, Orion reaches to push his fingers through the grille’s slats and tugs hard enough to break the vent cover from its hold. He drops the grille, the metal clattering loudly as it lands.

  The blows against the door hesitate long enough for Orion to push a second chair across the floor before starting up with renewed vigor.

  She realizes his game plan and smiles.

  “And here I thought you were just another pretty face,” she says, earning an unexpected guffaw.

  Once he settles down, he whispers, “I need something small and round, with a bit of weight to it.”

  Rachel fishes the can of mace from her pocket. “This?”

  “That’ll do,” he says.

  The lacrosse stick buckles under the pressure. The wood cracks in half, the pieces rattle against the door, before falling onto the floor.

  “Better get a move on, Faerie Boy,” she says.

  “Almost done,” Orion says, stacking a third chair. He takes a few steps back to regard his work, and nods. “Okay, up you go, Rachel.”

  Rachel frowns as she casts a glance back at him.

  “Play along,” he hisses.

  “Don’t let me fall,” she says louder than necessary, shrugging at her lame acting.

  “I won’t.” He gestures for her to continue her performance, his eyes twinkling.

  Rachel grunts repeatedly and over-exaggerates an oomph. “Come on, Orion, before they break down the door.”

  In response, the beating intensifies.

  “Wait for me in the kitchen,” he whispers. “Just go, Clarré. I’m right behind you,” Orion says louder.

  Rachel nods and makes the journey back to the kitchen. She peers around the entrance.

  Orion waits to complete his ruse, looking between the cafeteria doors and the ceiling. After a few minutes, he pulls back his arm in order to throw the mace can into the vent, while he wraps his other hand around the leg of the highest chair.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  The broom handle splinters beneath the assault, weakening with each hit.

  Then, when Rachel is certain her nerves won’t be able to take much more of this, he pulls the chair down and, at the same time, tosses the mace can into the vent. Orion turns and runs for the kitchen, jumping over the counter and slips down behind the surface, while the muffled thumping and rolling inside the air duct continues.

  He’s barely out of sight when the broom handle shatters and the door bursts open.

  Rachel crouches and pokes her head out of the kitchen, only to find him with his back pressed against the counter, breathing hard.

  Rachel mouths the words: “Come on.”

  “Gimme a boost,” the woman’s voice intrudes on their silent argument.

  “You give me a boost,” the man replies.

  They laugh together, before the woman says again, “No, you give me a boost. I’m smaller and faster.”

  “Fine,” the man agrees, still chuckling.

  Orion’s lip twitches and nose crinkles before he gives into her request. Rachel waits until he shifts onto all-fours and crawls across the sticky, soiled floor. She slips back inside and stands, waiting for him to get out of sight.

  Once Orion is inside the kitchen, he can’t get back to his feet quick enough. He finds a dish towel on a nearby surface and wipes his hands clean, clearly displeased about having to crawl through the muck. Rachel can’t blame him. She’s ready to bathe in bleach just to get rid of the smell.

  Rachel crosses the kitchen to where the pantry is located, the door having been left ajar during the fray. The smell is worse in there, so much so that her eyes start burning and she has to swallow down bile. Still, it’s a better hiding place than standing in the kitchen.

  Rachel slowly opens the door to eliminate any chance of squeaking, and disturbs a swarm of fat flies feasting upon a second boneless corpse. Maggots crawl across the skin, pulsing in unison, making it appear as if the misshapen cadaver is actually breathing.

  She dry heaves at the ghastly sight, tastes bile as acid burns its way up her throat.

  Orion is there before she can make a sound, spinning her away from the pantry so that she can hide her face in his broad chest. With his free hand, he gently pushes the door shut again, but the smell doesn’t dissipate. The image doesn’t vanish.

  Who was it? Who else had suffered Golvath’s wrath?

  The first time she’d come across one of Golvath’s victims, she’d been too shocked to respond appropriately. Now, though, Rachel can’t help the tears from stinging her eyes. It doesn’t matter who had died by Go
lvath’s hand—they’d still suffered an excruciating and needless death. And for what? Because an insane Fae had the hots for her but was too scared of being rejected? That wasn’t a good enough reason to kill anyone.

  Orion rubs small circles on her back to soothe her.

  “You see anything?” the man in the cafeteria calls out.

  “Nuh huh. You?”

