Autumn Thorns (22 page)

There, standing beside it, was a specter so terrifying and beautiful that it was all I could do to stand still. Tall, nearly six feet, the blonde was dressed in a black lace sheer dress beaded with black sequins that shimmered under the light
of the chalice. Her golden hair was piled up in a messy chignon, wisps of it tendriling down to kiss her shoulders. Her irises were crimson, bloody against the glowing whites, and her skin pale as porcelain. Dark black shadows accentuated her eyes, setting them off like a raccoon's mask, and delicate black veins trailed out from the inky black to decorate her face. Her lips were black as night, and another trail of veins spread from her lover's pout.

But what transfixed me were the nails jutting from her skin.

From the crown of her forehead, dappling her neck and shoulders, jutting out through the sheer black lace of her clinging dress, all over her body they jabbed from within, as if someone had climbed inside her with a nail gun and gone crazy, shooting them from the inside out. Small pools of dried blood—sparkling like jewels—glistened around each of the nails. One of her hands trailed down, touching the sarcophagus. She cocked her head to the side, staring at me, ignoring the others, and then slowly began to walk forward.

I wasn't sure what to do, but I knew when I was in the presence of royalty, and Penelope felt like royalty. I bowed, steeling myself for what was bound to be the oddest discussion of my life.

She paused when she was about a foot away from me, looking me over. “So you are Lila's grandchild? You claim the title of the new spirit shaman?”

I had the distinct feeling this was a test and all I could do was run on instinct. “I am Kerris Fellwater, granddaughter of Lila Fellwater, the new spirit shaman of Whisper Hollow. I claim the title and come to honor the agreement that binds your office and mine.”

She inclined her head. “Seal the agreement, then.”

At my confused look, a faint, ironic smile crossed her face. “Your grandmother came to me too soon for you to be properly introduced. I will forgive the breach of the ritual.” Gliding as though she were walking about two inches above the ground, she moved to the chalice. “A drop of your blood mingled with my own binds us to work together. Your great-grandmother's blood joined mine when I took over this
office, and your grandmother's as well, when she joined her mother as a spirit shaman. Now, the wheel turns and so you will pledge yourself to this ancient bond between the world of the living and the world of spirit.”

It felt so right that it scared me. As frightened as I had been when we entered the mausoleum, I had no doubt this was what I needed to do. I set my bag down on a bench and withdrew the dagger, unsheathing it. Peggin and Bryan watched, uncertainty in their eyes, but as I glanced their way, I knew they wouldn't interfere unless I called for them. They had accepted my role—it was written on their faces.

Penelope lifted the glass case protecting the chalice. She set it aside and, with a soft smile, nodded for me to proceed. I held up the blade and, with a quick motion, brought it down against my right palm—just the tip—and watched as a thin weal of blood welled up. As the crimson tears trailed down my flesh, I held my hand over the chalice and watched as the droplets began to fall into the ever-churning mix.

As they blended in with the kaleidoscope of liquid, a cold wind surrounded me and I found myself standing between the worlds—in the center of a misty web. Gossamer strings radiated out, the threads scintillating with sparkles of light. There, guarding a portal in the web, stood Penelope in all her radiant and gory glory. She smiled fully.

“Welcome to the entrance to the Veil, Kerris Fellwater, spirit shaman of Whisper Hollow. Welcome to the gateway that guards the world of spirit. Here, the dead come who have been prepared for their journey. Here, I escort them over to the Veil, where they rest before moving on. I hold them as well as I can, and when they break free and return to your world, it is your task to round them up and drive them back to me.” Her voice resonated against the webs, singing rich and low. Here, she was vibrant and powerful, no specter in the shadows.

“What happened to you? How did you become the Gatekeeper?” I didn't mean to be rude, but the questions rolled off my tongue. Chagrined, I ducked my head. “I don't mean to be nosy—there's just so much I don't know because my grandmother died before she could teach me.”

She laughed. “No offense taken. There are many things I can see from where I stand, Kerris, and I know—I see—that no offense was meant.” She waved her hand and a bench appeared. “Sit and listen. This is part of your training.”

I sat, wondering if Peggin and Bryan were okay. Were they seeing this? Or had I vanished along with Penelope? Were they hunting for me now?

