Warped (7 page)

“Run!” Gray Lily called after Will. “Run fast, young master!” Her voice dissolved into mad laughter. She drew in a deep breath and straightened. The boy’s youth was delicious. She could only imagine how good it would feel to have all of it.

Her tongue darted from her mouth with a nervous energy. She glanced at the tapestry, at the empty space in the center. She had thought the unicorn would be more docile, easier to control.

“No matter. We shall have a hunt,” she murmured. She would find a girl, a young maid from the village. Better yet, she would find the one with blue eyes and long, dark hair.

Chapter 9

“Y
ou look tired, honey.” Tessa’s father folded up the
Portland Herald
and laid it aside. Tessa sat next to him at the kitchen table, idly brushing the sesame seeds off her bagel.

She yawned. “I didn’t sleep too well last night.”

She would never in a million years admit it, but Opal might have been right about the unicorn tapestry. It had been almost a week since she’d hung it on her bedroom wall. Each morning since then she’d woken feeling groggy and disoriented, and almost surprised to find herself in her own room. Which was silly. Where else would she be?

Thank goodness today was the last day of school before spring break. She could sleep in for a whole week. Maybe that would take care of the strange dreams she’d been having. Tessa broke away from her thoughts as she realized her father was still looking at her with concern.

“Tessa,” he said, and stopped. He rubbed the edge of the table as if smoothing an invisible mar in the wood. “I know the fact that I’m
seeing
someone must be really difficult for you.”

“What?” It took Tessa a moment to focus on his words. “Oh. Alicia. Right.” She shrugged. “It’s fine, Dad, really.”

Her father shifted in his chair and looked at the ceiling, as if there might be a cue card up there for what to say next.

“I just wish you would give her more of a chance.”

“What do you mean?” Tessa picked the last of the sesame seeds off one by one and took a bite of her bagel.

He sighed. “You know what I mean, Tessa. You’ve made no effort to get to know Alicia.”

“
I’m
not dating her, Dad. It’s not exactly a requirement.”

“It might be,” her father said.

Tessa shot him an inquiring glance. “As in?”

“As in Alicia and I enjoy each other’s company,” he replied. “And I plan to see a lot more of her.”

“Yuck.”

“You know what I mean,” her father said wearily.

“Okay, cheap shot,” admitted Tessa. “Sorry. But do we have to make a big deal out of this? I just don’t see what the big attraction is. She’s older than you, isn’t she?” Tessa kept her other questions to herself. Like why he needed to be so demonstrative toward Alicia, so gaga all the time. It was embarrassing.

“Alicia is three years older than me,” her father replied. “Not that it’s a big deal.”

Tessa blew on her tea and tapped her fingernails on the sides of the mug, making a ceramic clink that seemed loud in the quiet kitchen. She waited, staring at the amber-colored liquid. Then she said it:

“She’s nothing like Mom.”

It was a casual observation. That was all. And if she could have taken the words back . . . well, she wouldn’t. But the cold silence that followed in the Brody kitchen could have halted global warming. Tessa didn’t look up. She knew the hurt her remark had caused; she could feel it too.

“No. She’s not like your mother,” her father answered at last. “Nobody is.” His voice sounded tired. As if he was saying something to humor her, something that was obvious and didn’t need saying. And it made him sad.

“Dad,” Tessa began. “I—”

Her father stood. “Hadn’t you better get to school?” he said, putting his dishes in the sink. Tessa glanced up. His mouth was pressed into a tight, unforgiving line that said
I don’t want to talk about this anymore
. The expression made Jackson Brody look older; it made him look like a tired, middle-aged man. And Tessa had to deal with the fact; she was the one who’d put it there. She got up and left.

After school the bookstore was busy. Tessa’s father stayed at the front counter with customers while she threw herself into cleaning a small stack of used books in the back. She dipped a rag into the pot of cleaning paste and rubbed hard. Gradually the black grime lifted away and a clean, fresh-looking cover of
Wuthering Heights
emerged. But the work didn’t give her the usual feeling of satisfaction. She laid that book aside and went on to the next. Why did she have to make that stupid comment that morning?
Way to be mature, Tessa
.

Getting up to stretch, she decided to forget about it. Later, she would apologize to her father. It would all be fixed.

