Now that the ring had been destroyed and the Wheel in Middleburg was inert, that portal, too, had closed, and Orias’s dream of leading the Irin out of their underground stronghold had been shattered. If the story the tapestry told was true, he saw, the Wheel was destined to be opened again—and perhaps the staircase, too. But in what way, at what cost, and with what result? All these things were unclear.
The only thing he saw clearly in the tapestries was strife. He saw two boys he recognized as Zhai Shao and Raphael Kain, and the war between their two factions. High up, in one corner, almost at the edge of the cloth were the figures of five women inside the tunnel gazing at the Wheel of Illusion.
He saw himself, depicted shirtless and with a black halo, and the image sent a shock through him. In the tapestry, he had one hand reaching upward and the other downward, as demons and Irin below and exalted angels above clambered for him, threatening to tear him in two. He turned quickly away from the sight.
“They’re magnificent,” he said at last. “Are there any more?”
“Yes . . .” Violet replied slowly, glancing toward her workroom. “But it’s not finished.”
“May I see it?”
Silently, she led him into her little studio. The last tapestry was larger than the others and contained a number of scenes that all blended together. Instinctively, Orias realized that the proper way to view it was not to look at each element separately, but to take them all in and let them soak into his subconscious all at once. As he did, the various images seemed to wash over him—the spiritual brothers, Raphael and Zhai, the rival armies with their clacking swords and fluttering banners, and the Wheel. There was one element that Orias recognized—it was repeated from one of the tapestries hanging in the hall outside—and he knew it was gravely important. It was an image of a beautiful young woman, who the tapestry labeled “the Princess of the Wind.”
He recognized this blond-haired beauty instantly as Aimee, and his mind snapped back to a piece of text, the ancient scroll his father had preserved in his study all these years: the Scroll of the Wheel. In it, there was a passage about a princess who had ne’er lain with a man and who walks with the winds, transcending the bonds of the earth. This, he knew, was La Princesa del Viento, the Princess of the Wind.
Aimee.
That’s why he’d instinctively known to be careful with her—and it had not been easy. He had merely desired her at first but as he fell in love with her, that desire increased to a level he’d found difficult to control. But he’d had no choice. He’d known that to take her, even if she wanted him to, would weaken her powers or destroy them altogether. Now, because of Violet’s tapestry, he saw that his instinct had been right. Her unusual abilities were connected to—no, they actually depended on—her purity. He had to protect her until his work in Middleburg was complete, and they could be married. Then, the future he envisioned for them would become a glorious reality.
All else in the tapestry confirmed what he’d suspected: war was coming, and it would be truly horrific. He also saw in it the image of the crystal ring, the cracks in its surface clearly visible. Orias couldn’t tell if it was still broken or if it had been repaired—but it sent a startling jolt of hope through his mind.
He was about to turn away when something at the very top of the image gave him pause. There, Violet Anderson had stitched the figure of a dark angel. He was flying upward as powerful shafts of black radiance flowed from him, and broken shackles and chains fell from his wrists. It was an imprisoned Irin, breaking free.
Orias stared at the image for a full minute, until he felt sick. This was the one prophecy he couldn’t allow to come true.
“Well,” Violet broke into his thoughts. “Now you’ve seen everything. What do you think?”
“I think . . . you are very gifted, Mrs. Anderson. What you have here are masterpieces.” He wondered if she had any idea what they meant. Her reaction to his next statement told him she did. “They should be hanging in a big gallery for the world to enjoy.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “They have to stay right here in Middleburg. I . . . I wouldn’t want that kind of attention.” She turned pale and fear crept into her eyes. “I’m sorry—I feel a headache coming on. This has been lovely. Let me show you out.”
As they walked back into the hallway, Orias glanced at the basement door and saw that the bolt was no longer securing it. Violet saw it too. She hurried to it and quickly slid the bolt back in place, firmly locking the door. But, Orias knew, Rick and his friend had gotten in.
