The Bone Carver Read online

  “Can you, like, relax or something? You’re scaring the freshmen worse than usual,” she hisses as they walk through the crowded hallway.

  “No,” he grumbles, pulling his backpack higher up on his shoulders.

  “Dougal, my man,” Vinesh calls his greeting as he and a few other footballers approach from the other end of the hallway.

  Dougal scoffs, murmurs something unintelligible, and gives Vinesh a halfhearted high-five.

  “I heard about your grandmother,” Joe Jr. says. “Is she okay?”

  “I s’pose. It could’ve been worse,” Dougal answers.

  Rachel heads to her locker, just a few feet away from the gathering of teenage boys, and listens as the football jocks bestow platitudes and sympathies on Dougal. They mean well, of course, but Dougal is clearly not in the right mind for this. She unlocks her locker, exchanges the textbooks in her bag for her purple ledger, and checks her hair in the mirror affixed inside the door.

  “They’re rowdier than usual,” Cam says beside her. “Reason?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but Dougal’s grandmother took a bad fall yesterday.”

  “Is she all right?” Cam asks.

  “The better question is whether the doctors and nurses are okay.” Rachel closes her locker.

  Cam snickers.

  “You’re earlier than usual.”

  “English test,” he says. “Thought I’d try and study for it in between my extracurricular activities.”

  “Which includes?” Rachel leans her shoulder against the locker, giving him a once-over, unable to keep her suspicion at bay.

  Cam shrugs. “A little of this, a bit of that. Obviously it’s nothing good.”

  “Obviously,” she says. “So, what’s your deal, Cameron Mayer? According to Holland Keith, you’re a gay drifter who skins cats beneath the full moon.” Rachel earns herself an incredulous look. “Nobody believes a word that comes out of her mouth, though. Don’t worry.”

  “Jeez, remind me not to get on her bad side,” Cam mumbles.

  Rachel flashes him a smile. “The worst thing that’ll happen to you if you get on her bad side is you’ll end up like me.”

  “Breathtakingly beautiful?” he says.

  She feels her cheeks warm. “You’re a smooth talker, but no. I was thinking more along the lines of becoming a pariah.”

  “What’s that?” Dougal’s voice reaches her ears.

  “Oh, this? I dunno, man. I found it in my locker this morning. Vinesh got one too,” Brandon answers.

  “Can I see?” Dougal asks.

  Curious, Rachel looks over as Dougal inspects something in his large hands. She can’t make out exactly what it is, but when the blood drains from Dougal’s face, her concern intensifies.

  “Vin, can I see yers?” He glances up to meet Rachel’s gaze. The worry seems to have changed into something else, something close to pure dread. She halfheartedly excuses herself and walks up to his side.

  “Sure,” Vinesh says. He hands over a bone white carving to Dougal. “They’re kinda creepy, but sorta cool. We don’t know who sent them or how they got into our lockers, but we’re not the only ones who got one.”

  Her blood turns to ice as she looks at the two carvings. The one is a figurine of Brandon in his practice gear—lying face-down, sprawled out. The other totem depicts Vinesh dressed in much the same manner, lying flat on his back, his neck twisted at an awkward angle.

  “Ye’re seein’ this?” he asks her in a whisper, so nobody nearby can overhear them.

  “Yes.”

  “Who else got one?” Dougal asks the others.

  “I overheard Bianca Novak calling hers disgusting, and then there’s Rebecca Franklin,” Brandon answers.

  “Don’t forget Ashley Benson,” Vinesh says.

  “Oh, yeah. She got one, too.”

  “All right.” He hands their totems back. “I’ll see ye in a wee bit then,” Dougal says to his friends. He turns to face Rachel. “We have History first period?”

  She stares at him blankly. “Yes, but—”

  “Let’s go.”

  Rachel waves halfheartedly to Cam as she turns on her heels. They walk quietly through the crowded hallway, side-by-side. Most of the students make way for Dougal, who towers above everyone at school—staff included. The freshmen give him wide-eyed looks of wonder. Girls flutter their eyelashes at him, lick their lips, giggle together and whisper about his good looks.

