Autumn Thorns (19 page)

She paused, then turned back to me. “I don't need to teach you any spells, do I?”

I shook my head. “No, I don't think so. I do need to go hunt through Lila's journal for a reference to protection from the Shadow Man, but I should be able to take it from there. Thanks, though, Ivy. You gave me an incredible gift. Now, it's up to me. I'll talk to you in a bit.” I slung my purse over my shoulder, gathered my things, and hurried home as the rain pounded down around my shoulders.

*   *   *

O
nce home, I called Peggin and told her what had happened. “So, there's a chance Duvall wasn't my grandfather after all.”

Peggin paused, then softly said, “I might be able to shed more light on that.”

“How?”

“Just give me an hour or so . . . I'll text you when I'm done. Don't ask me how right now, because if I tell you . . . then I might not have the courage to go through with it.” She hung up before I could tell her to wait. I wanted to know what she was planning.

I called her back but she ignored it, letting it go directly to her answering machine. Deciding that I could put the time to good use, I first made my bed, tucking the warm, dry sheets onto the mattress and shaking out the new comforter. Then I curled up on the sofa and skimmed through Lila's journal. Finally, about thirty pages in, I came across an entry about the Shadow Man.

October 21, 1968

Last night, I met the Shadow Man. My mother warned me that there were Ankou here in Whisper Hollow—they were summoned by Cú Chulainn's hag. But until now I've been lucky enough never to encounter one. But tonight, all that changed. Duvall was out at some meeting, and I was called out to deal with a Haunt who had come out of the grave, hungry to stir up trouble and unfortunately, she did some serious damage. It was Patty Dryden.

Patty's family had refused to let Ellia play for her at her funeral, and they insisted I stay away from the grave before she was buried. So Patty was never properly prepared for the Veil, and Penelope wasn't able to hold her on the other side. Patty has been rising the past few nights, but we've missed her every time. Tonight, she actually managed to wreak sorrow on the town. Tommy
Stanton, Mary's little boy, is only eight. His father, Drake, took him and his ten-year-old brother Jack to the pub with him. While he was in the pub having a couple of beers with the guys, Drake let the boys play outside.

Tommy crossed the street, though Jack tried to stop him. Jack followed behind him, when Patty appeared. She got between the boys and chased Tommy out to the end of Fogwhistle Pier. Jack was screaming for her to stop, but Patty ignored him. The last Jack saw, Tommy was crouching on the end of the pier, with Patty screeching at him. Then the Lady rose up out of the water and caught the boy around the waist. She dragged him under the surface. Patty vanished, and Jack raced back to the pub screaming.

Drake and the other men were out on the pier in minutes, but they could find no sign of Tommy. Drake was frantic, and before his buddies could restrain him, he dove into the water to search for his son. He didn't surface. Neither of them have been found so far, and considering it was Fogwhistle Pier, we know that the Lady won't let go of them without a fight.

So the Society called Ellia and me out, and we managed to track down Patty. Like most Haunts, she seemed pretty pleased with herself, until I managed to drive her back across the Veil. Ellia played the song of sealing, and I took some of Patty's graveyard dust and bound it within my chamber. She shouldn't be able to walk again. I hope Duvall never discovers my hidden room—he could wreak terrible havoc on the work I have done if he should do so.

I got home late, exhausted. Thank gods Duvall was still out, so I stowed Patty's dust, then went to bed. I woke up in the middle of the night to a Shadow Man standing over my bed. The Ankou tried to kill me—I know that was his aim. He ripped my covers off and lunged for my throat.

I called on the Morrígan and the Crow Man, and the violet flame was there—I grabbed hold of it with my
hands, even though it burned so cold that I almost got frostbite. I drew the Void Runes and sent them into his core—not where you'd think the heart is, but directly at his solar plexus, and it dispersed him. I don't know if it permanently dispelled him, but there was no lingering energy around, so that's something at least.

I need to find out more about the Ankou and how she is summoning them. Arawn would not concern himself with us—and he has no feud with the Morrígan. So it must be Cú Chulainn's Hounds and their hag who are drawing them from the Underworld. Saturday, Duvall will be at a conference, so I can take that time to secret wards against the Ankou around the property. I'll ring it with the Void Runes to guard against the creatures from the abyss entering.

