Autumn Thorns (3 page)

Stumbling to the bathroom, I showered, then sat at the vanity. As I leaned in, trying for a decent makeup day, I grimaced. My face looked as tired as I felt. Circles underscored my eyes, but that would clear up with enough water and another good night's sleep. My eyes were dark today—they varied from almost golden to a deep brown depending on my mood. Right now, they were mostly bloodshot.

I brushed out my hair and braided the long, brunette strands to keep them out of my face while they dried. At thirty-three, I had yet to see a gray hair, for which I was
grateful. As I shifted, looking for my bra and panties, I caught the reflection of the mark on my back and paused.
A reminder of who I was. Of what I was.
It was a birthmark, though it looked like a tattoo—and it was in the center of my back, right above my butt. If it had been actual ink, they would have called it a tramp stamp. But I had been born with it, as had my mother and grandmother. It was the shape of a crow standing on a crescent moon, and it was jet black. It was the mark of a spirit shaman.

I slid into my underwear and then fastened my bra, shimmying to position my breasts in the cups. At a solid size eight and a 38F cup, I was happy enough with myself. I liked my curves—and I had plenty of them, in the classic hourglass shape. I hurried into my jeans and a snug V-neck sweater and patted my stomach. I did need to find a gym, though. I worked out a
lot
. I tended to favor weights and the stationary bike, though mostly for health and strength. Unlike so many of the women I met, I wasn't on a diet and I ate what I liked, preferring meat and vegetables and the occasional pasta dish. I ate my junk food, too, but tried to keep it to a few times a week.

Finally, I was ready to face the day.

You mean, face a new way of life, don't you?

Fine . . . face a new life. Happy now?

Yeah, I guess so.

Snorting—I usually won most of the arguments I held with myself in my head—I wandered into the kitchen. Next order of the day: Secure caffeine. Life always looked better after a pot of coffee, and as a former barista, I made a mean cup of java.

Early light filtered through the kitchen window, silvery and gray with the overcast sky. The room was spacious, with an eat-in nook, and a large window by the table that overlooked the backyard. I ran my hands along the smooth, cool countertops. My grandparents had renovated during the time I'd been gone. The laminate had been replaced by granite; the white cabinets had been switched out for dark. All the appliances were now stainless steel, and tile on the floor had replaced the checkerboard linoleum. But the walls were still the same warm
gold color they had always been—although the paint looked fresh—and the kitchen had the same cozy feel.

On the counter stood a shiny stainless steel espresso machine. Spotting a grinder and a container of beans next to the machine, I smiled. Grandma had loved her caffeine and I'd inherited her addiction. Grandpa Duvall had preferred tea—strong and black and bitter. I opened a cupboard at random to find neat, tidy shelves of packaged foods. The refrigerator, however, was empty and spotless. A few days ago, when I told her I was coming home, Peggin had promised to come in and clean it out for me. Apparently, she had managed to do so before she left on vacation. I breathed a sigh of relief. One less task I'd have to deal with.

I pulled a couple of shots of espresso and added some of the creamer I had picked up at the store the night before. As I carried my mug over to the table, the phone on the kitchen wall rang, startling me out of my thoughts. Who could be calling me? Peggin was out of town till Monday night, and she was the only other person who knew I had come home, besides my lawyer.

Hesitating, almost hoping it was a telemarketer, I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Kerris . . . you're really back. Peggin called me. You got my letter, then? I'm sorry about your grandparents, my dear.”

Ellia.
She sounded shaky, but no matter how many years it had been, I would never forget the lilting sound of her voice. When I was little, I'd clutch my grandmother's hand as we followed Ellia into the graveyard. She would sing, leading the way, her violin in hand. I had been mesmerized by her songs.