In the meantime, she would do some research. Tessa pulled all the books she could find that included unicorn folklore from the shelves. Maybe reading about unicorns would put her weird dreams to rest. Or at least put a better spin on them.

By break time Tessa was settled in a back corner of the storeroom with her dinner, practically barricaded in by a stack of thick volumes that constantly threatened to topple over without an occasional steadying nudge from her sneaker. She selected one called the
The Legend of the Unicorn
.

She skipped the prologue, took a bite of veggie wrap and read from chapter one. The earliest description of a unicorn was recorded there, by a historian from 400 B.C.

The unicorn has only one horn in the middle of its forehead. It is the only animal that ventures to attack the elephant; and so sharp is the nail of its foot that with one blow it can rip the belly of the beast.

“Okay,” Tessa murmured. “Maybe that’s not what I needed to know.” She skimmed ahead a few centuries. She had never realized unicorn lore was so extensive. The book said that in the Old Testament there were references to a unicorn called
re’em
in Hebrew. And in Japan the word for unicorn was
kirin
. It had a lion’s face and a body covered with scales. The Persians even had a unicorn, known as a
shadhahvar
. Apparently the shadhahvar looked cute and gentle; it lulled the unsuspecting with lovely music it created by channeling wind through its hollow horn. Then it cut them to shreds.

“How sweet,” Tessa commented, closing the book. She picked up another that looked more promising:
The Compendium of Fantasy and Folklore
. At least this one had more pictures. An illustration on thick, glossy paper in the segment on unicorns looked more like what she’d always pictured them to be. A white horse, basically, with an elegant spiral horn. It was grazing in a moonlit meadow. It looked so peaceful, so pretty. “That’s more like it,” she murmured. But on the facing page another picture caught her eye. Interestingly, it was a picture of a tapestry entitled The
Unicorn Hunt
.

In this one a wavy-haired maiden with a pouty mouth and vacant eyes sat in a clearing in the middle of a forest. A silvery unicorn knelt by her side. And it was wounded; a long spear hung from a gash in its side. Its anemic-looking head was nestled in the girl’s lap. One of the girl’s tiny hands was resting on the unicorn’s head, as if she was petting its mane. The caption underneath read:
Medieval legends tell of the unicorn being hunted for its horn or its blood. Both were said to cure disease and even bring immortality. Hunters could capture the unicorn only by placing a virgin in its haunts
.

A virgin in its haunts. Tessa frowned. She’d heard about that part of unicorn legend before. But now something really bothered her about the whole thing: the cruelty of it. And just how did the unicorn
know
the girl was a virgin, anyway? Tessa glanced again at the maiden in the picture. She looked kind of spacey—she was gazing off into the distance. She didn’t seem to even notice that the poor unicorn was bleeding to death in her lap. What was her deal? Why would a girl do something so rotten as to trick a beautiful animal, to trap it?

Tessa closed the book.

A girl like that would have to be incredibly stupid, she decided. Or completely heartless.

Chapter 10

“M
s. Gerome?” Moncrieff’s husky voice was deferential over the phone. A smile stretched Lila Gerome’s crimson lips. Even after all the years he had worked for her, Moncrieff maintained this formality. She knew it was because he was afraid of her. She liked that about him. It was his most dependable characteristic.

“I’ve found your tapestry and the book,” he said. “It took some time to track them down, but it seems a bookstore owner from Portland, Maine, bought them. As I said, it was an unfortunate accident. I’ll contact him and get them back.”

“Do it now,” Lila ordered. “Get them. I’m flying back immediately.”

“Yes,” Moncrieff said. “We’ll have to pay. Something considerable, perhaps.”

“Pay it, then. Whatever it takes. Just do it quickly and quietly. I don’t want to draw any attention to myself. You know that.”

“Yes. I know.”

HARTESCROSS

1511

The Earl of Umbric, Will de Chaucy’s father, slammed a flagon of wine to the table. The echoing clang rang against the stone walls of the great hall of Hartescross Castle.

“Has the whole bloody world gone mad?” he bellowed. “What do you mean the boy’s missing?” He righted a toppled goblet and said more quietly, obviously struggling to control his temper, “
How
could Will just disappear without word, without trace?” His glance shot to Hugh, demanding answers.