  Yes, he’s easy on the eyes, but wow. Have some dignity already.

  “The warning bell is about to ring.”

  “Ye can skip the class today. This is more important than learnin’ about Napoleon’s defeat at the Battle of Waterloo.”

  “We’re not even studying that, Dougal,” she says in a higher than normal pitch.

  “Fine, Nixon’s Watergate thin’. Same diffs.” He waves his mistake off as inconsequential.

  Technically, the history curriculum is trivial in comparison to the looming horrors awaiting Ridge Crest High’s students, especially if those totems are, in fact, signifiers of their imminent future. There’s no question about what matter takes precedence, but it’s difficult for Rachel to get her head out of school mode when she’s physically at school. Besides, who in their right minds can get mixed up with Napoleon and Nixon? They’re in the same class, for heaven’s sake! She doesn’t have the energy to call him out on his ignorance—or laziness—this time, though. Not with everything that’s going on.

  Rachel leads him through the labyrinth of corridors, past the lockers and classes and dawdling students. The first bell rings and students scurry, hoping to avoid a detention slip for tardiness. The hallway slowly clears. By the time the second bell rings, they’re heading into the old school’s wing, where hardly anyone wanders at any time of day.

  “Here,” she says, indicating the girls’ bathroom. Rachel looks over her shoulder to make sure nobody’s spying on them before she turns her attention back to him. “Do you want to go inside?”

  His eyes pin on the door leading to the girls’ bathroom. “No,” Dougal says. “And ye found th’ second one on Nan’s side-table?”

  “Yes.”

  His gaze shifts to study the hallway, which ends in a T-junction. Dougal points ahead and says, “Where does this go?”

  “Old schoolhouse,” she says.

  He walks past her without another word, heading into the seldom-explored bowels of Ridge Crest High. Rachel follows. What else can she do?

  “If you want to hunt for ghosts, perhaps we should come back tonight when they’re active?”

  “Ye and I both know this ain’t no wraith’s doin’.” He slows his pace so she can catch up. “There’s another Fae in town, Rach, and the bastard’s gone and hurt my Nan. This is personal, yeah?”

  “I get it, Dougal, I really do. But what do you expect us to find by wandering into the old schoolhouse? We are defenseless, and wholly unprepared to take on another Miser Fae by ourselves,” Rachel says. “Your grandmother and Orion both insinuated that the Night Weaver is one of the weaker Miser Fae. We don’t know what else is out there and we definitely don’t know how strong they are.”

  “Go back then,” he says. “I don’t need yer help.”

  Rachel stops in her tracks, her eyes wide and forehead creasing. “Real mature.”

  When he doesn’t respond, she hurries back to his side and continues down the corridor. There’s no way she’s going to let him go after a Miser Fae alone. She’ll never forgive herself if he winds up dead all because she didn’t want to miss a class.

  The hallway branches off. The old bell tower is to the right. To the left lie some classrooms, which’d fallen into disuse decades earlier.

  “Let’s start at the old classrooms and work our way back here,” she suggests. Rachel gestures to the left, indicating where they should begin.

  Dougal nods, turns left, and continues forward.

  After a while, she says, “I know you’re angry wit
h me because you think I want to go into the Fae Realm and find Orion.”

  He exhales through his nose. “Why couldn’t ye have preoccupied yer time with Greg, huh? Greg’s a bahookie, aye, but at least I could’ve kept him in line. I can’t keep a Fae prince from hurtin’ ye, Rach.”

  “Damn it, I don’t need you protecting me,” she says, unable to keep the frustration from her tone. “Also, what in heaven’s name is a bahookie?”

  He crosses his arms, closing himself off. “Somethin’ ye’re too good for anyways.”

  Asking him to change his nature, to disregard one of the fundamental elements of who he is, isn’t fair. Still, it’s exasperating to have a part-time bodyguard, watching her every move so he can keep her safe, especially when she’d been doing perfectly fine on her own for the majority of her life. Besides, he can’t just show up and play the big brother when it suits him.