“I was murdered when I was young. I was murdered for reasons that so disrupted the balance that the Phantom Queen bade me stay at the gate until the balance one day is righted. Then I may rest, as another takes my place. There will always be Gatekeepers, there will always be guardians; we each take our turn for a differing reason. I bear the scars of my death for all to see, that they might know death has come to visit them in my visage, and that none can evade the Veil. Together, you and I and the lament singer—we keep the balance of spirits in check.”

“How will you contact me if you need me?” I wasn't sure about opening my front door to find Penelope ringing the bell at four in the morning.

She laughed. “I see your thoughts, Kerris. No, I will not appear on your doorstep. Have no fear, you will not fail to hear me when I have need for your services.”

I nodded. “I came tonight to introduce myself, but also to ask you a question. You said you can see my thoughts—do you know what I want to ask you?”

Pausing, she closed her eyes and the entrance of the Veil flared to life. Then we were standing back in the mausoleum and Bryan and Peggin rushed forward to my side, skirting Penelope as best as they could. Penelope motioned to the plinth holding the chalice. In front of it, a mist appeared, and then in the midst of it, a scene. A steep ravine, alongside a narrow road, led down to a creek at the distant bottom. The scene swooped down into the thicket near the side of the water. And there, a faint glow caught my attention. I squinted, leaning forward, and saw a mound of moss-covered dirt. Then the scene swept up again to the top of the ravine, where a tree overlooked the edge.

Peggin gasped at the same time I recognized what tree it was. “The Tree of Skulls,” she whispered from behind me.

I nodded. I knew where that tree was, and
what
it was—a terrifying reminder of the cruelty of people, and the violence within the soul of a man who had gone so far beyond the boundaries of humanity that he had forfeited all rights to the claim.

“The Tree of Skulls,” I echoed back. And then the Crow Man's words came filtering back.
She waits in the ravine, for you to find her. Screaming skulls still lurk beneath long roots that dig deep into the ground.
“Is that . . . where . . .”

“Go. Seek. You will find what you look for. When you do, we can set her to rest.” With that, Penelope faded away.

I raised my other hand to her, feeling oddly sad to see her go. All the fear I'd had of meeting her had drained away, and now I wanted to know more about her—to talk to her longer.

We hurried out to the parking lot, where I took the passenger seat, Peggin climbed in back, and Bryan began to drive. As we sped through the evening, passing a few cars, we were silent. I was so wound up inside that I had no clue what to say, and Peggin and Bryan seemed to pick up my mood.

We drove north on Bramblewood Way until it forked into Crescent Drive. Taking a left, we skirted the edge of Bramblewood Thicket until we came to the turn onto Whisper Hollow Way. Bryan took another left, and then, a few minutes later, a left onto Peninsula Drive. Ten minutes later, we eased into a turnout leading to the Tree of Skulls.

I stared at the trail that led into the woods. Beside the trail head, a large information board, erected by the city council, related the history of this place, and of the Tree of Skulls. I stared at the wooden structure. So much death. So much destruction took place here.

Bryan edged forward, resting his arm around my waist. “Are you sure you're up to this?”

I nodded. “I have to . . . this is too important to walk away from. Maybe . . . I'll finally get some closure. The past is coming back to haunt me, and I have to be prepared.”

Peggin was holding my bag of tools. “I brought this, in case you need it.”

Flashing her a grateful smile, I turned to the trail. “I guess there's nothing left to do but go in.” Bryan offered to take the lead, but I shook my head. This was my job now—this was my fight. The moment we stepped onto the path, out of the parking area, I realized I couldn't see a damned thing. “Flashlight, anybody?”

“Got it.” Bryan pulled out a flashlight and aimed it in front of me, so that we could all see the path.

The trail wound through the woodland, into the depths of the undergrowth. Here the forest was thick, dense with huckleberry and bracken, with fern and brambles and tall stands of skunk cabbage. The peninsula was a temperate rain forest, one of only a few in the North American hemisphere, and—in the depths of the Olympic Peninsula—there were places where it rained an average of 140 inches per year. Though we weren't in the Hoh rain forest proper, we were right in the shadow of it, and our forest mirrored its mother.

Conifers towered in the night sky, silent sentinels watching over the land. Red cedar, spruce, Douglas fir, and hemlock—they watched over the land, dripping with moss. Long veils of it trailed off the branches, creating beards of green on the ancient fathers of the forest. The trunks were covered with the soft mossy growths, and mushrooms jutted out from the sides of the trees. The scent was old and decaying, yet vibrant with life. When they toppled—from age or lightning strike or windstorm—they turned into nurselogs, providing a home for wildlife and insects as they decayed.

