Autumn Thorns (7 page)

The case was silver, with a moon and stars embossed on it in a cloisonné design and the box felt . . .
sparkly
 . . . when I touched it. Some sort of energy was attached to it. I held it up, looking for a lock, but there was only a fastener. I carefully eased it open. Inside, a small key nestled on a pillow of black velvet.

“What have we here?” I picked the key up, turning it over in my hand. It was long and ornate, embellished with scrollwork, and reminded me of a skeleton key, though the shaft was shorter than usual. It had obviously been important enough to my grandfather to keep safely hidden away. My guess was that my grandmother hadn't even known it was there.

A loud shriek startled me and I glanced over at the window. A crow was perched in the great maple overshadowing this wing of the house, and as I watched, the bird swooped off the branch and toward the house, aiming directly at the bedroom window. At the last moment, it pulled a sharp left and disappeared.

The Crow Man.
He was still watching me, which meant that just returning to Whisper Hollow wasn't the whole of his message.

Seeing nothing that might be unlocked by the key, I tucked it back in the box and slipped the box into my pocket. Replacing the drawer, I moved on to the vanity. Most of Lila's creams and perfumes I kept—they were still good and I liked their scents. When I came to her jewelry box, I slowly opened it. Her wedding ring had been on her finger when they found her, and that I had in my possession. But here were her daily-wear items. Some things were obviously costume; others I wasn't so sure about. As I stared at the jumble, I decided that I'd just take the whole lot in and have it all appraised. I didn't want to give away anything without knowing exactly what was there first. I searched for any sign of Avery's ring, but there was nothing in sight that matched Ivy's description.

After that, I fell into a rhythm and the rest of the room went quickly. Soon, I was lugging bag after bag of clothing out to the car. I also stripped the bed, washed all the sheets, and packed up the linens. I kept the handmade quilts that were family heirlooms, and some of the tea towels, but as much as I had loved my grandmother, we had vastly different style and color choices, so I decided just to start fresh and give most everything away. All through clearing out the
bedroom and bath, I kept an eye out for her journal but only came across notepads with to-do lists written on them. Careful ticks showed completed tasks to the point of making me feel like a slacker.

After I was done, I took a break for lunch. I made myself an omelet and sat at the table, staring at the box with the key in it, and wondering where Lila's journal was. Maybe she kept it in the desk in the living room? Grandpa Duvall's den had been off-limits to everybody, so I doubted that I'd find it there, but I'd have to go through the room anyway. Another day for that, though.

As I nibbled on a slice of toast, my mind a million miles away, I was startled by the sound of a door closing. It hadn't been the front door, but I had heard it loud and clear. I quietly set down the bread. If somebody was in the house, I didn't want them to know I knew.

Slowly, I eased my way out of my chair, remaining by the table as I listened for any further sound.
Nothing.
The cats weren't door-closers, though I knew of a few who could—and did—push doors shut. No, this had come from the direction of Lila's bedroom. My heart beating rapidly, I cautiously turned toward the hall leading to the master suite. I had barely gotten to the edge of the kitchen when a door on one of the bottom cupboards next to me opened, slowly but deliberately.

“Well, then, you want me to know you're here.” I paused. I could see spirits fairly easily, but they had to want to be seen or conditions had to be right. I held out my hand, palm facing the cupboard door. Sure enough, the energy was strong enough to make my skin tingle.

I closed my eyes, reaching out. Making contact with spirits could be dangerous, but Lila had taught me early on how to protect myself from being jumped, so I wasn't worried about possession—I always kept my shields up. But once contact was made, it could be difficult to push them out, if need be. It was almost like in the vampire novels where, once you invited the vampire in, it was hard to stop them until you rescinded the invitation.

*   *   *

T
here are six categories of the dead, Kerris.” Grandma Lila had taken me out to the graveyard one lovely spring afternoon. We were sitting on a bench. I was holding a candy bar. “You need to remember this, because it can mean the difference between putting yourself in danger and keeping yourself protected. The dead can be harmless, or harmful. Do you understand?”

