Warped (9 page)

“You’re hurt,” she said, forgetting caution and kneeling over the young man’s body. This was no dream. Being hurt was real. “Are you okay?” Tessa shook his arm. He still didn’t move. With an effort, she tugged at the dirty clothes and rolled him onto his back. A sudden memory of the CPR training she’d had the summer before came to her. “ABCs,” she whispered to herself. Right. “Airway.” Tessa reached out and gently moved his jaw to open his mouth. She knelt closer, swept her own hair out of the way impatiently and brought her ear close to his lips. Warm breath tickled her skin, and she could see the faint rise and fall of his chest. “Breathing,” she murmured. “Breathing is good.” Circulation. She pressed two fingertips to the firm column of his neck, where a pulse beat in a fast but steady rhythm. “Okay, you’re alive,” breathed Tessa, with a sigh of relief. She sat back on her heels and looked at him. Really looked at him.

He had a face of strong lines—clean, angled jaw and arrogantly sculpted nose. A deep, ragged scratch tore across one cheekbone, and a streak of dried blood was crusted on the middle of his forehead. His skin was tanned, and his tousled hair and eyebrows were touched with a paler color than the dark lashes that shadowed deep-set eyes. He smelled, but not really unpleasantly, Tessa realized, of musky sweat and campfires and something else . . . horses?

Good-looking despite the dirt. So good-looking, in fact, that if he hadn’t been filthy, he’d hardly look real. Especially dressed as he was, thought Tessa, in some kind of costume from a medieval fair. She reached out a tentative hand to touch his clothes.

He woke up fast. At her touch, his hand struck out like a whip and captured her wrist. Tessa gasped as he leapt up, hauling her up with him. He gripped her by the shoulders and nearly carried her as he propelled her forward to push her against the wall. Tessa swore, struggling to get her knee up and wrench herself away, but he only tightened his hold and pressed closer, pinning her to the wall.

“Where am I?” he demanded. “And what are you doing here?”

But Tessa ignored the questions and let out a high-pitched scream. He clamped a hand over her mouth. “Quiet!” he hissed. “I’m not going to hurt you.” His face as he looked down at hers was pale, giving his tanned skin a waxy look. His eyes were furious.

His eyes. Tessa stared, blinked and slowed her struggling. She
was
dreaming. She had to be. That face, those eyes, definitely came from her dream. Didn’t they? And it was impossible, but she could have sworn that she saw recognition in his expression as well. She nodded once.
Okay
. Slowly he took his hand from her mouth.

“Pray don’t scream,” he said, examining her closely. “It was you who released me?”

“Released you?” Tessa whispered, still staring into his eyes with confusion. She trembled as an eerie sort of understanding crept over her. “The tapestry.” She turned her head.

The tapestry hung on the wall, smooth and intact. But in the center of the picture, the clearing was empty. The green grass had been replaced by a shadowy darkness of tangled threads.

The unicorn was gone.

Chapter 13

A
t the same moment that Tessa Brody pulled a loose thread from an old tapestry, something else happened. Over the ancient tree Yggdrasil a knife of green lightning split the sky. A tiny rift appeared in the Wyrd. The endless, flowing fabric was torn. Ripples cascaded from the spot, across centuries, across continents.

The shock of it struck Weavyr into stillness. Her dusky fingers seized up as she watched her precise patterns, the symmetrical forms, become hopelessly tangled.

“By the powers!” she shrieked. “Not again! Come. Help me, Sisters!”

The other two Norn came swiftly.

“What is happening?” Spyn cried.

“Look for yourself. The Wyrd is torn.” Weavyr gasped. Her fingers began to fly, clutching at threads to straighten paths, to restore order.

“How?” Scytha demanded in a booming voice.

“The stolen threads,” Weavyr replied. “Hold this. No, not that one. No, too late. Here.”

“They’ve been returned?” asked Spyn.

“No,” Weavyr answered, working frantically. “Not returned. But something has happened. A terrible disturbance. It must be because of the stolen threads, or one of them.”

“Can you repair it?” Scytha asked.

“I’m trying,” said Weavyr. Her cloaked hood shook as if she was shuddering beneath it.