“These old houses,” she explained. “They get so drafty if you don’t keep things buttoned up tight.”
“Indeed.” He studied her a moment. She reminded him a little of his mother, and he felt as much compassion for her as he was capable of feeling for any human. “Thank you for showing me your work. If you ever decide to exhibit, I would be honored to sponsor you. Goodbye.”
She closed the front door behind him, and he heard locks clicking shut and bolts sliding into place. As he continued down the walk, Maggie came around the corner. She was trudging up the street, her head down as if depressed or deep in thought. When she looked up and saw Orias, she froze for a moment and then hurried to him.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “My mother didn’t let you in, did she?”
“Yes, Maggie—she did,” he said complacently. “We had a lovely afternoon. She gave me coffee and showed me her beautiful tapestries.”
“You leave my mother alone,” she said. “And don’t ever come back here.”
“Or what?” He couldn’t resist taunting her. “I’ve told you before, Maggie, and I’ll tell you again. Stay out of my way.”
* * *
Savana Kain unbuttoned her jacket as she stood on Lily Rose’s porch, waiting for the dear old woman to come to the door. What had been a frigid, brutal winter seemed to be fading into an unusually early spring, and the pleasant afternoon sun warmed the air enough that she felt like stripping off a layer or two and basking in it. Besides, her massive belly was straining at the buttons of her coat, making the already constricted feeling of pregnancy even worse.
There was a bustling from within, and Lily Rose peeked out the window at her from behind a lace curtain. After another moment, the door swung open.
“Savana!” Lily Rose said sweetly. “What a nice surprise. Come on in, sugar!”
Savana entered the living room and found three girls sitting around the coffee table, doing their homework. With Dalton were an adorable redheaded girl she didn’t know and Aimee.
“Hi, Mrs. Kain,” Dalton said, and the other girl waved. Aimee just looked up at her a moment and then back down at her books.
“We’ve got quite a full house these days,” Lily Rose observed. “It’s right nice!”
Savana was surprised to see Aimee there. Jack had told her that his daughter spent most of her time with her boyfriend Orias. When Savana wanted to know if that concerned him, he’d waved the question off.
“Not really,” he’d said. “This is the first time in a year and a half that I haven’t been worried about her. She’s dressing like her old self again, her grades are up, she’s not having any more emotional outbursts, and she’s finally making some decent choices in life, Orias among them. As long as she’s back on track, she can hang out with him all she wants.”
Although Savana didn’t agree, there had been a note of finality in his voice so she had dropped the subject. But she was still worried about Aimee. From what Raphael had told her before he disappeared, he and Aimee had been pretty serious. It was strange that she had forgotten about him overnight and jumped into a new relationship that seemed to be even more serious. But, Savana knew, teenage girls were like that, changing their allegiances often. And they weren’t the only ones. She wasn’t proud to remember that for a long while after Raphael’s dad died, she had
been so grief stricken that she sought comfort wherever she could find it.
“Hi, Aimee,” she ventured. “It’s good to see you.”
Aimee smiled politely. “Thank you,” she said vaguely.
Savana nodded. “I was hoping to get to know you a little better before the wedding.” Aimee didn’t respond. She just kept thumbing through her history book. “Well, I’m glad you’re here, hanging out with your friends,” Savana finished weakly.
“That’s just because her beau is off taking care of business,” Dalton said. “When he’s around, she’s off the grid. But that’s okay. We take her when we can get her.”
Before Savana had time to worry about what to say next, Lily Rose spoke again. “Come on out to the kitchen with me, honey,” she said. “Let’s leave the girls to their studies.”
“Sure,” Savana replied. When they reached the kitchen, she added, “You’re a saint, you know—letting the kids hang out here. You really do have a full house!”
“I’m glad to have them. Truth be told, it’s my other guest who’s worrying me the most.”
“Other guest?” Savana asked.
Lily Rose told her how Zhai had brought Master Chin to her several days before, saying only that the kung fu teacher had been injured in a fight. “But that’s my lookout, Savana,” she said. “Nothing for you to worry about. Now tell me—how are you and that new little one getting on?”