  Her thoughts come to an abrupt halt halfway to the end of the hallway. The white paint is yellowed, cracked and peeling away from the walls. The doors are located closer together and scratched-up from years of neglect. All the windows are boarded up and the air is stuffy with dust and disuse. Rachel’s attention shifts to a specific door, green instead of the usual red, with a faded sign fixed at eye level. BOILER ROOM, it states.

  “What’s the matter?” Dougal asks when she stops in front of the door.

  She studies the thin wooden partition from top to bottom.

  “Rach?”

  The weirdly shaped object sticking out of the lock seems to call out to her. Not like the forest. Simply because it’s so out of place. The hair at the back of her neck stands at attention as she reaches out to touch it. She recoils, shudders for reasons she can’t explain, and looks to Dougal.

  “Are you sure you want us to do this now?” she asks. “Because I have a really bad feeling about what’s waiting behind this door.”

  Four

  The Skeleton Key

  Dougal pulls the strange object—long, pale, and gnarled, like a twisted twig—from the keyhole. Rachel is reminded of the ghost boy who’s said to walk these halls, leaving destruction in his wake, playing tricks on anyone who dares to enter the old school building. After all, if Fae are real, why can’t ghosts be?

  “It’s a key,” Dougal says, frowning. “A key made from bone by the look of it.”

  Her nose pulls up in disgust. “This is a bad idea.”

  Dougal reaches to the doorknob, twists it and pushes the door open. The hinges don’t squeak or creak or whine, as if they’ve recently been oiled. It’s almost creepier this way. Almost. A gush of warm air hits them head-on, along with a cloying smell that churns her stomach.

  He pulls his shirt over his mouth and nose. “It smells pure rancid down there.”

  Rachel uses her sweater’s collar to clamp over her own mouth and nose, unable to respond lest she vomits up the nothingness in her stomach.

  Dougal reaches inside the dark interior and pulls down on a rope. A lightbulb flickers on, swinging to and fro from the ceiling. Shadows elongate in the yellow light, dance in staccato against the boxy walls. A small landing with a staircase, leading down into the depths of the school, appears ominous in the half-light.

  Rachel wants to beg Dougal not to let her go into the bowels of the school, but her pride keeps her silent.

  “I bet ye there’s nothin’ to be scared of at the bottom of this staircase.” His words are muffled behind his shirt, but the unconvinced tone is clear.

  Ignoring his fake bravado, afraid she’ll sound snide if she addresses it, she simply says, “Let’s just get this over with.”

  Dougal carefully descends, the darkness swallowing him whole. She follows, although her footing is uncertain on the narrow concrete steps while her eyes adjust to the lighting. With her free hand, she searches for a bannister to keep herself steady. She finds the cool, thick metal railing, which feels awkward beneath her hand. It’s like no care was taken when the bannister was painted. Her breathing sounds loud in her own ears, panicked, but it’s the best she can do considering the smell.

  This is the epitome of stupidity.

  Dougal stops at the bottom of the stairs, his hand moving across the wall, as if he’s blindly searching for a light switch.

  “I doubt there are any other—” Before Rachel can say more, phosphorus lights flicker on, a mechanical buzz resonating from the long, white bulbs lining the ceiling. She groans from the sudden brightness and blinks to clear her sight. “I stand corrected.”

  She dares to take the sweater away from her mouth and nose, only to be assaulted by the smell of rot. Rachel gags. The disgusting odor coats her tongue, esophagus, and stomach lining. She rushes to the corner of the basement area and heaves, spilling mostly digestive juices onto the concrete floor. The undeniable stench of decay is everywhere, clinging to every part of the basement, to her clothes and hair. She retches again.

  “All right?” Dougal asks, rubbing one palm across her back while he tries to keep her hair out of her face.

  “No. This is the second time I’m throwing up in as many days.”

  “Are ye up th’ duff?”

  “Huh?”

  “Are ye pregnant then?” he says without humor.

  “No. For heaven’s sake, Dougal, what do you take me for?”

  He shrugs. “Jist wonderin’.”