  “I see a hole,” he says, chuckling. “I’ll go check.” Wandering footsteps crunch over debris, an out-of-tune whistle grows closer.

  Rachel pulls away from Orion and looks up at him through bleary, widening eyes. She shakes her head, not willing to force herself into hiding alongside the decomposing body in the pantry.

  In response, Orion moves his hands to rest on her shoulders, looking deep into her eyes, expressing without words: “Don’t worry, I’m right here.”

  Rachel shakes her head more violently.

  The whistling doesn’t stop. Crunching footsteps near the kitchen. It won’t be long until—

  Orion’s hands make their way up to her cheeks, forcing her to stop shaking her head. “There is nowhere else,” he whispers, his words mere breaths.

  A tear rolls down her cheek. Of course he’s right. The cupboards are too small to hide in, the fridges have glass doors, and there’s no telling how thorough the guy will search. There are no other options than the walk-in pantry, body or no. She inhales deeply, the hand she has on his chest trembling, but she relents.

  Orion opens the door again, just wide enough for them to slip inside, and gently nudges her to move forward.

  Rachel pulls her shirt up over her nose and mouth as she reluctantly steps across the threshold. She tiptoes around the pulsing maggot-infested corpse, while kamikaze flies ricochet off her body.

  Orion closes the door behind him, careful not to let it click, before he follows her deeper into the pantry.

  It takes every iota of her strength not to give into the automatic bodily responses of being in an enclosed space with a decomposing corpse. Her stomach roils and her gag reflex contracts to the point of weakening her legs. She manages to walk to the farthest end of the pantry, passing rows and rows of metal shelves, where most of the dry goods and canned products remain undisturbed.

  Rachel turns around, her back pressing up against the wall, as Orion nears.

  He evaluates her with a quick glance before averting his gaze to the shelves.

  Things haven’t been the same between them since the debacle in the Fae Realm. Yes, she screwed up big time. She’s the reason hundreds of Halflings are dead, but she didn’t even know what a Sluagh was before she’d come face-to-face with one. Surely he understands she didn’t mean to lead them to the Halfling camp? Everything toppled over like dominoes. There is coldness between them, a broken trust of some kind.

  Granted, he wasn’t this guy in the Fae Realm—the kind, caring, somewhat rugged Fae prince. No, in the Fae Realm, he was a warrior, one who didn’t have time for a teenage human girl’s problems.

  He reaches up to the top shelf near her head and wraps a hand around a small glass vial, full of purplish fluid.

  “You don’t trust me anymore,” she whispers.

  “It’s not a matter of trust,” he says in a low voice.

  “Then what is it?”

  “You’re unpredictable and sometimes reckless.”

  Me, reckless? Ha! That’s a first, she thinks as Orion twists the top off and takes a step closer, but doesn’t say it out loud. He shows her the bottle’s label. Vanilla Essence.

  “It’s better than nothing,” he whispers.

  Rachel nods, uncovers her nose and mouth and accepts the bottle. She douses her shirt in the vanilla essence, and shifts the fabric back to cover the bottom half of her face and breathes somewhat easier.

  Orion does the same for himself.

  The whistling outside continues, the guy halfheartedly searching the kitchen for any trace of them, before seeming to travel back into the cafeteria. He shouts something unintelligible to the woman in the air duct and laughs loudly.

  “What now?” Rachel whispers.

  “We wait until they move on.”

  Twenty-Two

  The Ghost Boy

  Time passes too slowly for Rachel’s liking.

  She and Orion huddle in the pantry, often reapplying vanilla essence to their clothing to make their stay with the boneless corpse more bearable. Meanwhile, Orion listens for any movement in the cafeteria, whispering what’s happening outside of their hiding place. The minutes tick on and her anxiety increases. Eventually, just when Rachel is ready to hand herself over to Golvath and his cronies, Orion lets her know that the woman is climbing out of the air duct.

  They can finally leave the pantry from hell, but the relentless stench of decay follows. The smell is in her hair, on her clothes, tainting her very olfactory receptors. It’s better than being in there with Golvath’s victim, of being reminded of what could happen if they don’t win this fight, but not by much.

  “We need help,” Rachel says.

  They make their way out of the kitchen and carefully walk into the cafeteria.

  “Who’s going to help? There is nobody else. Everyone’s under Golvath’s control,” Orion’s voice is husky with fatigue. Not having magic to fight the bad guys has apparently taken its toll.

