The Bone Carver Read online

  A nurse backs out of a room, tray in hand.

  “Your grandmother seems—”

  “By all means, take your time, Mandy. Perhaps I’ll starve to death before one of those quacks has the chance to hack me open.”

  “—in good spirits,” Rachel finishes.

  The nurse rushes down the corridor, toward the bustling station, too rattled to notice anyone who doesn’t belong there.

  “Now ye know where I get it from.” Dougal clicks his tongue, and heads for the room the nurse had exited. “Mornin’, Nan,” he says, disappearing inside. “Ye look fit as a fiddle, broken hip aside. How’re ye feelin’?”

  “I feel like I’ve fallen down the stairs, thank you very much,” Mrs. Crenshaw answers tersely. “Why aren’t you in school?” There’s a pause. “It doesn’t matter, we have pressing matters to discuss.” The old woman calls out, “Rachel, stop skulking around and come in where I can see you.”

  Rachel takes a hesitant step forward and stops in the hospital room’s doorway. From her position, Nancy Crenshaw looks both childish and ancient, huddling underneath the thin hospital blankets. With her hair down and disheveled in the morning sunlight, which filters through the horizontal blinds, there’s something almost unrecognizable about her. Something profoundly mortal. Rachel doesn’t care for it in the least.

  “Honestly, Rachel. I’m not dead yet,” Mrs. Crenshaw says in a softer, more sympathetic voice. “Wipe your tears away, unless you want this one to turn on his waterworks.” She sticks out a thumb and juts it to her side, where Dougal sits hunched over beside the bed.

  Embarrassed, Rachel uses the back of her hand to wipe away some stray tears and walks toward the empty seat on Mrs. Crenshaw’s other side.

  “Nan, we know what did this to ye,” Dougal whispers. He looks up at his grandmother through his eyelashes. “It’s another Miser Fae.”

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Crenshaw answers. She inhales deeply. “Rachel’s grandfather called this one a Death Omen. I foolishly nicknamed it The Bone Carver after our first run-in during my youth, and I guess it must’ve taken offense. It probably bided its time until I least expected it to show up.” She rubs her brow. “Have there been any other incidents?”

  “Aye, one we know about, and a few warnin’s have been sent to others.”

  Mrs. Crenshaw nods and slowly turns her attention to Rachel. “Any sign of the Fae prince yet?”

  “No.”

  After a heavy, thoughtful silence, Mrs. Crenshaw says, “Right, so, I’m going to need you two to sit tight and not go chasing after this Fae until I get out of the hospital. Whatever happens, well, it needs to happen. We’ll sort it out later.”

  Rachel grimaces, glances across the bed to find Dougal wearing a similar guilty expression, and quickly looks to her hands, nervously picking at her thumb cuticle.

  “Please tell me you two didn’t do anything stupid. Rachel?” When Mrs. Crenshaw doesn’t get an answer, she says, “Dougal?”

  “I didn’t think we’d find anythin’—”

  “I leave you alone for one night. One night,” Mrs. Crenshaw cuts off his weak explanation as she throws the blankets off her body. “Mandy! Mandy,” she shouts, working her way to the side of the bed.

  “Nan, ye can’t leave. Yer hip—Nan, stop.” Dougal’s voice grows thicker with worry.

  “Mrs. Crenshaw, please, you’ll aggravate ...” The nurse’s voice drifts off.

  The world falls into a gradual hush. The argument between Mrs. Crenshaw, Dougal, and the nervous nurse go on unabated. Their body language and hand gestures speak volumes, but she cannot discern a single word coming out of their mouths.

  She grasps the umbrella pendant resting against her skin, making sure she hadn’t lost it. The stone is cool against her palm, but it reassures her nonetheless. She turns away from the disorder and stares at the door, waiting for the threat to show itself. She bristles in anticipation, while her heart thumps harder, faster.

  Then the music of the Fae realm starts. The melody is unmistakable as it surrounds her, consumes her. A beautiful call that forces her to her feet. She searches the room for a sign of an unwelcome presence—whether corporeal or ethereal, it doesn’t matter—but there is nothing. Nobody else seems to hear the music; they hardly notice her anymore as Mrs. Crenshaw attempts her escape from the hospital bed.