“Oh . . . fine, I guess,” Savana responded quietly. “I’m just so worried about Raphael.”
“No need for that,” Lily Rose told her. “Raphael is a strong and resourceful boy. Wherever he is, he’ll find his way back.”
In spite of her efforts not to cry, Savana was suddenly swept up in a monsoon of tears. “I just wish . . . he could be here for . . . for the wedding,” she said, giving way to soft little sobs. Lily Rose patted her shoulder comfortingly. “But—I know he wouldn’t approve, you know? He’d be so angry, with me, and with Jack. But he doesn’t realize what it takes to raise a baby. I can’t do it on my own. And Jack—he may not be perfect, but he loves me. I mean, he really loves me. A sixteen-year-old kid can’t understand how rare that is. But when Raph comes back, he’ll be so mad—and he’ll be devastated when he sees Aimee with her new boyfriend. He’ll be crushed. I miss him, Lily Rose. He was—is—my best friend. I just miss him so much!”
Lily Rose embraced Savana as she wept, hugging her with more strength than Savana would have thought that frail old body could muster. A few minutes passed as Lily Rose waited for Savana’s tears to ebb.
Savana sniffed and regained control of her emotions. “I didn’t mean to do that,” she said. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m glad you came to see me,” Lily Rose said, arching one eyebrow. “But that wasn’t all you came to tell me, was it?”
Savana shook her head. “No. It’s—look, I know Jack is against it, but I need you to deliver the baby, Lily Rose—no matter what he says. I can’t go to the hospital.”
Lily Rose looked at Savana, perfect peace and calmness radiating from her beautiful, mismatched eyes. “And why is that?”
Savana reached down and pulled her shirt up, exposing her bulbous abdomen. As she did, she felt movement beneath her skin, and they both watched as her belly roiled unnaturally. The movement was so forceful it almost took Savana’s breath away.
“It wasn’t like this with Raphael,” Savana whispered when the baby quieted again. “I’ve read dozens of pregnancy books. It’s never like this. And sometimes—”
As if on cue, a white light flared to life, glowing just beneath her skin.
Lily Rose came forward, gazing intensely at the light that moved inside Savana, like a flashlight beam shifting inside a nylon tent. Slowly, she reached out and placed both hands on Savana’s belly. Then she closed her eyes, concentrating all her attention on whatever was in there.
After a moment, her amazing eyes snapped open and fastened on Savana’s. “This is not a normal child,” she declared, a new gravity in her voice.
“I know.” Savana’s whisper was scarcely audible.
Lily Rose stared at her with those magical eyes. Beneath their gaze no one could tell a lie.
“It’s very important that you tell me the truth now, Savana Kain,” Lily Rose said, her voice low. “Is this Jack Banfield’s child?”
Savana opened her mouth to speak, but instead of words, only a choked sob came out, and again, she wept.
* * *
Bran knew the minute he saw the staircase in Mrs. Anderson’s basement that something was terribly wrong. The steps were made of ancient-looking, rough-hewn wood and the walls seemed to be dirt and stone carved out of the raw earth. Worst of all, from where he stood at the top he could see no end to it. Orias had given him and Rick a pair of powerful little flashlights before they set off, but the deep blackness below swallowed up their beams, and Bran got the distinct feeling that there was no landing waiting for them just a little way out of sight. As he gazed downward, he was sure the staircase went on forever.
As a kid living in Alabama, he’d witnessed a horrible motorcycle accident one summer. As he’d stared out the window of his family’s minivan, his mother had told him to look away but it was too late. He’d already seen the rider—a shirtless middle-aged man without a helmet—who was now lying face down in a pool of his own blood.
If he closed his eyes, Bran could still see the long, red scrapes on the man’s body, the gouged out flesh, the awkward angle of his arm, and most of all his total, unnatural stillness—the final indication that had made Bran understand that the man was completely and irrevocably dead.