I was seven years old, but I already knew that one day I'd take my grandmother's place. I had her gift, and even though I didn't say much about it, inside I was proud of the fact that I'd grow up to be a spirit shaman. It felt like continuity—and ever since my mother had vanished, the fear had been there that, at any day, at any time, I could lose everything important to me.

I nodded. “Yes, I'll remember. What are they?”

My grandmother smiled. “The first type, the
Resting
, we don't have to worry about. They have passed into the Veil, though they haven't passed through the other side yet. But after they go through the Veil, they aren't our responsibility, unless they try to come back. And the Resting are content with knowing they're moving on to the next cycle in their existence.”

“Penelope helps them, then, right?” I squinted, staring at the graves. Old bones and bodies filled the ground here, but they weren't what we had to worry about.
Bones
didn't walk.
Spirits
did.

“Yes, Penelope lives in the Veil and she helps them cross to their next destination. The second type of spirit is called a
Mournful
. They mourn their loss of life, and sometimes you see them repeat their deaths, but they don't usually bother us. They know we're here, but they don't really care unless they want us to help them. Think of them . . . like a TV show—a rerun of what happens.”

“Do they move through the Veil to the other side, too?”

My grandmother shaded her eyes, tipping her hat so it reflected the light. “Yes, if Penelope or one of the other
Gatekeepers can help them. Sometimes a spirit shaman will help jog them free from being stuck. That's part of our job at times, too.”

I frowned. “I don't think I want to become a Mournful when I die. It sounds lonely.”

“It is, love. It is. Now, the third type of spirit is known as a
Wandering One
. Do you know what they are?” She crossed her legs and leaned back, handing me a handkerchief to catch the dribble of ice cream running down my chin.

I wiped my face, thinking. I had heard about the different categories of the dead, but Grandma had never made it one of our actual lessons before. I thought about the name.
Wandering Ones
 . . . that meant they weren't tied to one spot—not that most ghosts were trapped in an area. But there had to be a deeper meaning. After a moment, I shook my head.

“I'm not sure. They walk around a lot?”

“The Wandering Ones travel and are seldom found near their graves or the places where they died. They don't really pay attention to us, like the Mournful, but the Wandering Ones don't repeat their deaths over and over. They just wander the earth, lost. A lot of times they don't even realize they're dead. They tend to be confused. We also try to help them, when we can. If we can guide them into the Veil, we can help them realize that they have died and that it's time to move on.”

I processed the information, feeling rather sad. “It must be awful to die and not realize it.”

Grandma patted my shoulder. “Don't worry, Kerris. Spirit shamans
never
join the ranks of the Wandering Ones. Now, the fourth kind of dead can be dangerous. They're called
Haunts
—”

I finished my chocolate. “I know what a Haunt is. They scare us—they're Halloween ghosts.”

Lila laughed. “Yes, they are Halloween-type ghosts. They enjoy scaring people. Sometimes they can cause physical harm to us, and sometimes they can possess people. Poltergeists usually fall under this category. They're angry ghosts, and they don't want to go into the Veil. Sometimes, they've gone over but are able to break free and return. So
we have to drive them back before they cause too much havoc. Now, the fifth kind, the
Guides
, are helpful. They come to tell us things we need to know, or they come back to check on those they loved. They've gone through the Veil, and they . . . well . . . they act like guardians for a while before going on to their next destination.”

I'd heard my grandmother talk about the spirits who helped her out all my life. “We leave them alone, right? Unless we need their help?”

“Right. We can talk to them if the need arises, and we can ask for help, but yes—we don't interfere with their activities. Now, what's the last type of dead?” She waited.

I bit my lip. I knew the answer, but the very name scared me.

“Kerris, you have to learn how to talk about them. If you fear them, you give them too much power. So tell me, what's the last type of dead?” She leaned down to take my hands. “I know you're afraid, and truly—they can be terrifying—but you have to gain mastery over your fear. Fear strips your power, fear leaves you vulnerable. Always respect the power of the dead, but never give them power over you.”