Lila Gerome strode across the concourse of Logan Airport, her high Prada heels clicking on the tiles and her shiny hair swinging. Abruptly she stopped. Her face contorted into a shocked grimace. She let out a grunt. Clutching her stomach, she lurched forward. Surprised travelers swerved out of her way as she ran into a nearby washroom.

Lila hung over one of the stainless steel sinks as a fiery pain scorched through her chest. A pain like she’d never felt before. “Wh-what’s happening?” she croaked. Her voice. It wasn’t smooth. It was as coarse as tar paper. It sounded
ancient
.

She clutched her chest, her breath coming in wheezing gasps. Her hands. She lifted them up and stared. The slim fingers thickened and twisted as the joints swelled. Blue, cordlike veins rose beneath the spotty skin. In a moment her hands had shriveled into clawlike fists.

“The tapestry,” she said. The pain was subsiding now, and in its place was an overwhelming terror. Was she dying? No. Lila staggered forward to the full-length mirror on the wall. Slowly she raised her head. Staring back at her was a hunched old woman. Her fashionable suit hung on her rickety frame as if she were a misshapen hanger. Thin gray hair hung around her face, and her small black eyes were nearly buried in wrinkled folds.

“Shit,” she said.

There was only one way for this to happen. It should have been impossible, but someone must have
taken
one of her threads from the tapestry. Taken her most precious thread, in fact, and released him. Her unicorn. He was her youth, her beauty, her strength. Stolen. Rage bubbled up, nearly choking her, and she let out a cry of frustration.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” A chubby woman in a floral caftan pulled her luggage on wheels up next to Lila, her face concerned.

Lila turned on her with a snarl. “Leave me alone!” she screeched.

The woman backed up, startled. “Well, fine,” she huffed, and hurried away.

Lila straightened as much as she could. “Moncrieff,” she said, nearly spewing the word.
He
had let this happen. Oh, he would pay for such incompetence. But first she must get the tapestry. And her unicorn must go back to its rightful place. And as for whoever had released him . . .

“I will find you,” she promised. Yes. She would find the filthy thief and sing her black song and pull his life’s thread. Not to weave it. No. She would destroy it. Tear it into tiny pieces. Send it into the Void.

Chapter 14

“Y
ou came from the tapestry,” Tessa said softly, more to herself than to the stranger. He still stood close, his hands on her shoulders, his pale, tense face looking down at her. But whether he was trying to restrain her or steady himself, she couldn’t tell.

“It’s impossible,” Tessa whispered. She closed her eyes tightly once again and shook her head.
Wake up, Tessa
. This
had
to be a dream.

“I thought so as well,” said the young man. After a pause he added: “I had given up hope.”

Tessa opened her eyes. He was still there.

“So you were the . . . ,” she began. She couldn’t even say it aloud.

The young man frowned. He took a hand from her shoulder to reach up and touch his forehead. He dropped his hand with a long exhalation and curled long fingers into a fist.

“The unicorn,” he finished. “Yes. And no.” He glanced around with a look of confusion and his gaze returned to her. “I thought I recognized you, but you are different. As is this place. It cannot be—” He broke off and shook his head. “Where am I? Where is the forest? Who are you?” he demanded.

“Who am
I
?” Tessa gasped. The question snapped her back, if not to reality, then at least to the recent highlights. “
You’re
the one who just appeared out of nowhere!”

When he didn’t make any move to release her, a headline flashed in Tessa’s mind.
Local Teen Strangled by Escaped Lunatic Male Model
. She pressed both hands to the man’s chest, which beneath the ragged clothing was firm and . . . not going anywhere. She tried shoving, but his hands only tightened their grip.

She went very still. “Let go of me,” she said. It made her mad to hear how her voice warbled. She jutted her chin and stared up at him. “Right. Now.”

He didn’t budge, but something hot blazed in his eyes and Tessa saw them as she had before. It was impossible, but his
were
the golden brown eyes of the unicorn. They held a mixture of anguish and rage and fierce pride. She trembled, remembering a dream. Then it was gone. He dropped his hands and stepped back, his expression neutral.

“My name’s Tessa,” she said, rubbing her arms and sidestepping his tall form to sidle across the room.

“Tessa.” He repeated it slowly, his gaze following her.

Tessa snatched up a small but heavy trophy from the bookcase. She held it by the gold-plated figure on the top and loved,
loved
, for the first time ever, that she’d won second place in the 2005 freestyle event at Crazy Wheels.

