Warped
Authors: Maurissa Guibord
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Love & Romance, #Fantasy & Magic, #Historical, #Medieval
WARPED
by
MAURISSA GUIBORD
Table of Contents
Prologue
O
n a hillside stood three figures. Black cloaks billowed over them from head to toe, while hoods cast a pall of darkness over their faces. These walking shadows were the Norn. Some called them by another name: the Fates, the three sisters who eternally spin and weave and cut the threads of human life. They had lived and worked here forever, beneath the huge ash tree named Yggdrasil, whose branches reached up so far they seemed like roots embedded in the sky.
The one called Spyn knelt beneath the twisted tree. She scooped her hands together and gathered a mist that drifted down from its branches. The mist was the color of snow, holding prisms of winter sun trapped within. Her spindly fingers jabbed and twiddled and pulled at the translucent material until it became a gauzy mass. From this, Spyn drew one long, shimmering thread. She passed it to Weavyr. Weavyr took it, and her dark fingers flew as she wove the thread into a fabric that lay upon the ground. This fabric flowed out in all directions from the hill, turning and folding, coiling into whorls here and twisting spirals there. This was the Wyrd. The threads of human life were here, endlessly woven and tended by the Norn. Each thread was a mortal soul whose destiny was made by their thread’s winding path in the Wyrd.
“Something is not right,” Weavyr announced. She crouched lower over one spot in the Wyrd and tugged, redirecting the threads. In the moments that followed, throughout the world hearts were broken, brilliant careers were launched and dreams were dashed. A volleyball serve also went awry.
“No,” Weavyr muttered from beneath the folds of her hood. “Still wrong.”
Spyn drifted closer to examine her sister’s work. Beneath the cloak her bony shoulders shrugged. “Life is often messy.”
“You sound like one of them,” Weavyr observed.
“Human, you mean? Don’t be vulgar,” Spyn retorted.
“What is it?” A deep voice, like an echo from an empty crypt, interrupted the discussion. The third sister was called Scytha, and her tall form loomed over the other two, eclipsing them in her shadow. From the sleeves of her own cloak Scytha’s hands hung down: large, thick-fingered and pale. Scytha held a pair of heavy shears whose razor edges glinted so brightly that it stung to look upon them. “Why do you stop your work?” Scytha demanded.
The calloused pads of Weavyr’s fingers tapped together in irritation. “It’s all wrong,” she said, pointing to the troublesome spot in the vast fabric. “But it’s not my fault. It’s the missing threads.”
“The missing threads,” Spyn repeated in her thin, wavery voice. “Five hundred human years have passed and still they plague us. Out of the billions, the myriad, to think that seven threads could matter so.”
“They do,” Weavyr replied. “You know they do. The loss of those threads created rifts, knots and tangles in the Wyrd. Things that were not meant to be have come to pass. Proper destinies have not been fulfilled. I’ve had all I can do to maintain order.”
Spyn’s answer came on a whispery sigh. “Yes. You’re right, of course.” Her long fingers knit the air. “But what can we do?”
“Nothing,” said Scytha. “The threads are lost. They are gone from the Wyrd and therefore beyond our control.” She dragged one pallid finger across the fabric, and in the human world, a hundred souls shivered, as if each had felt the tread of footsteps over his grave.
“Not lost. Stolen,” Weavyr said, with a bitter snap.
“Yes. The threads were stolen.” Scytha pronounced this slowly. She did all things slowly, except for one. “Let us hope that someday they will be found.”
“And whoever stole them . . . ,” Weavyr began.
“Will be punished.” Scytha’s fingers inched over the shimmering threads and then stopped. She plucked up one of the threads and pulled it taut. “But for now, Sisters, we have work to do.” As if to demonstrate, Scytha’s fingers moved with a quick and dreadful economy. The flashing blades gaped.
Hssst
. The thread was cut. A human life was ended.
The other two Norn nodded and returned to their duties as Scytha had bidden them. Spyn’s nature was energetic, and full of drama. Weavyr was careful and workmanlike, just like her fingers. Scytha was final.
“Still,” said Weavyr. The dissatisfaction rang clear in her tone, even as her dark fingers worked, weaving the paths of human lives. “The stolen threads. I do wonder what has become of them.”
Chapter 1
C
heever’s Fine Auction House was packed on a stormy spring afternoon. The auctioneer’s voice carried over the patter of rain drumming on the high, dark-beamed roof of the former dairy barn. “Number ninety-four. Last lot,” he announced to the crowd.
“Thank God,” said Tessa Brody under her breath. She’d been sitting there so long, she’d probably have an impression of the chair slats engraved on her rear end. Auction butt. Not good.
“Nice collection of books from an estate sale,” the auctioneer boomed. “Some old leather-bound editions of the classics, and some more unusual stuff too.” Beside Tessa, her father leaned forward in his seat, making the flimsy wood creak. “Four boxes,” said the auctioneer. “Nope, make that five,” he added as his assistant lugged out one more. This was a wooden crate instead of cardboard like the others. The assistant set it on top.
“These are the ones I want,” Tessa’s father whispered.
“Really?” Tessa eyed her dad. Jackson Brody twirled his bidding placard, which looked like a Ping-Pong paddle, between his fingers while his knees jiggled and his heels tapped the concrete floor.
Tessa smiled at him. “Way to be nonchalant, Dad.”
She shifted to give the elderly man on her other side a little more elbow room, and rattled the last of her ice in a sweaty paper cup. If she’d had any patience, which she didn’t, it would have been gone about three diet colas ago. She and her father had been there for hours, since the preview, and had watched the bidding on what seemed like every Kewpie doll, vintage bedpan and tarnished tea service in greater New England, waiting for the collection of books her father was interested in. Naturally, it
would
be the last lot.