To the sides of the trail, waist-high ferns created a carpet of delicate fronds, lacy, and yet the leaves could be sharp when you brushed against them. Interspersed among the ferns were the huckleberry bushes—they were almost bare for the season, losing their leaves—and salmon berries, and brambles from the ever-present blackberries that were all so endemic no one would ever be able to root them out. Salal, and Oregon grape with its glossy leaves, edged the trail, the evergreen bushes remaining vibrant even into the winter months.

I hoped we could avoid the stinging nettle—of all the plants in the forest, it was the most aggressive around here.
While poison ivy and poison oak were common enough, stinging nettle was by far one of the most unwelcome visitors in the forest. The species found in the Pacific Northwest had nasty stinging hairs and hurt like hell. While some people swore by it for herbal medicine, I wasn't about to give it a try. I had a strong allergic reaction to it, and the welts that rose from even lightly brushing the leaves were highly painful and unpleasant.

The trail itself was fairly even, though ridden with tree roots that crossed the path, and pebbles and a few rocks buried so firmly that there would be no getting them out. As I pushed forward into the woods, a sense of dread began to steal over me. We continued along for about fifteen minutes, moving deeper and deeper into the thicket, and then, as the pathway began to open up, I stopped. I was standing at the edge of a circular meadow—one that was overgrown but not horribly so. The city kept it up, after a fashion, because of what had happened here. We had arrived. And maybe now we would find out what happened to my mother.

A signboard loomed to my left side, and Bryan flashed the light on it.

T
REE OF
S
KULLS
M
EMORIAL
P
ARK

I
n the center of the meadow, which was ringed with benches, stood an elderberry tree. Ancient and twisted, whether it had been planted or just sprung up on its own, I doubted anybody would ever know. It was old, very old, and the thick trunk was rife with limbs reaching out every which way, black against the stormy sky. A faint glow hummed from the core of the tree and I realized that I was seeing its spirit.

“Elderberry . . . sacred to the Dagda.” Bryan let out a hushed breath.

“Dagda . . . Ivy said he's the consort to the Morrígan.”

“So he is. This is a faerie tree, too. Never, ever cut wood from this tree.”

I nodded. Even from here I could sense the power it held within its core. And . . . there was something more. I glanced around the clearing. Memorial markers were spaced evenly around the base of the trunk. As I glanced around the meadow, misty shapes wandered through the field. They wouldn't hurt us, not these spirits. For they were the Mournful dead who had been left here, to rot and hide in the soil beneath the tree.

“The tree is guarding the spirits.”

“I believe it. No wonder Nels ended up strung up here.” Bryan shook his head. “Never mess with the elder spirits of the world, be they tree or rock or water.”

Thirteen women had died at the hands of Jericho Nels, a serial killer. He had kidnapped the women, tortured and raped them, and then decapitated them. After dumping their bodies elsewhere, he brought their heads to the base of the tree and buried them. Police discovered the grisly burial site when a hiker stumbled over one of the skulls—his dog sniffed it out and found it. Though police set up a stakeout, they weren't able to catch Jericho. But one night, shortly after the heads had been discovered, somehow the murderer ended up hanging from the tree. Jericho was found with thin branches wrapped around his neck—coiling tight as if the tree had come to life and strangled him. The police discovered evidence in his house to prove he had been the serial killer. Common belief was that the spirits of his victims had wreaked their revenge on him, but—staring at the tree—I thought maybe the tree itself had played a part in his execution.

A few months later, the city had discussed cutting down the tree, but town opinion overruled the idea, and so the entire area was turned into a memorial park to commemorate the murdered victims. The trunk, though, seemed to have faces embedded in the gnarls and burls—thirteen of them, if you counted. A few people came here to picnic or to walk in silence and remember the women who had lost their lives, but like a lot of areas around Whisper Hollow, the Tree of Skulls wasn't exactly the most lighthearted of places for gatherings.

A sudden shimmer caught my eye. I turned to see a wolf spirit standing there, near the back side of the meadow. He whimpered, faintly, and turned to stare through the foliage.

“What is that?” Peggin took a step closer to me.

“I think . . .” I closed my eyes and reached out. There was nothing dangerous about the spirit. In fact, it felt familiar. “I think we've got ourselves a guide.”