Sucking in a deep breath, I nodded. “All right. The sixth form of dead are the
Unliving
, like Veronica.”

Veronica was a queen among the Unliving, and she had a lair near the cemetery. She seldom interacted with the town, but she occasionally brought spirits back from the Veil to serve her. The Unliving were corporeal, but they weren't solid. They formed bodies from sheer will—from the energy they commanded—and they couldn't be physically attacked. Dangerous and unpredictable, they were the most powerful form of the dead. They crossed back from the Veil filled with agendas that the living knew very little about. And they were able to manipulate physical objects, often harming the living. They could also affect the living on a mental level. The Unliving could control the environment around them, and they did so with general contempt for the living.

My grandmother slowly inclined her head. “Yes, the Unliving, like Veronica. And these spirits, Kerris, usually hate spirit shamans, because we are among the few who can harm them.”

I
waited, hand on the counter. The next moment, a soft laughter tickled my ear. Jumping, I searched the room. I knew that voice. There, standing beside me, was my grandmother. She was dressed in a violet pantsuit—her favorite color. She looked healthy, although I could see through her. I was used to seeing the dead the way they had died, which wasn't always a pleasant sight. Grandma Lila, however, looked happy and whole and not at all like a drowning victim.

“Grandma!” I was so happy to see her that—for a moment—all my common sense flew out the window. Then, I pulled back, logic taking over again. “Are you really Lila?” I scanned her energy and she stood there, waiting, arms out at her sides. Moving into
soft focus
, the technique she had taught me to see the truth behind illusion, I examined her. As far as I could tell, there was nothing hidden behind the image. No façade or assumed persona. Breathing easier, I relaxed.

A lot of people didn't seem to realize that spirits could—and did—lie. In fact, Haunts often used that tactic to raise havoc, pretending to be Guides. That was another reason spirit shamans urged the average person to talk to a professional. It
was all too human to trust that your loved one would never, ever try to harm you. But some of the dead—especially Haunts and the Unliving—were able to disguise themselves as somebody else. Not every spirit was happy about being dead, and some of those spirits wanted to share the misery.

My grandmother raised her hand and a mist began to rise in the room. I caught my breath and could smell the scent of mildew and wet cedar, of water dripping off tall timber into the forest detritus below. The faint sound of lake water lapping against the shore whispered past as mist began to whirl around me in spirals, like fog creatures dancing in the air.

Lila motioned for me to follow her. Leading me toward the staircase, she headed upstairs. As we passed out of the natural light in the kitchen, her figure began to glow softly with a pale blue light. Neon . . . I thought. A soft bluish-white neon glow. A sense of familiarity rushed back.

When I was six, I had walked in on my grandmother once to find her glowing like this. The memory swept back like crows on the wing. She had been in her sewing room, sitting at a small desk, writing in a leather journal. She was so intent on what she was doing that she didn't see me standing there. As I watched, the energy around her swirled, wafting off her body in spiraling curls. I stayed in the shadows and watched as she knelt by the desk to open a cubbyhole on the floor hiding beneath the throw rug. She slipped the journal inside, then closed the panel and covered it with the rug once more. I slipped away before she could catch me, aware that I had been intruding on a private moment.

Like bricks from a crumbling wall, it hit me.
The leather journal . . .
that was her Shadow Journal, the book I was looking for! I caught my breath and stopped, halfway up the stairs. “You meant for me to remember that—you showed me what I'm looking for. I had forgotten all about that time! I didn't even know you realized I was there.”

Grandma Lila didn't turn around, but she gestured for me to continue. I followed her into the sewing room. A sewing table and ironing board were the central focus. Along two of the walls were sturdy built-ins, shelves and cabinets for
supplies. Grandma's walnut writing desk was against another wall, looking out through a window into the side yard and right into Bryan's property. Beside the desk was the throw rug. The room was exactly the way I remembered it.

Lila stood back, waiting. I knelt beside the pigeon-holed desk and reached for the rug, looking at her. She nodded and I slowly lifted the woven throw. There was the panel, with a small silver handle. I reached for it, and the metal sparked against my skin as I lifted it open. I scooched back so that I could see inside the cubbyhole as light from the room illuminated its interior.