The entry stopped there, with a drawing of three runes. The first looked like a lightning bolt across a vertical line shaped almost like a hockey stick. The second was an arrow stabbing through a crescent moon. And the third, a skull on a cauldron.

I stared at them for a moment, then hurried over to the counter, where I grabbed my notebook out of my bag, along with a pen. As I returned to the table and began to copy the runes, a tingle ran through my fingers. I knew these symbols—I didn't know from
where
, but I knew them. They were buried deep in my subconscious and as I sketched them out, my body began to tingle. Knowing what to do—without knowing why—I inhaled a long breath and blew onto the sigils. As my magic transferred into the symbols, I felt myself falling, and the next moment, I was no longer in my kitchen, but in a deep, dark valley, back in the thick woodland, and I was staring at the Crow Man.

H
e was brilliant, the Crow Man was, and beautiful and terrifying all at the same time. He was tall—tall as a giant, seven feet or more, and a mist of blue fire surrounded him. His coat of ragged patchwork blue dragged the ground, and over that, a fur throw made from the skin of some animal. His hair was long, black as ink with blue highlights, curling down his shoulders. Atop his head, he wore a headdress of a giant crow's head and feathers. The crow's eyes glowed red, while the Crow Man's own eyes were shining black, with glowing slits of white fire that slashed through them. Beneath the coat, he wore what looked like blue jeans and black leather boots with platforms that raised him another foot taller than he actually was. The Crow Man was carrying a wand in one hand—silver, a good two feet long with a glowing crystal on the top end. The handle was wrapped in a black leather thong.

Unsure, both afraid and fascinated, I leaned back against the nearest tree, waiting. The forest around me was dark and shrouded with fog. Ancient trees rose high in silhouette, conifers that towered a hundred feet above the sloped ravine we were in. I couldn't see the sky, the fog was so thick, nor
could I see any colors save blues and blacks and grays and a silvery sheen that lightly frosted everything.

The Crow Man took a step toward me, a curious smile on his lips. He looked cunning and wily, and he reminded me of somebody but I couldn't think of who. Some cartoon figure, perhaps, or someone I met long ago in a dream.

“Pomegranates.”

I stared at him, not sure I'd heard him right. “What?”

“Pomegranates. Hidden secrets. Look for the answers buried deep within, like the seeds of a pomegranate. She waits in the ravine, for you to find her. Screaming skulls still lurk beneath long roots that dig deep into the ground.” He took another step closer, his taut gaze holding mine. “The shadows that come in the night are very real.”

I pressed my back against the trunk of the tree, mesmerized. The Crow Man was beautiful and hypnotic and entirely too deadly for my own good. “The shadows . . . the Shadow Man? The Ankou?”

“The Ankou live between the worlds. While shadows need light in order to be seen and absolute darkness usually gives them no home, the Unliving
do
lurk in the darkness, though they have little truck with daylight.” His voice was low, almost growly.

For a moment I thought I saw a coyote standing in his place, and then, in a fraction of a second, he was the Crow Man again. I could almost understand what he was saying, but the meaning fled. I shivered, aware that I was so cold I could barely feel my feet or fingers. And then, before I could say another word, the Crow Man swept his arms out, his cloak suddenly becoming massive, dark wings. He let out a long
caw
and leaped into the air, shimmering in the rolling fog, and vanished. I blinked and . . .

. . . was back at the table, staring at the runes on the piece of paper.
My skin was covered with goose bumps and my teeth chattered like crazy. My phone chimed and I shook my head, trying to sort myself out, as I picked it up.

Peggin was texting me.
Can I come over? I need to talk to you about what I found out. I took the rest of the afternoon off.

Sure,
I texted back.
I could use a good sounding board.

Be there in twenty.

I felt like I'd just been shifting between worlds.

Maybe because you have been, dork.

