Rachel glimpses back at the window, but finds herself alone. She turns her attention to the door again, listening and waiting.
Golvath clearly doesn’t hear as well as Orion does, otherwise he would have heard her moving around by now. This certainly works in her favor. Rachel is also sure he can’t glisser. If he could, he would’ve caught up with her in the hallway. So, what can he do other than use human bones for his macabre art projects and dig around in peoples’ heads?
He can cause accidents, can’t he? Or is that just a byproduct of his intra-canter abilities?
The plastic wheels of the swivel chair roll against the non-slip plastic protector, pulling her out of her thoughts. The chair exhales as his weight disappears from the seat, before the intercom screeches to life once more.
“I’m growing tired of these games,” Golvath’s voice booms overhead, the calmness gone. “If I have to drag you out of whatever hole you’re hiding in, you’re going to wish you’d come out when I said. Don’t make me punish you, Rachel. You won’t like it. Not one bit.”
The announcement ends.
Those heavy biker boots walk one way across the tiles then return to the other side, all while he’s speaking under his breath. It sounds almost like he’s talking to someone else—probably to one of the people under his influence—but a second voice never joins in on the conversation.
It’s just Golvath ranting to himself.
And although Rachel can’t make out what he’s saying, she’s pretty sure he’s not doling out praises for her hide-and-seek skills. The one-sided argument goes on for a few minutes, before he walks with purpose across the administration office. Soon, his footsteps fade completely, his rants going with him.
She waits behind Principal Hodgins’ office door for a few more minutes, expecting him to return, thinking it may be a trick. Eventually, when it becomes apparent that he won’t come back, Rachel decides not to tempt fate by staying in one place. Besides, the idea of being trapped in a confined area without an escape route doesn’t sit well with her.
Rachel reaches for the doorknob and slowly turns it until the lock springs open. Inch by painstaking inch, she opens the door wide enough to look out. A steaming half-mug of coffee stands on the reception desk. She scans the rest of the area, before making her way to the next door. Rachel peers around the corner, looks down either side of the hallway and finds it empty. Quickly, quietly, she makes her way out of the administration office.
Hiding will only help her for so long. She needs a proper plan, one that doesn’t involve rotting away in a pantry while Golvath plays with her bones for however long it takes him to find his next victim. Maybe it’ll be years, perhaps centuries even. Who’ll help her? Rachel is lucky to have allies, but the next girl might not. Cameron’s next victim could be alone, confused by what’s happening and helpless to save herself from this monster. Rachel can’t let that happen. She won’t.
Rachel walks down the hallway, glancing over her shoulder now and then to make sure nobody is sneaking up on her. She keeps the shiv ready, in case someone jumps out of a classroom. Rachel doesn’t want to use the shiv on anybody, but she will if things spiral out of control.
Voices come from somewhere ahead, babbling on about how the vents are magical portals, because people disappear in them.
Rachel pauses then darts into the nearest open door just as Holland’s tousled head comes into view and hears the three townsfolk under Cameron’s influence coming closer. She glances at the interior of the room, where ruby red lockers are lined up against all the walls, and loose-standing rows fill the floor space. Long, slatted wooden benches are positioned between each block. Here and there lie dirty towels, some draped across the benches, while clothes are strewn about, and contents spill from a few open lockers. There’s dampness in the air and shadows linger, made worse by the absence of artificial lighting. A faucet drip, drip, drips an eerie song.
“I’m telling you, those two are somewhere in the vents,” the woman says.
Rachel slinks deeper into the locker room.
“They are not,” the man exclaims. “You looked for them up there, didn’t you? So, if they’re not up there and they’re not down here, they must’ve vanished by magic.”
Holland giggles and says something incoherent, making the other two laugh along.
Rachel slips behind a block of lockers, out of immediate sight, and waits for them to pass. However, the three loiter in the hallway for some time, their voices carrying a hint of madness. They seem to move closer, seem to want to search the area. Holland says as much, though her intermittent giggling makes it hard to discern the true purpose of her exploration.