There were two objects in there: an old-fashioned doctor's bag upholstered in a blue-patterned jacquard, and something wrapped in ice blue satin. I lifted both of them out, and my fingers tingled as I touched them. Making sure the cubbyhole was empty, I closed the panel again.

Sprawling on the floor, I stared at the bag. Grandma Lila stood, unmoving, watching me as I pushed aside the satin to reveal a leather-bound book. The size of notebook paper, it was black leather and a good two inches thick. The leather was worn but still strong and supple and smelled of neatsfoot oil. Embossed on the cover was a sigil—that of a crow sitting on a crescent moon. A leather tongue with a snap on it kept the journal shut. My skin rippled, goose bumps rising as I stared at the rune—it was the same mark as on my back. The same my grandmother had also had.
The Crow Man . . .

I slowly opened the Shadow Journal and thought I heard a long sigh escape from it. The journal was about half full, my grandmother's writing neat and even. I turned to the end and found a loose page inserted there. To my surprise, it was a letter to me. It was dated the morning of her last day alive.

Dear Kerris,

I hope you never see this, but if you do
,
it means that I am dead and you have finally returned. I have a premonition that something huge and dark and cold is waiting in front of me, so I decided to write this . . . just in case.

I wish I could have trained you fully, but if wishes were pennies, we'd all be rich. Within the pages of this journal you will find all the spells and rituals I know that you will need in order to perform your duties as spirit shaman, along with the history of our tradition. I have also made notes on the spirits who wander Whisper Hollow. This town is a magical place and, like all faerie lands, can be deadly to the unwary and the unwise. I cannot write everything here that you need to know, but you will find your way. You are strong and I know you can do the job.

Look to the caretakers for help. Penelope waits on the other side. She is your other half, the Gatekeeper of the dead from the land of spirits. Trust in your instincts. Friends and colleagues may be true, but there is danger in the forest, a deep cunning desire to corrupt the powers of Whisper Hollow. These lands are ancient, and they rest on the crossroads of ley lines. Whisper Hollow is a vortex of power, attracting those who would take control. And our people—the sons and daughters of the Morrígan—have enemies who would seek to stop us in their anger from so long ago.

I will help you as I can, but my powers from the other side will be handicapped by those enemies who have sought to stop my work in life. Look to my past in order to move on with your future. By now, you know the truth about your grandfather—as will Ellia, Oriel, and Ivy after we talk to them this afternoon, if we are allowed to make it that far. My sense tells me we may run into trouble. Please, don't let hatred cloud your sight . . . I don't know if I can ever move beyond this, but I have to, for everyone's sake. And you need to be strong, and open to help from where you least expect it.

All my love in death, as well as in life,

Grandma Lila

I closed the book. The truth about my grandfather? There it was again. Secrets and hidden agendas. I turned to ask my
grandmother's spirit what was so damned important that she couldn't write it down in her journal, but she shook her head before I could speak and pointed to the bag.

All right then, I'd play by her rules. As I opened it, the scent of lilac and dusky rose swirled up. Inside the satchel, I found a leather sheath containing a silver dagger. The blade was a good eight inches long, and the hilt had two wings wrapped around it, the pommel being the head of a crow. The blade was etched with symbols. I flicked my finger along the edge and it quickly drew a thin line of blood.
Sharp.

Licking the blood off my thumb, I replaced the blade in the sheath and moved on. Along with the blade, I found a quartz crystal skull four inches in diameter. Fractures within the crystal formed prisms and rainbows, and it was hard to drag my gaze away. There were several bottles of powders—each labeled neatly, a thin silver wand fitted with quartz crystals, and a black velvet bag of crystal runes—though they weren't any symbols that I recognized.