I propped the receiver on my shoulder, shrugging to hold it up to my ear as I peeked in the various drawers, looking to see what might be there. “I was going to call you, but figured it would be easier to talk in person. I suppose we'd better meet. Grandma Lila came to me in a dream; she told me there were things happening in town. What's going on?” I knew I sounded abrupt, but Ellia had never been aces in the diplomatic department either, and she didn't expect it from anybody else.

“There have been stirrings in the forest for several years. The Lady has been more active over the past couple of years, as well. Spirits are on edge, Kerris. Lila noticed this before she died and told me. We think Penelope's having a hard time keeping them over on her side.” Down to business, all right.

The news didn't bode well. First, Penelope was usually pretty good at keeping the Veil closed. That she was having problems was a bad sign. And second, that the Lady of the Lake was hungrier than usual meant nobody was safe.

“What changed? Has Veronica been at it again?” Veronica could be friend or foe depending on her mood, though mostly she was interested in her own agenda and tended to ignore the living. But if she got her mind set to an idea and had to turn the town on its ear to achieve her goals, she wouldn't hesitate. We had seen that when I was thirteen and Veronica decided to throw a grand ball for the dead.

A pause. Then—“No. I have my suspicions, but I don't want to discuss them over the phone. Let's just say that over the past few months, things have begun to escalate with more Haunts, more Unliving. Your grandmother started to investigate, but then . . . Anyway, since her death, the dead have been walking more. I've been doing my best to play the shadows to sleep, but my songs won't work right without a spirit shaman to lead the rites for me.”

I was nodding, though she couldn't see me. The night of every new moon, the lament singers and spirit shamans went out to the graveyards to calm the dead who had not yet passed beyond the Veil.

The Veil was a world between the worlds—it was a transit station for the dead, in a sense. A nebulous place of mist and fire and ice, where spirits wandered, not fully detached from the world of the living, and not yet ready to cross the threshold and move on to the Beyond. In most cities and places on the planet, the line between worlds was highly defined and it was easy for the Gatekeepers to guard the dead and keep them reined in, but in Whisper Hollow, things were different. The Veil was strong here, and so were the ghosts.

And now, with Grandma Lila dead—without a spirit
shaman to perform the rites and escort spirits into the Veil to begin with—the lament singers' songs would not work. And while Penelope held the ghosts at bay as much as she could, until she was able to persuade them to cross the threshold and leave behind all they had once been, the dead were still able to return and walk the earth.

Grandma Lila had been a strong woman—a stronger spirit shaman than I could ever hope to be, though Grandfather fought her every step of the way. I never knew why, but I knew that he wasn't her protector. In fact, unlike most spirit shamans, Grandma Lila had not been paired with a shapeshifter to watch over her. I wondered if that would be my fate, as well. She had never broached the subject during my training, and I had been too nervous to ask.

Shaking off my thoughts, I tried to push away my self-doubt. “When can we meet?”

“Tonight at my house? At six
P.M.
You remember where I live, don't you?”

I let out a slow breath. This was my job now, my heritage. I owed it to the town. “Fogwhistle Way. I don't remember the number, but I remember your house.”

“That's right. Three Thirty-seven Fogwhistle Way. I'll be waiting for you. It's good to have you back, Kerris. I'm sorry about your grandmother. We needed her. And now, we need you.” With that, she hung up.

I glanced out the kitchen window as a flock of crows rose into the sky from the maple in the backyard. They circled the house once, then headed out to the south. A storm was coming in from the north, off the Strait of Juan de Fuca. My gut said that it would barrel through the forest and hit us by afternoon.

Deciding I needed more caffeine, I pulled another couple of shots, then checked on the cats, setting down fresh food and water for them. They were freaked, of course, but they were safe and I'd let them out of their prison once I returned from shopping. I wanted to go through the house first to make certain there was nothing that would hurt them—no open windows, no rat traps.

With one last glance at the kitchen, I reached for my jacket and purse. As I paused, my hand on the doorknob, a wave of shadow rolled through. It reached out to examine me, cold and clammy as it tickled over my skin. Then, as I blinked, shivering, it vanished. Whirling, I glanced around the room, searching the corners. But the kitchen was empty.