Bryan slowly nodded. “Yes, he is . . . was . . . a shapeshifter. I recognize his nature.”

“Do we follow him, then?” Peggin shivered. “I've never been out here at night and I'm not thrilled about the experience. Honestly, when I think about it, we live in the most dismal town.”

“Not dismal, just haunted. And yes, we follow him. It will be all right.” I reached up to clasp my grandmother's pentacle, which was hanging around my neck, and knew I was right. I started off, following the wolf spirit, Bryan behind me.

“Right. Haunted, then.” Peggin hurried forward, trying to keep up with us. “Do you know who sent the wolf spirit?”

“I haven't stopped to think about it, actually. I guess Penelope. That stands to reason, doesn't it?”

Bryan shook his head. “I don't know, to be honest.” He paused, staring at the edge of the meadow. “The ravine—the one she showed us.”

I hushed. Slowly, making sure we weren't dangerously close to tripping over any sudden drop-offs near the mouth of the ravine, I inched forward until I was standing right next to the wolf spirit. He looked up at me, his eyes soft and glowing, and nudged my hand. I felt only a soft wind against the back of my fingers, but it was enough to sense a deep, caring energy behind the touch. The wolf was a friend—whoever he was. He began to pick his way down the side of the bluff, glancing over his shoulder, inviting us to follow.

“Whatever he's showing us is at the bottom. The mound by the creek—there's something there that he wants us to see.” I contemplated the descent. In the dark it was almost impossible to see how stable the footing would be. “Just how easy is it going to be to get down there?”

Bryan knelt, testing the edge. “With all the rain, it could be dangerous. Let me go first. Peggin—you stay up here and keep an eye out. You have your phone?”

She nodded. “Yeah, though I'm not keen on staying alone in the dark. I've got protection against human miscreants, but not all that much against the ghostly kind.” She opened her purse and pulled out something I never expected her to be holding—a handgun.

“What the hell? When did you start packing?” The Peggin I had known was an anti-gun crusader.

“When I got mugged a few years back. I never told you because I didn't want you to worry about me. A girl has to learn how to take care of herself, so I took shooting classes and bought myself a gun. I'm a damned good aim, if I say so myself.” She sounded absolutely proud of herself.

I stared at the weapon in her hands. It looked so out of place, but then Peggin was never one to take anything lying down and if somebody had actually managed to mug her, they'd better not try again. She'd find one way or another to put a stop to it. “What kind is that?”

“Nine-millimeter Sig Sauer. I like the heft it has in my hands.” She made sure the safety was on, then turned her back to the ravine. “I'll keep watch. But be as quick as you can. I'm not afraid of human freak shows, but this meadow . . . it reeks of death and decay. Nels saw to that years ago.”

Bryan was staring at her with an amused expression playing over his face. “We'll be quick. Kerris, let me start down. Is there a stick around here you can use to balance yourself with?”

I nodded—finding a loose walking stick in these parts was as easy as finding a patch of mold. It simply was part and parcel of the general area. I nosed around in the nearby bushes and a moment later had found a sturdy enough branch that would help me tap my way down the side of the ravine.

Bryan started out, one foot at a time, and I followed him cautiously, trying to stay in the trail of his footsteps. He used the close-growing trees to balance himself, testing each step as he went. The wolf spirit slowly inched down in front of him, occasionally looking back to make sure we were following. He seemed to be sniffing out the best route for us to take. I used one hand to brace against the tree trunks, and with the other I carried the stick, using it to tap in front of me and make certain I didn't land in any spot that might twist my ankle.

We worked our way down, slowly, Bryan flashing the light as he went, first in front of him, then behind to light
my way while he paused for me to catch up. And so we went, slowly, pushing through the undergrowth. I wasn't used to tromping around the woods—I was used to city streets, and while I'd had my fill of the concrete maze that Seattle had been, I also wasn't exactly in the greatest shape to tackle a hike like this in the dark. I made up my mind to find a gym and start training tomorrow. Some time on the treadmill wouldn't kill me, and it could only help me run faster when a ghost or toxic mist decided to head my way.

“This isn't my idea of a good time,” I said, leaning against a rather large fir to catch my breath.

Bryan laughed. “Mine either—don't worry, I won't drag you out hiking on a date.”

“And I won't make you come shopping with me unless you want to . . .” I huffed my way through a particularly treacherous patch of slick undergrowth, almost going down. Slamming into the tree next to me was the only thing that kept me from faceplanting on the ground. “How much longer till we hit the bottom? The ravine didn't look this steep at the top.”