Another bag, purple satin, caught my attention. I shook out several large teeth into my hand. There were nine, each inscribed with some sort of sigil. They resonated in my palm with a heartbeat that was so deep and thundering it made me dizzy. I quickly slid them back into the bag, not wanting to stir up anything until I knew what I was doing. The last item in the doctor's bag was a black velvet case. Inside, on a bed of blue satin, rested a fan made out of what looked like crow feathers. I unfurled it and swept it around and the sound of crows shrieking filled the air. Startled, I quickly slipped it back into the case.

The pentacle around my neck was humming and I realized it was reacting to the items in the case. Slowly, a million thoughts racing through my head, I replaced everything in the case, including the journal, which fit snugly alongside the other items. Then, pushing myself to my feet, I dusted off my jeans and set the bag on the desk.

Lila didn't seem finished with me, though. She motioned for me to follow her. I picked up the case and followed her over to the other room—the attic. When I opened the door,
it felt like I was walking into the hidden heart of the house. Attics were reservoirs, where old memories came to rest, lurking in the shadows. One large room, the attic was illuminated by a single bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Everything was coated with a layer of dust, and I could see several old trunks, a rocking chair, and a few odd assorted pieces of furniture. Lila stood to one side, only the look on her face had suddenly shifted from smiling to bleak. She gave me another nod.

Wondering why she had brought me here, I began to look through the trunks. There were several filled with miscellaneous china and bric-a-brac, but one in the corner caught my eye. Drawn to the box, I skirted the rocking chair and a small table and knelt down to examine it.

The chest was square, like a footlocker, carved from cedar. When I cleared the dust away, I saw that it had been polished to a warm golden glow. Three initials were carved across the top: TEF.

Tamil Eileen Fellwater
 . . . my mother. This had been her chest.

I glanced at Lila. She shrugged, gently, a sad look on her face. It hit me then. Lila had died without my mother ever coming home again. I wondered if she had ever heard from Tamil but never told Duvall. But surely she would have told me? Surely she would have put me in touch with her—and Avery, if the pair had really run away together? Squatting back on my heels, I thought about my mother's disappearance. Where had she gone? Even after this long, I couldn't help but wonder . . . had she loved me? And if so, why had she run away? Why hadn't she come back for me?

A vague memory flared—my mother and I were in the front yard, and she grabbed my hands and spun me around under the summer sun, laughing as I laughed. We went faster and faster, and then suddenly, we toppled over onto the grass and she pulled me into her arms and brushed my hair back.

“I love you, Kerris. Don't you ever forget that. No matter what happens, you remember I love you. Promise me?” She was forcing me to look at her, to hear her. I suddenly remembered
that her eyes had been filled with tears. She had been crying, though until now I hadn't remembered.

A week later, she vanished. And I had pushed that day out of my mind because it hurt too much to remember how happy I was and how much I loved her.

Sighing, I pulled my focus back to the present. “This was my mother's, wasn't it?”

Lila nodded, still silent. I knew that the dead could speak, but Grandma wasn't saying a word to me. She was merely acting as a tour guide right now. Hesitantly, I tried to open the chest, only to realize that it was locked. I examined the lock. The moment I touched it, I knew that the key I had found in my grandfather's drawer belonged to this trunk.

I tried to lift the chest but it was too heavy for me. I'd have to bring the key to it.

I glanced up to say something but the attic was empty. Lila had vanished.

“Grandma? Grandma!” I quickly scanned the room, but there was no one there except for me. Wishing I had told her how much I loved her when I had the chance, I slowly made my way over to the staircase. If I was lucky, she'd come back.

I reached the kitchen and was about to pocket the key and head back upstairs when the front doorbell rang. That couldn't be Peggin—it wasn't anywhere near dinnertime yet. Frowning, I answered the door to find Bryan standing there, leaning against the wall. He was carrying a bouquet of flowers—autumn zinnias that looked freshly picked.

“Hey, neighbor. I decided to play welcome wagon.” He thrust the flowers at me. As I accepted them, he caught my gaze and once again, I had the feeling that he was full of hidden secrets.

I tried to discern whether there were any spirits hanging around him. I could almost always catch a few if I looked, but when I tried, all I could see was a flare of energy rising around him. There was something . . . I sought for the words to pin down the feeling.