“No one has seen him since we left for London,” said Hugh wearily. “Everyone at Hartescross assumed he accompanied us.” He pressed his knuckles against his tired eyes. He had not slept since returning from court. He had questioned every inhabitant of the castle, from the char sweep to the falconer, as to the whereabouts of his younger brother. Will was gone. As completely as if he had been spirited away.

“What of his horse?”

Hugh shook his head. “Gone.”

“A fortnight, then?” The earl’s fists tightened. “My son has been missing a fortnight while I have cooled my heels at court, waiting for King Henry to deign to see me?” He finished in a low mutter, “All to plead my case for my own bloody land.”

“There is more,” said Hugh.

The earl gave a curt nod for his elder son to go on.

“There’s been talk in the village.” Hugh’s usually ruddy face was pale, and the circles beneath his eyes told of sleepless hours. “Talk of a beast. In the northern woods.”

“What kind of beast?”

“A unicorn,” answered Hugh softly.

The earl stared for a moment, then let out a dismissive cry. “Madness,” he said. His expression registered something between disgust and despair.

Hugh hesitated. “Perhaps,” he said. He paced before his father’s massive oaken chair as if to wear a groove in the flagstones. Hugh’s nature was one of action. He despised talk. He halted, and then, speaking in a curt monotone, said: “There’s an old woman come to the village. A traveling weaver. She says she saw the unicorn at the edge of the northern wood. She followed it into the forest and saw it attack a young noble. The description she gave sounds like Will.” He looked at his father with anguish. “I would say the old woman is raving, except that some of the villagers say they’ve seen it as well—a unicorn with a blood-tipped horn. And Will was . . . ” Hugh broke off and cleared his throat noisily. “He was going into the northern woods on the day we left.” He lowered his head. “I might have stopped him. Or gone with him.”

The earl rubbed a heavy hand over his eyes. He was a brusque man with a titan’s temper. But his sons were as dear to him as his own breath. He looked at his elder son. “This is no fault of yours, Hugh. Gather a hunting party. Capture the beast. I will see it with my own eyes before I believe a word of this tale.”

Hugh shook his head. “The crone says the unicorn cannot be captured by ordinary means. A trap must be set, and then the creature must be fettered with iron shackles.”

“Trap? What kind of a trap?” the earl asked. His eyes brightened, seemingly despite himself, at the prospect of a challenging hunt.

“A virgin must be placed in its haunts,” said Hugh.

“Then make it so,” said the earl. “And if this is true, if there is such a beast,” he went on in a commanding tone, “kill it, Hugh. With your own hands, kill it. It won’t bring Will back to us, but such a thing must not be suffered to live. It’s a danger to the village.”

Hugh’s breath was ragged with emotion, and wetness glittered in his eyes as he answered:

“I will destroy it.”

Chapter 11

T
essa couldn’t sleep.

No matter what shape she punched her pillow into, it wasn’t comfortable, and every book she picked up she tossed aside. Her thoughts kept revolving around one idea:
something was wrong
.

Outside were the sounds of occasional cars passing, but the building was quiet. She was alone. Her father had called; he would be home a bit later. She’d heard music playing in the background as he spoke over the phone. “You’re sure you’re okay? I’m just around the corner, at Alicia’s.”

Tessa heard the carefulness in her father’s voice, and the worry. “I’m fine, Dad,” she’d said firmly. “And that thing I said this morning—I’m really sorry. It was stupid.”

“The way you feel is never stupid, Tessa.” He had paused as if to say something else but then seemed to change his mind. “I won’t be too late.”

Now Tessa heaved herself up from the bed and turned on the desk lamp. Her father was happy; it was a good thing. She should just focus on her own life. Or lack thereof.

She remembered what Hunter had said about the volleyball accident, about their having some kind of fate or destiny together. Tessa scowled. No. Hunter Scoville was
not
her destiny.

Anyway, she didn’t believe in fate. If everything in this life were preordained, destined to be, well, that would mean that someone, somewhere, had decided that
Hey, on December 12, Wendy Brody will be in a head-on car collision on I-95 South. Make sure it’s when she’s coming back from a shopping trip. For Christmas
.