The situations were different, but the feeling they gave him was the same and it was this: something that, once seen, can never be unseen. He would never pass Maggie Anderson’s house again without knowing that this nightmare staircase lay beneath it. What was it? he wondered. An old Cold War–Era bomb shelter? One of those pre-Civil War places for hiding runaway slaves—part of the underground railroad? The entrance to an old mine?
Or, some deep and terrified part of him whispered, was it something worse? Something unnatural?
As Bran hesitated on the top step trying to figure it out, Rick thundered past him at full speed.
“Come on, man!” Rick said.
A frisson of fear shot down Bran’s spine at the thought of being left behind so, hesitantly, he started after Rick. With each downward step, the temperature increased. Soon Bran’s clothes were soaked through with sweat, and the heat seemed to consume all the oxygen. It was like breathing the scalding fumes from a car’s exhaust pipe. Bran realized he was panting, and he was feeling lightheaded and sleepy—but Rick wasn’t slowing down. If anything, he doubled his pace, taking the steps two at a time. Struggling forward, his legs trembling, Bran tried to keep up.
A long time passed that way—Bran didn’t know how long, but it seemed like hours. When he looked at Rick again, he saw a change so subtle he almost hadn’t noticed it. And when he did, he thought it was only a trick of light and shadow. Rick seemed taller somehow, and it looked like his shoulders were getting broader. And—although Bran knew it was impossible—the shape of his head was changing, too.
Finally, after lurching down the steps in that crematory heat for what seemed an eternity, Bran’s legs simply gave out. He fell to one knee and skidded down a few steps, groaning with pain, before coming to a stop. Rick didn’t notice. He was already leaving Bran behind.
“Rick,” Bran called desperately, gasping for air. “Wait, man . . . I need . . . a break.”
Rick turned back to him, and Bran screamed. His best friend was gone, and Bran was having trouble getting his head around the thing that was standing there in Rick’s clothes.
“Dude, man up,” it said, its voice low and guttural. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
; Its shoulders were hulking and misshapen, bulging with sinewy muscle. Its face was that of a hideous beast—a deformed wolf, maybe, crossed with an alligator, and it had ram’s horns protruding from each side of its head. Knifelike claws formed the tips of its powerful hands and one of its arms looked like it was made entirely of some sort of burnished, rusty metal. The creature’s eyes, though, were the worst. The whites were now black, and the pupils were a starburst of faintly glowing crimson that reminded Bran of the roiling heart of a volcano.
“Hey,” the beast said, and its voice was a little more like Rick’s. “If you’re this out of shape, you’re gonna die when coach starts us up on two-a-days this fall.” The thing grinned, revealing a mouth full of teeth that looked like razor-sharp scissors.
“Rick? Is that you, man?” Bran asked, fighting the panic that threatened to steal his mind.
“Who else would it be, asshole?”
“You—you changed,” Bran said. “Look at your hands.”
With a snort of contempt, Rick looked—and his demonic eyes widened, the red in them deepening as they flashed with fear and shock.
“What the hell?” Rick stammered. He reached up and touched his face and his eyes got even wider. “What do I look like?” he asked.
“Like . . . like . . .” Bran couldn’t figure out what to say.
“WHAT DO I LOOK LIKE?” Rick screamed, his voice blasting so powerfully that it unleashed a shower of dirt from the ceiling above them. Bran looked up, terrified that the staircase would collapse and bury them alive. He looked back at Rick.
“You look like a monster,” he said quietly.
Rick shook his head. “No. No—something’s wrong. I gotta find a mirror.” He started walking down the stairs again. Bran rose and followed him.
They had gone only about ten steps when Bran noticed that his flashlight was reflecting back at him. He moved it around and saw that the walls of the staircase were now lined with mirrors. Everything around them was made of mirrors—the steps, the walls, the ceiling, everything. Rick noticed, too. He stared at himself in one of them, moving slowly toward it.
Shadow Train Page 20