Something was looming in the town, all right, and whatever it was, it knew I was back.

“I'm home, Grandma Lila,” I whispered. “I just hope you'll be around when I need you.”

And right then, I knew that—before whatever this was had ended—I was going to need all the help I could get . . . from
both
sides of the grave.

I
pulled into the driveway and eased the car into park. As I stared at the stone house, I wasn't sure just what I had expected. I had been to Ellia's house before, but I remembered it as cold and looming. I was expecting to see a broken-down house, covered in moss, behind an overgrown tangle of weeds. But there it stood, pristine and tidy. The house was old, that much was true. Built of stone, it looked like it was from out of another era and it probably was. Whisper Hollow had been founded in the mid-1800s, when it was barely a settlement of ramshackle houses in the woods.

As I gathered my purse and slipped out of the CR-V, I took a deep breath as I looked around the yard. The gardens were neat and tidy, with a hint of overgrown wildness. Ellia liked mums—a row of mums lined the pavers that ran up to the front of the house. The lot, like my own, was thick with trees looming up and over the yard. Where Ellia lived on Fogwhistle Way wasn't far from my own house, and close enough to the cemetery that she could walk there if need be.

It had stopped raining and the clouds had scattered for the moment, letting the stars shine through. In late October, the
night came early, especially out in the outlying areas without the incessant glow of the big city to light the area. Finally, I decided to face the inevitable. Somehow, the thought of facing Ellia made everything real—once I walked through her door, my grandmother was truly dead, I was committed, and both thoughts scared the hell out of me. But my time to run was over. Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I took a deep breath and headed up the stone steps to the front door, slipping on my gloves as I did so. The last thing I wanted to do was to touch Ellia's hands. That was one rabbit hole I knew I didn't want to fall down.

The bell was shaped like an ornate brass flower. I pressed the center and waited. Another moment and then the door opened, and there she stood, pretty much the way I remembered her. A little older, a little grayer. An ethereal smile stole across her lips, and she stood back, ushering me in.

She smiled at my hands, not offering me her hand or a hug. “Gloves. You remembered.”

Her voice took me back and I flashed her a shy grin. “How could I forget? Are things the same? Do you still . . .”

“Oh yes . . . these old hands of mine can still drag you down to hell.” She laughed, then sobered and held up her hands. She was wearing long cream-colored opera gloves that disappeared up her sleeves. “If I could wear gloves and play the violin, I would, but unfortunately, I'm not quite that dexterous. I hate causing unnecessary pain, so I just make sure I carry them with me wherever I go.”

She stood aside as I entered the hallway. A sharp bark came from behind her, and a dog peered around from behind her, gorgeous and white as snow, looking suspiciously like a wolf.

“Don't mind Viktor. He knows friend from foe.” She ushered me into the foyer and shut the door behind me. The dog gave me a long look, sizing me up. He was either going to eat me for dinner or—he pranced forward, leaned down toward the ground with his head against his front feet, and then did a little wiggle and barked. A lick to my hand and he bobbed his head, then abruptly turned and padded down the hallway, out of sight.

“His name is Viktor?”

“Yes, and you guess correctly if you are thinking he looks like a wolf. He's an Arctic wolf–Siberian husky mix. Apparently he's decided you're nothing to worry about.” But she said it with a laugh.

As she led me toward the living room, she glanced back at me, as if reassuring herself I was really there. Ellia was a tall woman, at least five eleven. Her hair flowed in shimmering waves down her shoulders to her lower back, and it had shifted color only slightly in the fifteen years I'd been gone, transitioning from spun platinum to silver. But her face remained unlined; her lips were a little more pursed, her eyes still blue and crackling with flashes of white heat. She was a lean woman, but not gaunt, and tonight she was wearing caramel-colored slacks with a green plaid blazer. She had always struck me as elegant, and when she spoke, her voice registered with a regal, yet ephemeral tone.