To avoid capture, and due to sheer desperation, Rachel backs up against the farthest wall of lockers, until she’s cast in shadows.
Holland’s tittering grows louder, her footsteps sound nearer.
Rachel navigates the shadows one step at a time, inching toward the showers. She breathes slowly, keeps calm, and tries not to bump into anything. Making the slightest noise now, with Holland creeping about, could spell the end of her journey.
“I’m so bored,” the woman says, sounding almost as melodramatic as Holland sometimes does. “Let’s go do some science.”
“Ooh. Let’s blow something up,” Holland agrees, clapping her hands.
Rachel peers out of the shadows just as the woman grabs Holland’s hand and basically drags her back to the hallway, their humor already improving. She hears them sprinting away, gives it another minute or two, before she begins her own trek back to the exit. With a quick scan of the area, she determines she’s alone, and swiftly heads in the direction opposite of the laughter.
Past the water fountain, the football coach’s office stands in ruin. Beyond that, several more classrooms are situated on either side of the hallway—some have been in use since the additions were made to Ridge Crest High, while others have become nothing more than storage rooms. Forgotten objects from years past have taken up residence in some of those classrooms, becoming lost in time.
Another turn comes up, where the back staircase is located. Only the music room is up there, on the other side of the school, while the rest of the second story is practically wasted space.
Her cell phone vibrates and Rachel pulls her lifeline into the open.
Go back 2 bell tower – M.
She returns her cell phone to her pocket and thanks the heavens for the labyrinth-loving architects, all of whom had decided quantity was better than quality when it came to building this forsaken school. From her current location, Rachel has plenty of options on how to get back to the hallway that leads to the old schoolhouse.
She eyes the staircase, wondering if she should take that route. Too many variables at play. There are other ways, none of which pass by the science labs. Paths you know better. Rachel changes course, retracing her steps.
By the time she gets back to the girls’ locker room, she feels her energy levels fluctuate as her adrenaline wanes. Still, she doesn’t stop. She keeps walking until she comes to a narrow corridor that leads back to the cafeteria. There are no doors here, no features whatsoever. The reason for its existence is merely to serve as a shortcut to the other side of the building, yet no student has ever favored this route.
She stares at the end of the corridor, which inspires a bout of claustrophobia. From her perspective, the walls and ceiling close in bit by bit, until the opening on the other side looks barely big enough for a child to crawl through. She hesitates momentarily. There are other ways, longer routes, more treacherous paths, but time is ticking and Golvath has had centuries to hone his craft of hunting down victims.
Rachel sucks in a lungful of air and steps forward.
Twenty-Four
Death Knell
Every part of Rachel feels like jelly by the time she exits the corridor. Her pulse races ferociously. A trickle of sweat runs down her neck, soaking her collar.
The adrenaline injection is exactly what she nee
ded, though.
She passes the cafeteria, finds no trace of Golvath or his influenced cronies who’re looking for her. She navigates her way through the debris, heading back to the old school building.
Stop. Wait. Listen.
Nothing.
When she comes up to the T-junction and finds it similarly empty, her synapses fire warnings.
Too easy, she thinks. She turns full circle, searching for anything out of the ordinary, and purses her lips. No way is it this easy.
Rachel stares into the dimly lit hallway, which ends at the bell tower, and recalls all the slasher films she’s watched. This is usually the part in the movie where the final girl gets lulled into a false sense of security, a time when stupid, preventable mistakes are often made. But what other choice does she have?
I might as well get it over with while I still have some fight left in me.
Gripping the shiv tighter, she musters all of her courage, and walks into the shadows with purpose. She could have tried skulking around in the half-light, should have probably been less conspicuous, but then she would be wasting precious energy. No. All of that would have been futile, anyway.