“I like to shop as long as it's in a bookstore, and we're almost there, I think. Are you okay?” He flashed the light on me. “You're bleeding.”

I touched my forehead where I'd scraped along the bark of the trunk. “I'm okay—it's just a surface wound.” At that moment, he stepped to the side and held out his hand. I reached for it and two steps later, I was on the flat surface of the ground, next to a small creek running through the narrow ravine. I looked up as he flashed the light toward the top. It didn't look all that high, but it had proven steeper than I had first thought.

The wolf spirit nosed around and then, just a few feet away, stopped and whined, pawing at the ground at the base of a small bush. There was the mound we had seen. A funny sensation formed in my stomach and I suddenly wanted to be anywhere but here—even back with Penelope. Even fighting the Shadow Man. There was something here I didn't want to see, and a sharp pang of fear stabbed me in the gut.

Bryan glanced at the wolf spirit, then at me as he knelt down beside the mound of dirt. “I should have brought something to dig with,” he said. But the wolf spirit made digging motions and Bryan snapped his fingers. “Of course. Kerris, hold the light.”

He handed me the flashlight and transformed into his wolf shape. I couldn't take my eyes off the riveting white coat that fluttered in the wind. He was as beautiful in animal form as he was in human, and I wanted to kneel down and wrap my arms around him, to burrow my head in that soft, plush fur.

But he set to digging then, furious and fast, his front feet kicking dirt out behind him. Another few moments and he stopped, backing away. With a whimper, he looked up at me and I could see the anxiety in those brilliant eyes of his. I flashed the light to the hole and my heart skipped a beat. Bones . . . there were bones in the hole beneath the mound. An arm was protruding—the left hand jogged loose by Bryan's digging. I walked past him as he shifted back into two-legged form and knelt down by the skeleton. As I slowly reached for the hand, the light caught hold of something glittering.

On the ring finger was a ring—what looked to be an intricately filigreed rose gold band, wrapped around a center diamond that had to be a half carat in size. I softly reached out and touched the metal.
Avery's ring.
This was the ring my father had given my mother. That he had asked her to marry him with. And that meant . . .

“Tamil.” My voice caught in my throat. “This is my mother, isn't it?” I turned to the wolf spirit. He whined, and then he transformed, too, like Bryan had, into a man standing tall and proud. I recognized him from the photograph my grandmother had given me. Avery—the wolf spirit was Avery.

“You're my father, aren't you? And you were Tamil's shapeshifter—you were her mate.”

He nodded and then sadly looked at the skeleton, and in the blink of an eye, he vanished, and Bryan and I were alone with the remains of my mother.

*   *   *

I
t was a blur from there. Somehow, Bryan got me back up the ravine and bundled into the car with Peggin. He called the police and we sat there, waiting, till the squad car rolled in. A woman, Hispanic and pretty, with a no-nonsense manner, had arrived, along with a tall all-American jock-boy type. I recognized both of them from high school, though I wouldn't have been able to pin names on them if they hadn't introduced themselves. Sophia Castillo—no wonder I hadn't recognized the name. Her maiden name had been Lopez. And Frank O'Conner, her sergeant. He had been a couple of years behind me in school.

We told them what happened. Here, in Whisper Hollow, there was no hemming and hawing over ghosts or telling them that I was the spirit shaman or that we had been to meet Penelope. They knew. A number of people tried to ignore the things that went on, but the cops knew on an all-too-intimate basis that Whisper Hollow held dark secrets.

Sophia radioed in for a crew. “You say you think this is your mother?”

“I'm sure of it. The ring on her finger—my grandmother, Ivy Primrose described it to me. She gave it to her son Avery, to give to my mother.” I stopped, turning to Bryan, suddenly realizing just what this meant. “That means Avery must be dead, too. If his spirit guided us to her, then he has to be dead.”

Sophia jotted that down, too. “Didn't your father go missing a few years before your mother? But I thought I remember you telling me he was on a secret mission for the government.”

“Children's tales . . . what my grandmother told me to keep me from feeling abandoned. Ivy told me the truth. Avery vanished. My grandfather had told me that my father abandoned my mother when he found out she was pregnant. I guess he didn't go far.” I stared at the trailhead. “The Tree of Skulls . . . the serial killer who murdered all those women . . .”