“Come now, Oriel and Ivy are waiting.”

Oriel, I vaguely remembered. But Ivy? I wasn't familiar with anyone named Ivy. As we entered the living room, the décor looked the same as it had the week I left Whisper Hollow. Sparse, but refined, in neutral shades of camel and rust and tan, contrasting greatly with the outside of the house, which looked like it belonged in the middle of a dark forest.

Two women waited on the sofa. One was round and stout, with a cheery smile and golden hair wrapped up into a braid around her head. Oriel. She would have been around my mother's age, if my mother had stuck around. I remembered that she had taken over the boardinghouse or something, but I had never really had a reason to speak with her when I was a teenager. She was dressed in a green jersey dress, with a brown leather belt that wrapped around her ample belly.

The other woman looked closer to my own age. In her late thirties or early forties, I'd guess, with shoulder-length black hair, streaked with white like a skunk. It was cut in a fashionable bob. Her eyes were a deep brown, and for some reason, she reminded me of someone, though I couldn't figure out who. She was wearing a denim pantsuit, though, that looked
oddly out of place on her, though she seemed comfortable enough in it.

Ellia motioned me to a chair off the side of the sofa and I sat on the edge. A tray of cookies and hot cocoa rested on the coffee table.

I sniffed appreciatively. “Cookies and cocoa? Whatever we're going to talk about must be bad if you're already bribing me with food.” I turned to the woman I didn't recognize. “I'm sorry, but I don't remember you. I'm—”

“Kerris Fellwater. I know who you are. I've watched you since you were a baby.”

At my startled look, she smiled. “I'm not a stalker, I promise. There's a reason I've kept watch. We're kinfolk, though you don't know it.”

I stared at the woman for a moment, not sure what to say. Finally, I settled for, “How could you have known me when I was born? You can't be that much older than me.” Then the second part of her statement hit me. “
Kinfolk?
We're related?”

She leaned forward, holding out her hand. “I'm Ivy Primrose. I've wanted to meet you since you were born, but your grandmother was always the voice of reason—she insisted it wasn't the right time yet. I live down the street from you.”

Either she had the best plastic surgeon around, or there was some hidden secret about her that I didn't know. Still uncertain of what to say but figuring she'd get around to it in her own time, I slowly reached for a cookie and a mug of hot cocoa. Over the years I'd learned that I found out more by being observant than barging in with a slew of questions. Sometimes, being taciturn was a tactical maneuver.

I decided to stick to my life as a topic. “I wasn't going to come back, you know. I swore up and down I'd never set foot in this town again. But you know how well that works.” With a laugh, I settled back in the chair and put my feet up on the ottoman. “So yes, I'm back, and here to stay. The Crow Man came to me, and so did my grandmother. The week before she died, she came to me three nights running in a dream. And I saw the Girl in the Window. Well, it was a mannequin
in a window, but the Bean Nighe was superimposed over her. I know better than to ignore the summons.”

Oriel shook her head. “So many try to leave, yet almost everybody born here stays. Or returns.” She cocked her head to the side. “I tried once, you know. Long ago. I got as far south as Portland before the town insisted I come back.” She let out a sigh. “I want to state up front that we tried to persuade Duvall to lighten up on you. We didn't want you running away. But the old bastard wouldn't listen. Except for at the end . . .”

Something in her voice caught me short. “What?”

With a glance at Ellia, Oriel cleared her throat on a sip of hot chocolate. “Your grandmother wanted us all to meet her the night that she died. She said she had something important we needed to know, and that Duvall would be there with her. That he wanted to tell us something before—” A slight shift told me that she was debating whether to continue.

“Go on. I want to hear this.”

“Your grandfather was dying. About three years ago, he developed idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. There is no cure, and Doc Wallace gave him two years—three at the most. About a year back, something changed in his nature . . . I think the fear of what waited for him on the other side of the Veil took hold. He started doing his best to turn things around.” She stopped, waiting for me to digest the information.