She squares her shoulders and holds her head up high as the gloom intensifies, fearless of the Fae lurking about.
“I know you’re here, Golvath,” Rachel says. “I can feel you watching me.”
“Funny.” Golvath’s voice turns her blood to ice as he wraps his arms around her, pinning her biceps against her sides. “I’ve been watching you for months and you never noticed before,” he whispers triumphantly in her ear, his hot coffee breath blowing against her neck and cheek.
Rachel strains forward before jerking backward as hard as she can. Her skull collides with his forehead harder than she expects, and white hot pain shoots directly into her brain. A starburst of light enters her vision, pinpricking her line of sight. Still, the blow is enough for Golvath to loosen his grip. While he moans, Rachel sprints out of his hold, down the ever-darkening hallway. She ignores the migraine blooming behind her right eye, disregards the possibility of having a concussion, and pays little attention to Golvath’s howl of frustration.
Focusing on her strides, she pushes herself into full speed, desperate to get as much space between herself and her murderous stalker as possible. Rachel darts through the darkness, forcing her legs to work harder, move faster.
“You’ll pay for that,” Golvath shouts somewhere behind her. He stalks forward.
She slows to an easier speed as a trickle of light brightens the stone archway, and makes the sharp turn into the bell tower without coming to a complete stop. Navigating the treacherous spiral stairs is, however, not as simple. Each step creaks when she places her weight on it, some even buckle. Now and then, there’s a precarious crack underfoot, driving her forward or making her freeze.
The spiral structure trembles and questionable handrail shakes as Golvath bounds up the staircase. Each step he takes reverberates up her legs and spine. Rachel doesn’t look back, can’t stop. She propels herself forward, no longer worrying about falling through an iffy, rotten step. There’s no time to worry.
A black tendril caresses the back of her mind, whispering sweet nothings as it searches for a way through the mental wall. Whenever that darkness senses a weakening in her defenses, it probes deeper or strikes unexpectedly. The mental attacks leave behind something akin to a thick, sticky, poisonous residue.
—and kill you—
Golvath’s—thankfully distorted—thought pops into her head.
Rachel falters and grabs onto the tilting handrail to steady herself. She chances a look behind her, only to see the Fae charging up. With every huff, his nostrils flare.
“You should think about getting a gym membership!”
The red-faced Fae releases a scream of fury through his labored breaths, before he starts taking two steps at a time to catch up to her.
“Oh, crap.”
Rachel stops taunting and runs up the remainder of the stairs, hoping Mercia, Orion, and Dougal have some type of plan to get her safely down from the bell tower before Golvath can sink his claws into her.
Rickety wood gives way to stone as she runs onto the narrow walkway that surrounds the suspended rusting bell in the center. She leans over the side, searching for a familiar face on the ground.
“You think you’re so smart, but you’ve literally trapped yourself for me,” Golvath says.
Rachel pivots, still holding onto the stone sidewall, and circles the bell. There are only so many places she can go from here.
“Oh, have you run out of witticisms now?” He calmly walks around the walkway, his gaze never wavering from hers. Golvath licks his lips, grins. “I’m going to take my sweet time with you, Rachel Cleary.”
He darts forward, outstretched arms and long fingers grabbing at her. His one hand becomes entangled in her hair, the other takes hold of her shirt. She screams as he jerks her back to him, ripping strands of hair from her skull.
Rachel twists around, brings her elbow up, and hits him square in the face. At the same time, she lifts her leg with as much force as she can muster and knees him right in the groin.
Golvath howls. He releases her a second time, then drops onto his knees. Rachel rushes out of his grasp, backing away as he falls forward and rolls onto his side, writhing in pain.
“You bitch,” he bites out.
A few seconds, a minute at most, is all the time she’s bought herself. Rachel shifts the shiv, preparing to use it, as she turns around and searches the ground again. Mercia stands there, a speck on the pavement below, staring back at her. She screams something up at Rachel, something indecipherable through the magic surrounding the school.