  The music grows louder, more desperate.

  “Orion,” she exhales his name, looking toward the closed window. Blue, cloudless skies lie beyond the horizontal blinds, nothing more.

  An elbow shoves her out of the way and the real world spills back into the quiet. She catches herself before she can fall into her seat, unable to discern individual words amongst the argument. Rachel blinks a few times, clearing the fog from her mind, and realizes an oversized orderly has joined them. He’s the least of her concerns, though. Her attention moves to the nurse who stands at the foot of the bed—an older woman dressed in navy scrubs. She points to the open door. The nurse’s hawkish eyes pin Rachel in place for a few tense seconds, before she moves her gaze to the other side of the room.

  “Out. Now,” the woman’s voice booms over the rest of the commotion, the no-nonsense attitude commanding enough to make Rachel’s feet move without her permission.

  Still dazed, Rachel finds herself exiting the hospital room with Dougal in tow. The door slams shut behind them, the heated argument dissolving into a mere whisper. She turns to stare at the closed door before taking a solemn step back.

  “Ye need to find Orion. Nan isn’t gonna be any help right now,” Dougal says. He wipes the sweat from his brow. “I’ll make sure Nan doesn’t bolt the first chance she gets, and try to keep people from gettin’ killed as much as I can.”

  “I can stay with you. We can figure this out together.”

  Dougal’s shoulders slump, the energy seeming to drain out of him. “Rach, we need help. If Nan didn’t see this Fae comin’, what chance do we have by ourselves? Ye need to go find him. Find any help.” He slides down the wall to the floor and pushes his hands into his hair.

  Rachel must’ve missed a lot of what had transpired in the hospital room when she’d zoned out, which is probably for the best, judging by Dougal’s expression.

  She leaves him there, in front of his grandmother’s room. Whether this decision is the right one—the most humane one—she can’t be certain, but she has a bone to pick with a Miser Fae, and that can’t wait.

  Six

  A Real Pain in the Patella

  Rachel sneaks into the old schoolhouse the way she and Dougal had left, through the double doors that have been left ajar. Her footsteps echo as she cautiously makes her way back to the boiler room, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest. Every creak from the rotting wood makes her jump; every rattle from the rusting pipes gives her pause. She surveys the area, takes a step forward, listens.

  The skeleton key that had been left in the boiler room’s door earlier is now missing. Maybe Dougal had pocketed it? She doesn’t know. Rachel takes a deep, shaky breath, looks around a final time to ensure she’s alone, before she drudges up the courage to open the door. She waits for the smell of death to assault her senses, but—

  Rachel sniffs tentatively.

  How is the stench inexplicably gone?

  This doesn’t make sense.

  She walks down the stairs, careful not to make a sound, and ventures to where she and Dougal had seen the boneless corpse.

  Nothing.

  It’s not like a corpse can stand up and walk away. What the hell?

  She studies the undisturbed dust where the body had lain no more than an hour ago, searching for a sign of the Miser Fae, anything that could possibly explain what she’s seeing—or not seeing. There isn’t even a drag mark to indicate a direction someone or something could’ve gone. And the boneless corpse can’t be hidden with a glamour, because she would’ve tripped over it. Fae influence was also impossible thanks to the Ronamy stone she wears around her neck.


  Rachel places her palm against her forehead as she tries to come up with a logical explanation. Nothing makes sense when it comes to Miser Fae, though. She can’t begin to explain their motives for doing half of the things they do. But this is a whole new level of weird.

  Her arm drops to her side and she retreats to the stairs, glancing over her shoulder to make sure the corpse didn’t magically reappear.

  Nada. Zilch. Nothing.

  Once she’s back in the hallway, she closes the door and leans with her back against the wooden partition. Rachel allows her mind to wander, hoping to find answers in the crevices of her subconscious—perhaps something her father or Mrs. Crenshaw or Orion had said could lead her to a solution.

  “Miss Cleary, why aren’t you in class?” the authoritative voice says.