A pit opened in my stomach. Five months ago, I'd received a letter from him—one I had never opened. I had burned it without reading it. “Crap.” They looked at me, but I shook my head. This realization was one I'd have to take to my grave with me. “So . . . Lila and Duvall were supposed to meet with you the night they died? And he wanted to tell you something?”

She nodded. “That's right. And whatever it was, was important. Your grandmother stressed that we needed to talk to him now—all three of us. She was crying . . . her voice shaky. When I asked her what was wrong, she told me that her world had just been shattered . . . but she wouldn't talk
about it over the phone. Two hours later, the Lady took them. They went off the road.”

So the Lady had taken them before Duvall could reveal whatever it was that had apparently caused a change of heart. I stared at my cup. “I wish I'd come home in time to see my grandmother before she died. But I was too stubborn.” I paused, then glanced over at Ellia. “Did you . . . did you play for her? For my grandmother?” A sudden hitch caught in my throat. What if she said no? What if . . .

Ellia reached out and almost touched my arm, then paused and ducked her head, pulling her fingers back. “Yes, I did. You'll have to lead the rites over her grave, of course. But I think she heard me, and so far, she rests easy. I doubt she'll be walking any time soon.”

Relieved, I let out a long sigh. The thought of Grandma Lila up and prowling the city felt like heresy. I didn't really want to ask but decided I'd better. “Still no sign of my grandfather's body?”

Ellia slowly shook her head. “We haven't been able to find him. Their car went over the edge at the Lady's Finger mile marker, down near Juniper Creek. That seems to be one of the prime places lately for the Lady to drag them in.”

I frowned. The fact that she had kept his body could turn out to be a serious problem, but there was nothing we could do about it right now. “Do you have any idea what Duvall wanted to tell you?”

Oriel shook her head. Ellia followed suit, but more slowly.

Ivy, however, toyed with her cookies. “I'm not sure, but I think it might relate to your father, Kerris. And maybe . . . your mother.”

My father? My father had taken off, abandoned my mother when he found out she was pregnant. I hadn't thought about him in years—not really. I had no idea who he was, other than his first name and a picture my grandmother had given me.

“What do you mean . . . You think he knew where to find him?” Not sure why that was the first thing out of my mouth, I stopped. I wasn't looking to meet Avery, the man who had decided his life was better off without my mother and me.

“I think . . . perhaps that might be the case.” There was still something she wasn't telling me, and I felt like I was tiptoeing around in the dark, cautiously skirting a can of worms that—once I opened it up—I'd never be able to close again. Sipping the steaming drink, I tried not to think about my grandfather, somewhere under the dark surface of the lake, dancing with the Lady. She reached out for those she wanted. Not even the spirit shamans could counter her desires in that regard.

Desperately trying to stall, I said, “It's true that I don't have the full training I should, but as I said, I think I've learned enough to tackle the job. But I need to find my grandmother's tools. Do any of you know offhand where she might have kept them?”

The three of them looked simultaneously relieved and worried.

Ellia shook her head, a somber look crossing her face. “Your grandmother kept them hidden. Through most of his life, Duvall fought her calling. He hated what she was. They're probably still hidden away somewhere in the house.”

“Then, first order is to find them because normally, she would have helped me to gather my own, and gifted me a few of hers. If I can find her kit, so much the better.” I worried my lip. “You said the dead have been walking more, even while Lila was alive?”

“Yes. Even though we worked together to persuade as many families as we could to perform the rituals over their dead, we were still noticing a rise in spirit activity. And that from more than just those who went to their graves unprepared. The dead are returning from the Veil. Haunts . . . Mournfuls . . . the Wandering Ones. I fear that next, we'll see a rise in the Unliving crossing back over. And only a spirit shaman can take on the Haunts and the Unliving.”