The auctioneer’s assistant took the top off the wooden crate and pulled something out. It looked like a faded, rolled-up rug.
“Look at that,” said the auctioneer. “You get a bonus with this lot. Open it up, Charlie. Looks like an old piece of tapestry was tucked in with this last crate of books.”
Tessa narrowed her eyes and shifted to see as the assistant lifted the piece up. It unfurled with a faint puff of dust to reveal a woven fabric about three feet square. A brilliant white unicorn was poised against a darker background. Across the length of the auction hall the unicorn seemed to glare at Tessa from the tapestry. Its eyes were a blazing golden brown.
A feeling of dizziness swept over Tessa. Her eyes fluttered closed and the cup of ice slipped from her hand.
Hoofbeats
.
Tessa heard them. The distant but clear sound of hoofbeats rose above the murmured noise around her. Louder. The air shuddered with the sound of hooves pounding against the earth. They were coming closer, faster.
Hoofbeats
. Savage. Frantic. Closer.
“Tessa.”
Tessa gasped. Her eyes flew open.
“You okay?” Her father was concerned, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling as he peered at her.
Tessa didn’t answer for a moment. She listened. The sound of hoofbeats was gone, but her breathing was ragged and her heart pounded beneath the thin fabric of her T-shirt.
“I—I’m okay,” she stammered finally. “I thought I heard something. Did you hear something?”
Her father bent to retrieve her fallen cup. “Like what?”
Good question
. Tessa brushed her hair back from her face, tucking it behind one ear. “Nothing.” She straightened up. “I guess I zoned out for a minute. It must have been the rain on the roof. I’m fine.”
“Do I have a bid of seventy-five dollars?” the auctioneer said. He nodded at a number of raised placards. “Seventy-five. Do I have one hundred? One hundred. Do I have one twenty-five?” In the front row a woman with a black beret perched on her gray curls shot an arm up. Tessa’s father lifted his placard to raise the bid. This process went on briskly for a few moments, but gradually the hands became more hesitant and their number dwindled. Tessa’s father settled back in his seat. He gave Tessa a half smile and shrugged.
He was giving up.
“Going once,” said the auctioneer.
Tessa nudged her father. She wasn’t sure why, but suddenly she wanted him to get this. It was important.
“Going twice. Two seventy-five.” Tessa nudged harder. Her father winced. But he shook his head no. Without thinking, Tessa grabbed her father’s hand and hoisted it up, still holding the paddle.
“Tessa!”
The auctioneer acknowledged the bid. “Three hundred dollars. Thank you in the back.” The bidding went on.
Later, the rain had diminished to a fine, cold mist as Tessa helped load the boxes into the back of the Subaru. The last one, the wooden crate, was the heaviest. She hefted it onto her hip and tried to wedge it in with the others. “Why,” she said, giving it a few forceful shoves, “does the last one never,
ever
fit?” She gave up and rested the crate on the bumper.
“Easy there,” her father said. He took the crate from her and set it down with a grunt. His face was red from exertion, and he wiped his forehead with his flannel shirtsleeve. Jackson Brody had a square, solid face that, over the last few years, had drifted toward pudgy.
“My wallet and I talked it over,” he said, eyeing her. “You’re never allowed near an auction again. You’re a menace.” He shook his head. “Must be all those teenage hormones.”
Tessa glanced out at the parking lot, where people were loading stuff into their cars. She swiveled back and gave her father a level look. “Okay. Dad? Remember that list of things you’re not allowed to talk about? Add Tessa’s hormones.”
“Right,” her father sighed. “But the point is you can’t act on every impulse you have, Tessa. It’ll get you into trouble.”
“Yeah, I’m a real wild one, all right.” Tessa put her hands on her hips. “Imagine,” she said, making her expression stern. “I spent my Saturday going to an auction with my father and buying a bunch of old books. The president should work on a special task force for that one.”
Her father shook his head and smiled, as if despite himself. “You look just like your mother when you argue.”
Tessa smiled too, and dropped the pose. Sometimes she wondered if her father knew she liked hearing that, and said it just to please her. But she
did
have her mother’s features: pale skin with mahogany dark hair and wide blue eyes that were slightly heavy-lidded, giving her otherwise ordinary looks an exotic touch.
“Anyway,” she said. “It was
your
impulse, not mine. You said you wanted them.”
“Not four hundred dollars’ worth,” her father said dryly. “I thought you and the old lady in front were going to duke it out there for a minute.”
“She looked pretty tough,” Tessa said with a nod. “But I could have taken her.”
She climbed into the back and tugged one of the cardboard boxes in farther. “Besides,” she called out. “It wasn’t four hundred. It was three sixty-eight, including tax. Dealer’s discount, remember? And I’m sure there’s stuff in here we can make a profit on.”
“
I
can make a profit on, you mean,” her father corrected. “The guy with the bookstore, remember?”
“Uh-huh,” Tessa answered absently. She tucked a loose tendril of hair, curling now from the damp, behind her ear and fingered through the books before selecting one.
Plant Lore of the Middle Ages
. The tooled-leather spine wobbled as she flipped the book open. She wiggled a slim finger into the spot where the endpapers gaped and prodded gently. “I can fix that,” she said. She liked to fix things; she was good at it too. But she frowned when she saw that one of the illustrated pages had been marred with someone’s notes and cross-outs. “Great,” she muttered, replacing the book with the others. “Looks like we had a scribbler. In pen, no less.”