  Rachel opens her eyes, only to find Mr. Davenport, her English teacher, standing in the hallway with his arms crossed. He reaches up to push his black-rimmed spectacles higher onto the bridge of his nose, before he snaps his fingers and gestures for her to move.

  She drags herself away from the door and walks in the direction he’d indicated.

  When she passes him by, he says, “You’ve been acting odd lately.”

  “It’s an odd town,” Rachel answers.

  Mr. Davenport doesn’t respond.

  They walk together through the hallways of the old schoolhouse, toward the newer additions.

  “What were you doing there?” Rachel asks.

  Everything about Mr. Davenport’s face looks sharp—straight nose, pointy chin, pronounced cheekbones, hawkish gaze. And he always wears black turtlenecks and chino pants, contrasting against his pale skin.

  “I saw you sneaking in there earlier,” Mr. Davenport says, raising a thin, severely arched eyebrow. “Not exactly the type of thing a formerly top student would do, is it?”

  Rachel blinks slowly, averting her gaze, and stares down the hallway. Leave it to Davenport to kick her when she’s down.

  “Shall I ask what is wrong with you or would it be for naught?”

  There has been some speculation as to who Mr. Davenport was before he came to Shadow Grove two years earlier—failed poet, disgraced academic, vampire, serial killer. She’s personally always leaned toward the serial killer idea, mostly because he comes across as a narcissist.

  Holland Keith had discovered Mr. Davenport’s Instagram account last December, and shared the link with literally every person on her contact list—Merry Christmas, Maggots. Don’t say I never gave you anything. Rachel had made the mistake of clicking on the link and had subsequently been bombarded with selfie after selfie of the man—always dressed in his usual black-on-black ensemble, always in the same thoughtful pose, only the background ever changing. The descriptions on his pictures weren’t any better—True genius goes unappreciated by the masses.

  Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Mr. Davenport.

  “Aside from my splendid failure yesterday, I can confirm that my grades aren’t slipping in any of my other classes, just yours, and I doubt it’s because I’m doing subpar work.”

  Mr. Davenport stops in his tracks. “Are you suggesting that I am not treating you fairly? That I am incompetent?”

  “Incompetent?” Rachel stops and turns to look up at the man, his glasses muting the severe glare. “Oh no, you’re by far one of the most qualified teachers in this dump. I find it curious, however, how all the top students at Ridge Crest High are struggling to keep their grades up in your class. Greg Pearson, for example, has always been at the top of the class, but even his English grades have mysteriously fallen below Georgia Cramer’s. Care to explain why?”

  He stares at her, the seconds feeling like hours, his eyes narrowing and thin lips pulling into a straight line. “You certainly have grown bolder since last year, Miss Cleary. Trouble at home?”

  “I’ll have that particular conversation with the guidance counselor if it ever becomes necessary.”

  Rachel turns on her heels and continues her trek. Mr. Davenport’s footsteps close in on her once more. They cross into the main building, making their way through the clear hallways. Mr. Davenport steps ahead of her and opens the administration office’s door, gesturing for her to enter. Rachel gives him a courteous nod and walks inside where she finds Cam sitting on one of the metal chairs with the red plastic-covered seats and armrests.

  “Take a seat, Miss Cleary. I’ll gladly book your little chat with Principal Hodgins,” Mr. Davenport says.

  Cam looks up as she walks toward the open seat beside him, pursing his lips together to hide a smile.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” Rachel says, taking her seat.

  “I’m in here so often Gail has taken it upon herself to start giving me free coffee.” Cam holds up his Styrofoam cup for her to see.

  “So, you’re on a first-name basis with the school’s receptionist now?”

  “Jealous?”

  Rachel reaches over and takes the cup from his hand. “Should I be?” She lifts the cup to her lips and takes a sip—too sweet and milky for her liking, but it does the trick. She hands back his coffee.

  “I thought you and Dougal would be miles away by now, probably Thelma and Louise-ing it for some heartbreaking reason,” he says, before resting the Styrofoam against his lips. He doesn’t drink his coffee, though, simply watches her for a while.

  Rachel raises an eyebrow.

  “You did get the reference, though, right?” When she doesn’t respond either way, he says, “Never mind.” Cam takes a sip of his coffee. “What are you in for?”