Yeah, yeah, I told myself. I wanted more caffeine but decided to wait until Peggin arrived. Instead, I aimlessly crossed to the kitchen door and stared out the window into the backyard. The gardens were overgrown, yet I knew that Grandma Lila had always kept them neat and tidy, and she hadn't been gone long enough for them to grow into the tangle they were now. Frowning, I moved back to the table, where I jotted down everything the Crow Man had said while I could still remember it. I was just finishing up when the doorbell rang. Peggin was at the door.

She was wearing a pair of capri pants, a button-down V-neck cardigan, and a rain jacket. She had braided her hair back in a French braid, and she was wearing a pair of sneakers, for once. I frowned. The capris and sweater were her to a T, but usually she wore a cute coat and ballerina flats with them.

“What's going on? You look dressed for . . . well . . . what's up?”

She shrugged out of her coat, draping it on the coat rack. “Kerris, I found out the answer to one of your questions, at least.” The perkiness had vanished, showing an underpinning of worry and more than a little fear.

I motioned her toward the kitchen. “Want some coffee?”

“Latte, please. Triple, lots of syrupy goodness. Mocha if you can, actually.” She let me bundle her into a chair and turned to watch me as I flipped on the espresso machine.

“Which question? And by the way, did Diago ever come back? How's the man we helped last night?”

She shook her head. “Mike's doing fine. No more problems, and we think he'll heal up without incident. He's out of the woods. Kerris, I was in the back room today doing some filing. We keep older files in the storeroom, and the current patients out front in the cabinet. Corbin was out to lunch, so I was the only one there. Anyway, after talking to you, I had a thought. I was supposed to archive your grandparents' files
into the inactive cabinets and . . . I got curious. I had a look through them.”

“What for?” I frowned. “Couldn't you get in trouble if Corbin found out you did that?”

“Yeah, those files are confidential. I never would have but . . . after what you told me, I knew there was a way I might be able to verify something for you. Otherwise, I never would have done something like this. This is the first time I've ever broken the rules—at least as far as work is concerned.” She sounded desperate for me to believe her.

“I believe you—I know you wouldn't have done this if you didn't think you could help me. And . . . they're both dead, so . . . What did you find out?”

“Your grandfather? Duvall? He was sterile. He couldn't father children. The test was done before your mother was born.”

“That verifies what Ivy suspected, then.” I began jotting down notes as she talked. “Which means . . . that he's not my grandfather.”

“Right. I decided to double-check so I took a look at his and Lila's blood types. I cross-matched them against your mother's blood type. Lila was AB, and Duvall was type O. Tamil was type AB.”

“And . . . that means?” I didn't know much about blood, other than it was red.

“Just that there's no way those two blood types can pair up to produce an AB child. Duvall
couldn't
have been Tamil's father, even if somehow he regained his fertility.”

“Then that proves it. Duvall's not my blood grandfather.” I leaned forward, a thought striking me. “Did Aidan Corcoran have a file in the archived section?”

She nodded. “Yes—because Corbin took over Doc Benson's practice and he kept all of the files. I thought of that, too, so I did some digging and found his records. Aidan's blood was type A. He
could
have been Tamil's father.”

I stared at my latte, stirring quietly. “So my actual grandfather is quite possibly Lila's guardian. Something else happened today.” I told Peggin about my visit to the Crow Man.

“What the hell are you supposed to do next?”

“If I didn't know that it was futile, I'd think about heading back to Seattle. This is all just too weird. But I guess . . . one thing at a time. It would help if I could find my grandmother's private diary. Especially now that we know about Duvall.” A thought struck me and I jumped up. “Come with me. I want to check out something. I read something in Lila's Shadow Journal.” I motioned for Peggin to follow me upstairs to the sewing room, making sure all the lights were on as we went. I had no desire to face the Ankou again.

“What are we looking for?”

“Lila mentioned a hidden room where she kept vials of graveyard dust. Maybe her diaries are also there.” I gazed around the sewing room, then went over to the attic and peeked in. Something wasn't jiving, now that I looked at it. There was a space between the two . . . I hurried over to the wall of the sewing room that flanked the attic and began rapping against it. Peggin followed quietly. The fourth tap on the wall reverberated with a hollow sound. “Here! Look for any sign of a hidden door.”