“What?”
Mercia’s silent scream is accompanied by hand gestures.
Rachel shakes her head. “I can’t hear you.”
“Stupid mistake.” Golvath’s breath hits her face.
Rachel spins around, thinking she still has a few seconds to get out of his reach, but he’s right behind her. So close. Too close.
She gasps just as he wraps his hands around her neck.
Golvath leans closer, until there’s no space between their bodies and they’re both half-lying over the sidewall. His fingers press against her windpipe, blocking off her air. Spite fills his blue eyes; a vindictive smile mars his otherwise handsome face.
Rachel reaches with her free hand and rakes her nails down his cheek.
His skin breaks in places, angry red welts appear almost immediately. He hisses, but doesn’t relent, only squeezes her neck harder, pushes her back with more force.
Her lungs are on fire. She gapes like a fish as she searches for oxygen, just a single breath, but nothing passes through.
“I’m going to watch the life leave you.”
With no other card to play, she shifts the shiv forward and pulls her arm back as far as she can. The world seems to slow down as she uses all of her remaining might to thrust the sharp, metal tip toward Golvath’s jugular vein. Rachel watches the shiv move closer, closer, closer, and then stop a hairsbreadth from reaching her intended target.
Golvath’s smile broadens as she struggles against the invisible hand keeping her arm in midair.
“Did you think you could keep me out forever?” His voice rings through her mind, the dark tendril breaking down the mental wall, brick by brick. “Drop it.”
Her hand opens at his order, fingers splay, and her arm relaxes. The shiv drops, rolls, and probably disappears down the bell tower. Her only weapon, only hope of survival, falls out of her reach.
Golvath looks past her and shouts, “You’re not strong enough to break through my spells, Prince. The best you can do is to watch her die.”
Rachel’s eyes roll back as she attempts to catch a glimpse of Orion.
Using what little strength remains, she forces her hands up to her neck, scratching and gouging and pulling at his fingers.
Air. Need air.
Go
lvath laughs at her futile attempts.
The edges of Rachel’s blurry vision darken.
Suddenly she’s in a meadow, the moonlight shining down on a girl in a white nightdress with her golden hair gently blowing in a soft breeze. Tears streak her face as she picks up a red and yellow can by her feet.
“Please don’t do this.” Her voice quivers almost as much as her hands tremble. “Please.” She lifts the can over her head and tilts it until clear liquid runs out of the spout. The girl cries louder as she douses herself. Her golden hair goes limp, nightdress sticks to her body. The sharp, distinct smell of gasoline fills the night sky as the breeze changes course.
Rachel realizes this must be Mary Wentworth, the girl who set herself on fire in the 1950s.
“I don’t want to die.” She throws the can aside and falls to her knees, shivering and crying and begging.
Golvath’s voice enters the memory. “Then you should have loved me.”
He looks down at his hands as he strikes a match. The phosphorous tip sizzles to life, the orange flame growing stronger.
The abject horror Rachel feels at having to watch this scene play out is nothing compared to this girl’s suffering.
Without another word, Golvath tosses the match toward the helpless girl, setting her ablaze.
Unable to look away, powerless to help, the most Rachel can do is mentally scream while flames lick at the girl’s body. The smell of rotten eggs, sulfur, wafts through the sky as her golden locks burn away, replaced by the pronounced, sickening sweet stench of cooking fat.
The scene changes abruptly as another memory takes shape.
This time the girl is facing away, as if she’s staring at the beautiful horizon beyond. Her long, raven-colored hair cascades down her shoulders like a silky curtain. She glances back, her dark eyes red and bronze skin blotchy. There’s something exotic about her, something that’s not entirely human shines through.
The breathtakingly beautiful girl walks forward, pleading without words for some type of release from the spell she’s under.
“Fly away little bird,” Golvath says, unable to keep the amusement from his tone.
The Bone Carver Page 23