  “Cutting class, being caught in the old schoolhouse, giving a teacher grief,” Rachel says, shrugging. “I’m a bad influence, ask anyone.”

  He snickers. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not exactly a saint.”

  She smiles, sits back in her seat, and says, “You remind me of someone.”

  “Oh?” Cam’s eyes widen. “Someone you like?”

  “Perhaps,” she says. “Perhaps not.”

  “Cameron Mayer,” Principal Hodgins’ perpetually bored voice enters their conversation. “What did you do this time?”

  Cam winks at her as he stands. He turns his attention to the principal, and crosses the distance to the stout man with the beady rat eyes. They speak in hushed tones in the open, the principal nodding now and then, glancing over to her, before whispering further.

  Cam reaches into his pocket. Something exchanges hands. The principal tucks away whatever it was and his face turns a deep scarlet. It is not a subtle transaction.

  “Yeah, well, it saves me paperwork, so do as you please.” Principal Hodgins retreats into his office and slams the door shut behind him, the matter apparently having been dealt with.

  Cam returns to where Rachel sits.

  “What was that?” she asks.

  “Exactly what it looked like.” He picks up his backpack and helmet from another chair. “You coming or not?”

  She reluctantly stands.

  “Good. Let’s skip this joint.” Cam jerks his chin to the door and takes the lead, waving to the receptionist as he opens the door.

  Rachel follows him, even though she’s unsure if it’s the right decision.

  On one hand, Rachel’s happy she’s off the hook—she did kind of dig her own grave by calling Mr. Davenport out on his egotistical power trip. If he had his way, she would be suspended or worse. On the other hand, she’s unsure if this is any better. Some kind of deal had been struck to get them both out of trouble, but what would it cost her in the long run? People don’t do nice things out of the kindness of their heart, at least not in Shadow Grove.

  “I just got you out of detention. A thank you would be nice,” Cam says as they walk down the empty hallway.

  She rushes ahead and quickly moves in front of him, forcing him to stop. “What did you give the principal?”

  “It’s a secret,” Cam whispers, looking at her from beneath his eyelashes.

  Rachel frowns, studying him closely for a h
int of deceit. Finding none, surprisingly enough, she steps aside and allows him to pass.

  “Where are you going?”

  “You ask way too many questions,” he calls back. Cam raises his fist and punches the air, like some heartthrob in a 1980s teen movie.

  He’s so weird.

  The bell rings and the classes file out into the hallway, allowing Cam to disappear within the throngs of kids. Rachel inhales deeply and shakes her head. She turns in place and spots Greg in the main corridor. Determined to get the answers she so desperately needs to put this Miser Fae out of business, Rachel marches down the crowded hallway. Her peers give her a wide berth, parting like the Red Sea, their whispers reach her ears. She can’t care less what they think about her anymore. Not now, when any one of them could be next.

  Ahead, she sees Greg turning down the hallway, another girl hanging on his arm.

  Rachel picks up speed to catch up to him, turns the corner, and grabs Greg by his shoulders before he can get out of her reach. As he spins around, she slams him back into the lockers lining the wall. Pressing her forearm against his chest to keep him in place, she glares up at him.

  Greg stares back, a sheepish grin playing in the corner of his mouth.

  “Get off him! Let g—” Greg’s companion shrieks, making the scene much more interesting than Rachel had intended. The school bell rings, signaling the start of the next class, and saving them from curious onlookers.

  “Get to class, Carla,” Greg says in a calm, diplomatic tone that doesn’t betray the mischief twinkling in his gray eyes.

  “But, but, but—”

  He forces his gaze away from Rachel to the short girl standing behind her. His expression hardens. “Rachel and I have private matters to discuss.”

  Carla huffs. “I so didn’t sign up for this kind of humiliation.”

  From the corner of Rachel’s eye, she spies the girl stalk off, while the rest of the crowd disperses. Classroom doors shut, the hallway grows silent.

  He turns his attention back to Rachel, the mischief returning. “I never can tell if you want to kill me or kiss me.”

  “I don’t have time to play your twisted games, Pearson,” Rachel hisses. “But I do need your help.” She reluctantly releases her hold on him.