We scoured the wall, and a few minutes later, Peggin drew my attention to a small lever by the floor, snugged up against a bookcase. I told her to wait while I drew the dagger from my tool bag. I wanted some weapon, even a small pointy one. Armed, I motioned for her to go ahead, and she pulled the lever.

A slow hiss sounded as a door—seamless against the wall—slowly opened inward to a dark room. Shivering, I peeked in and to the right of the door, saw a light switch. One flick flooded the secret room with a dim light. As I softly stepped through, Peggin followed me, propping open the door with a step stool she found nearby.

The secret room was small—about eight by eight, and one wall was lined with shelves and cupboards. The other wall had a built-in worktable, with more cupboards above it. The air was musty, but there was no real dust buildup.

“My grandmother must have been in here recently.” I nodded to a paper plate with the crusted remains of a peanut butter sandwich. The bread was moldy but it obviously hadn't
been here more than a couple of weeks. I slowly moved to the shelves. There, rows of mason jars lined two long shelves—jelly-jar size, each filled with dirt and each bearing a label with a name and date on it. I picked up one and examined it.
Rodger Lyons: December 12, 1989. Mary Lou Singer: September 8, 2010.
The dates went back to 1936, before Lila was born. The handwriting on the jars was different as well, up until the late fifties, when I recognized Lila's entering the mix.

“What are they?” Peggin crept forward, staring at row after row of jars. Another box of empty jars sat on the floor near the shelves.

“Graveyard dirt. From every death my grandmother and great-grandmother presided over.” I counted the jars. There were ten deep per row, and they spanned three room-length shelves. “There must be almost two thousand jars here. Two thousand deaths my grandmother and great-grandmother presided over—that they worked their magic on.” As I stared at the wall of glass, it hit home that each jar represented someone who had died, who had passed on. A light gone out in this world, looking to move on to the next.

“What does the P stand for?” Peggin pointed to the letter—written in red—on some of the jars. Most were from before the 1950s.

I thought for a moment. “Pest House Cemetery. These were people buried in the Pest House Cemetery before the modern section was added.” I frowned. “Ellia never mentioned these bottles. I wonder if she knows that Lila collected graveyard dirt from every person. I have to find out why it's done, and I suppose I better follow suit. Yet another question, but I'm guessing I'll find the answer in her journal.”

“Speaking of journals, you were looking for her private diary?” Peggin held up a notebook. It was a composition book, and on the cover was written
2015
. She passed it to me, and I flipped through it while she began to open cupboards and drawers.

I flipped through the pages. Lila's writing. “Yeah, I think this is it. But if this is just for 2015, then where are—”

“Here.” Peggin motioned to one of the cupboards.

I peeked inside and saw a stack of notebooks. There was one per year, dating back to 1954, the year my grandmother turned thirteen. Her handwriting was bigger then, with the looping letters and exaggerated dots of most teenagers. “Almost sixty years of journals. Sixty years of records. I've got my reading cut out for me.”

“Well, at least you know where they are.”

“At least I do, at that.”

We explored the rest of the room and found more magical supplies, mostly what I figured were spell components, along with a variety of tools, implements, and books. The books were mostly Irish mythology. I was about to cart all the journals out to the sewing room when a glint in the corner of the cupboard caught my eye. I set down the notebooks and reached for the object. It was a silver box, about the size of a bar of soap. A red ribbon held the top on, tied in a bow. Feeling vaguely like a busybody, I pulled one of the ribbon edges and undid the bow.

The box was silver, all right, with a simple embossed decoration on the surface of a crow and a moon. My birthmark and my grandmother's birthmark. Quietly, as Peggin watched, I lifted the lid. Inside, on a pad of red velvet, was a heart-shaped cloisonné locket. I quietly opened the locket. Inside, I recognized a picture of my mother as a baby—I had seen one like it downstairs on the kitchen wall. On the other side of the locket was the picture of a man. I stared at him for a moment, thinking he looked familiar. And then I noticed the inscription on the back.