  “Well, stop wondering about stupid things and start thinking about why it smells like something’s died down here,” Rachel says.

  “Aye.”

  She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and slowly straightens to look around the basement area. Colorful pipes run the length of the space, ending now and then in large metallic containers. Dust and grit layers the floor, seemingly undisturbed for months—maybe years—until now. When her gaze falls on Dougal, he no longer wears the mask of annoyance. There’s concern in his expression, and an obvious hint of fear glimmering in his eyes.

  “Are ye ready tae continue?” he asks.

  Something crunches nearby, like a foot accidentally sliding across the filthy floor. They both look in the direction of the sound, searching for a nonexistent lurker. Ice runs through Rachel’s veins. She grabs Dougal’s arm and stares at the unidentifiable heap lying near the bottom of a metallic container.

  “What?” he hisses.

  Rachel points to the crumpled heap—Please let it be fabric.

  Dougal’s gaze drifts over to the area. His frown becomes more pronounced as he places a hand on her shoulder. She can’t figure out if the gesture is to hold her back or if he wants to use her as a shield. At this point, anything’s possible. She drops her hand to her side and they slowly move together toward the metallic container, hesitant to find out what exactly they’re dealing with.

  The closer they dare to move, the more intense the repugnant smell grows. A persistent buzzing becomes louder. Rachel swats a fat fly away from her face. The heap stirs slightly, making a sickly, squelching sound, disturbing the swarm of insects ever so slightly.

  She and Dougal halt and wait for any other sudden movements. When nothing else occurs in the brief reprieve, they take another step closer.

  Eyes stare up at Rachel from a flat, unrecognizable face that’s haphazardly folded into a neck and torso. Boneless limbs lie every which way, stretched out beyond recognition. A swollen tongue hangs from the mouth, lips pulled into an awkward, ugly gape. It looks like a film prop or a twisted Halloween decoration that’d been left out in the sun. The heap twitches again and a bulge appears in the neck. A thick, serpentine thing slips out of the mouth, protruding from between the lips, slinks across the flattened nose, and whips the chubby cheek. It quickly disappears before a bloody snout becomes visible. Whiskers move and beady eyes stare out from the jawless face, cradled between broken teeth.

  Rachel steps back and suppresses a scream, which comes out as a squeak. She stares in abject horror at the scene. Her stomach flips in revulsion. The damage is done, though. The image will forever haunt
her nightmares.

  “In the name of the Wee Man,” Dougal whispers, aghast.

  “I told you,” she says. Anger takes over as she opens her eyes again. She averts her gaze to look directly at Dougal, his face now the shade of ash. “I freaking told you we shouldn’t come down here, didn’t I?”

  His eyes fix on the boneless body, his jaw works as if he’s speaking under his breath, but he can’t find his voice.

  “Dougal, c’mon.” She nudges his shoulder, pushing his immense form backward so he can snap out of his stupor.

  “He’s boneless. Utterly boneless,” he finally utters, unable to pry his gaze away from the heap of human remains. Dougal raises his hand, wipes his palm over his forehead and eyes, and shakes his head. “How’s it even possible?”

  “If we stick around here for much longer, I’m pretty sure we’ll find out. Let’s go.” Rachel tugs at his sleeve, but he doesn’t budge. “We need to report it.”

  “Aye,” he concedes.

  “We need to report this now.”

  He nods, but doesn’t move his feet. The shock seems to have gotten the best of him. It’s understandable, but considering the killer could still be lurking somewhere nearby, watching them, waiting to strike—

  Rachel tries again. Unable to keep the quiver from her voice, she hisses, “Dougal, damn it.”

  “I heard ye the first time,” he barks, snapping away his gaze from the wretched soul. “Unlike ye, I have to process my emotions when I come across murdered folks. Not everyone can go on unaltered like a bloody robot.”

  Surprised by his outburst, she says in a low, threatening tone, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Dougal breathes loudly through his nose, and marches past her. “Ye know full well what I mean.”

  “I actually don’t.” She balls her hands into fists, exasperation and confusion stiffening her muscles. “No, what are you going on about?”