“That’s right. Tessa Brody,” she said, turning to face him. “And this is my room. My house.” She brandished the marble base of the tacky Rollerblader at him. “So. Who are you? Forget it. Just get out. No.” She hesitated, confused, torn between fear and curiosity. He just stood there, watching her. “Who are you?” she repeated finally.

The stranger glanced at her would-be weapon and raised his hands slightly. “I beg pardon, mistress,” he said, although there was nothing remorseful in his cool tone. On the contrary, he lifted one brow, giving his lean, clever face a look of surprised amusement. “My name is William de Chaucy.” With this, the young man in rags gave a short, formal bow.

Tessa stared at him. “William de Chaucy,” she repeated as he straightened. The very polite escaped lunatic. She felt a little of her bravado melt and had the sudden and really urgent need to laugh. She sat down on the end of her bed. Or rather, she let her legs wobble out from under her. The bed happened to be there.

“What are you doing?” William de Chaucy said, his expression guarded.

“I think it’s called going into shock,” Tessa said. She looked up at the tapestry on the wall, then back at . . . Unicorn Guy, and choked back a giggle. “Cut it out,” she told herself. She took in a deep, shaky breath and let it out.

He gave her a puzzled frown. “You speak most strangely, mistress.”

“Really,” she said, eyeing him. “So do you.” He had spoken English. But not like Tessa had ever heard before. His voice was deep, with a strange accent. Not exactly British, not exactly French. Mostly Hugh Grant with a little Pepe Le Pew thrown in.

That did it. She was gone. Completely psycho.

“How did you bring me to . . . ” He looked around her room once more and then shook his head. “How did you release me?” he demanded. Perhaps it was his accent or the way he held himself, but he seemed, thought Tessa, to act as though he owned the place. When she didn’t answer, he raised his scratched, dirty hands, looking at them as if not sure of their substance. “How did you transform me thus?” he asked. His voice rose. “Cast a spell? An incantation? Where is Gray Lily?” He glared at her now, suspicious. “Are
you
a witch as well?”

Okay. That was really
it
. Time to muster up Tough Girl again. “Listen,
William.
” Tessa stood up and jabbed her trophy at him, breathing hard. “I don’t know what happened or where you came from. I didn’t do anything. I mean, I—” She broke off. What
had
happened, anyway? Tessa frowned and went on. “I just pulled a thread hanging from the tapestry. One little thread.” She stepped over to the tapestry and pointed to the lower edge. “From right there.”

Instantly William leapt forward and pulled her back. “Don’t touch it!” he hissed, gripping her elbow with a shaky hand. With a visible effort, he seemed to recover, and his hand steadied. He let go and stepped away, putting an extra couple of feet between himself and the tapestry. Though he looked like he would have preferred a couple of miles.

“I was trapped inside there for—” His eyes darkened and he swallowed. “I think a very long time.”

Tessa stared at him. From his clothes to his odd, formal speech, nothing about him belonged here. “I think so too,” she said slowly. Once again the sheer, ridiculous impossibility of the whole thing struck her. Maybe this was what happened when nice, practical girls lost their minds. But he was here. William de Chaucy was real. She could feel the warmth of him standing next to her, smell the green, smoky scent of him and see the quick flash of his eyes as they swept over her. She could reach out and touch him. Not that she wanted to.

“So. Where’re you from?” Tessa asked brightly. Good old practical Tessa.

“From Hartescross,” he replied. When this seemed to make no impression on her, Will stiffened slightly and added, “My father is the Earl of Umbric.”

“Oh.
Right
. Okay.” Tessa nodded, taking in the rough, grimy clothing the young man wore. It certainly wasn’t very impressive. He looked as if he had just rolled out of a muddy stable.

“Hartescross. Is that in England?” she asked.

He gave her another sharp look. This one was wasn’t so much suspicious, it was more like “Are you insane?”

“Of course,” he snapped. “Cornwall.”

“Just checking,” Tessa said. It could just as easily have been Tatooine. “What was the year,” she asked slowly, “when you left?”

“It is the year of our Lord”—he frowned at her, then slid his eyes around the room and went on, his voice a little less sure—“fifteen hundred and eleven.”

“Uh-huh.” Tessa waited a beat, then nodded. “Okay. We need to talk. And then . . . I have to call somebody.”