  “We’ll see.” Rachel fishes her cell phone out of her pocket and dials Dougal’s number.

  “What didn’t ye understand about stayin’ out of trouble?” Dougal answers on the second ring. No hello, no are you okay?—just pure worry and criticism.

  Rachel exhales loudly, before she says, “Lecture me later. Are you in town by any chance?”

  “Aye,” Dougal says. “Nan told me off for leavin’ ye and Mercia by yerselves. Said I needed to come back right away, so here I am at yer empty house.”

  “Oh, good. That saves you a trip,” Rachel says. “Bring Ziggy to the school and stay out of sight.”

  “Do I want to know what happened?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Just don’t actually come into the school,” Rachel explains.

  “All right, see ye in ten,” Dougal says and ends the call.

  She pushes her phone back into her pocket and regards Orion. “You were saying, Faerie Boy?”

  Orion shakes his head as he makes his way back to the doors leading into the building. “We need to find Mercia before they do.”

  A pang of irrational jealousy pushes to the forefront of her mind. An unfair thought pops into her mind: He wasn’t this worried about me in the Fae Realm. This green monster doesn’t feel like her, doesn’t usually rear its ugly head inside her, but for some reason it’s there. What makes Mercia so special?

  Rachel tries ridding herself of the emotions. This isn’t me. I don’t care what he does with his time or who he does it with. She blinks, swallows down her envy.

  Rachel carefully follows him, sidestepping shards of glass near the overturned counter to avoid any preventable accidents. They travel into the deserted hallway, both keeping an eye out for any surprises. There are none, though, just as there is no sign of Mercia.

  “Do you know where she’ll hide?” Orion eventually asks.

  Another bout of jealousy crawls through her body.

  “I don’t know her any more than you do,” Rachel whispers back.

  It’s true, but—

  She frowns and wraps her hand around the umbrella pendant. What’s going on with me? Surely it’s not possible for Golvath to bypass the Ronamy Stone? No. She doesn’t feel anything weird rummaging through her mind. Rachel’s just tired, she isn’t her usual self. Stress can do that to a person.

  Orion gives her an incredulous look. “I thought you two were friends.”

  “I bribed Mercia to help me with drugs she desperately needs. It’s doubtful any type of friendship begins under such circumstances.”

  “You and I don’t have a squeaky clean beginning either, yet I still consider you a friend.”

 
“Even after the Sluaghs?”

  “Yes.” Orion’s exasperation is evident in his sigh.

  Regardless of the guilt she feels for causing so much heartache and hardship for the Halflings, she finds a way to smile at him.

  “Truth be told, the Sluagh attack was bound to happen, whether you led them there or not. The army’s morale was not improving after losing two battles in as many days, so it was just a matter of time until the Sluaghs sniffed us out,” Orion says. He suddenly comes to a stop, tilts his head, closes his eyes, and seems to listen to something she can’t hear. “Mercia’s outside,” he says. His brow furrows in confusion. “It sounds like she’s somewhere above us, but she’s definitely outside. Where could she be?”

  “She headed to the old schoolhouse, so it’s safe to assume she made her way to the bell tower.” Rachel changes course, heading back to the old schoolhouse, hoping Mercia doesn’t do anything stupid before they get there.

  “You don’t look pleased,” he says. “Care to explain why?”

  “Can you sense anyone nearby?”

  “They’re all searching for us on the other side of the school. Is everything okay?”

  “I don’t know. I feel weird,” she mumbles. “More than that, though, I don’t understand why Mercia would go up the bell tower by herself. If the stories are correct—”

  “What stories?” Orion asks.

  “During orientation week, every new batch of freshmen are told the story of the boy who fell. The tale’s details change as to how he fell from the bell tower, but the rest essentially remains the same through every retelling.

  “When Ridge Crest was still a three-classroom schoolhouse, and children of all ages attended, a fifteen-year old boy was tasked with ringing the school bell every morning and every afternoon. This chore was said to have been a great honor, because the schoolmaster at the time didn’t hand out the responsibility to just anyone.” She pauses as they turn the corner where Holland had waited for them. Once she’s sure they’re alone again, she continues, “One day, the boy walked up the rickety spiral steps to ring the afternoon bell. He shooed the nesting pigeons, and grabbed the rope to ring the bell. The bell tolled five times, and the children cleared out of the building. The boy, however, remained standing in the tower, staring at all of Shadow Grove.”