Warped (8 page)

Tessa recognized the same painful twist of sadness she always felt when she thought of that day four years ago. She pushed it away.

As far as she was concerned, life was one big series of accidents. Some were good, like when you meet your best friend during your most embarrassing moment on the playground in second grade. Some were bad, like when you kill somebody’s mom, somebody’s wife, by falling asleep behind the wheel of a tractor trailer.

There was no such thing as fate, or destiny. Only what you could make happen. What you could swerve to avoid. What you could fix.

Tessa looked over at the tapestry. In the shadowy light the fierce eyes of the unicorn stared at her.
What you can make happen
. Tessa stepped closer. She closed her eyes, reached out and touched it.

She was in a shady, wooded place. Here and there, spears of sunlight shot through the leaves to make pools of glowing, dappled color on the ground. She sat, resting on a swath of green moss. She let her eyes roam up over the latticework of branches high overhead. It was beautiful here. Peaceful.

Where was she? She couldn’t remember. She knew only what she had been told: she must stay here and be very quiet, very still.

Her hands worked nervously, smoothing the thick folds of fabric in her lap. She looked down. The beautiful gown was not hers. The blue velvet felt heavy and constricting and the lacings of the bodice stole her breath. Or perhaps it was her uneasiness that made her chest so tight. Her breath sounded clamorous in the silence around her.
Be quiet
, she told herself.
Be still
.

There was a monster in the woods, a beast that must be caught.

They said it killed William de Chaucy. He had been killed on the very day he had followed her into these woods. Proud, handsome, bookish William de Chaucy was dead. She had hardly known him. They had never even spoken. And yet why, when she thought of him, did she grieve? Knowing he was gone from this world . . . it made something inside her feel empty and locked away. It was as if something had been stolen from her.

An old weaver woman had come to the village, telling everyone how she had seen the beast slaughter the young nobleman. Now the earl was set on hunting it, set on vengeance for his son. There had to be a young maid for the hunt, a virgin. She had been chosen for the honor. The village was small and the choices few, she thought wryly. And her aunt had not objected to accepting the heavy purse of coins the earl had thrust forward. It was a handsome payment.

So the girl had put on the fine gown she was given; it had belonged to the earl’s wife, who had died. She unbraided her hair and brushed it till it shone in cascading ripples down her back. Dressed in finery as she was, and polished so, it was hard not to feel like bait. Or sacrifice.

You must wait here in the clearing. The unicorn will come to you
.

The unicorn. That was the monster. A terrible beast with searing eyes and a single horn that could slash a man to ribbons.

But why should it come to her? Would it try to kill her too? No, they’d told her she was in no danger. She would be surrounded by armed men. They were hiding, even now, in the shadows.

The silence broke. She straightened, suddenly alert. There was a shout and a tangle of harsh voices nearby, then the blare of a hunter’s horn. But it was the barking that made her jump. She stiffened, then leapt to her feet. The yelps and snarls came closer. She whirled toward the sound. Dogs. Of course there were dogs in the hunt. Her fingers curled into fists and her breath came faster.

She was afraid of dogs. She cried out and began to run. All the careful instructions she had been given were dashed away by fright. She ran from the clearing and into the denser forest, stumbling through brambles. Faster. She had to get away. She had to hide. She had no idea of her direction, nor where the hunters were hidden.

She plunged deeper into the woods, where black vines clutched at her ankles and the skeletal trees creaked and snapped overhead. She kept running.

Gradually the voices and barking grew more distant. But now there was another sound.

Hoofbeats
.

There were hoofbeats behind her, along the path she’d just torn through. It was the unicorn, the monster. She’d been a fool to run from the safety of the clearing. Now it would surely kill her, just as it had the young master. She could feel the pounding of the monster’s hooves on the earth as she ran. It drew closer. Closer, until she was sure she felt the creature’s hot breath sluice down the back of her neck as she ran. She wouldn’t turn to look at it.

But the gown! The mud-stained velvet twisted around her legs like ropes, slowing her progress. The tight laces of the bodice were iron bands, binding her breasts and making her breath come in short, exhausted bleats. She staggered at last, falling against a young sapling. She clutched the cold, yielding support of its trunk and pulled herself upright. She was about to die. She must see it. She twisted around, one arm raised to shield herself. The pale form exploded from the dark as the unicorn galloped from the dense cover of the woods, its head low, barreling toward her. She closed her eyes and waited for the pain.

But she felt only a rush of air and heat and the patter of a clod of dirt on her arm. She opened her eyes to see the unicorn land and shudder to a halt some yards away. She stared at it, dazed. She had never seen anything so beautiful. So terrible.

The unicorn looked like madness. Blood-flecked sputum frothed from its mouth, and its eyes rolled toward her, their whites showing all around. With a snort the unicorn reared and stamped down once more; the ground trembled. It stepped closer, tossing its head, and its long horn slashed the air like a sword. A step more and it would stab into her. But still she stood, frozen.

The unicorn stopped. It raised its head and its gaze locked on hers. She could not look away. There was something more than madness there. Something . . . familiar. The unicorn’s eyes were a deep golden brown color. Strange. They weren’t the eyes of an animal at all. They looked just like—

She screamed.

Tessa’s eyes flew open. She was huddled on the floor of her room, her arms clutched closely around her knees, shivering.

The Norn stood together.

“Another disturbance in the Wyrd,” said Weavyr. She sighed and bent over the fabric.

“There must be an explanation,” said Spyn.

“This one.” Weavyr spoke as she fingered a single strand in the Wyrd. “This girl. There is some connection between her and the missing threads.”

Spyn bent closer to peer at the path the thread took. She nodded. “Yes. She was there when the threads were stolen. In another life, five hundred years ago. Now she travels back, in her mind.”

“And makes another tangle in my work,” grumbled Weavyr.

Scytha’s hand hovered over the human girl’s thread. “This can mean only one thing.”

The other turned. “What?” they asked in unison.

“She was the one who stole the threads,” Scytha replied.

Chapter 12

T
he next morning was Saturday. Tessa slept late. It was as if she’d been drugged. She could barely drag herself from bed. When she got downstairs, her father was sitting behind the store counter. He wore a puzzled expression as he hung up the phone.

“Tessa.” He brightened and smiled at her. “It seems there’s been some kind of a mix-up with the items from that auction.” He nodded to the phone. “That was a lawyer who represents the estate. He says that old book and the tapestry were never supposed to be part of the lot I bought. The owner wants them back.”

Tessa stared at him. “But they can’t do that! Can they? You paid for them.”

Her father ran a hand through his already-disheveled hair. “I know, I know, but just listen . . . .He seemed very upset about the whole thing. He began by offering to pay me the full amount of what I paid for the entire lot. But he only wants those two items back. Apparently the owner, a Ms. Lila Gerome, is moving to England. The book and the tapestry have been in her family for generations. I get the impression she’s kind of a demanding woman, a bit eccentric, and loaded. So get this,” he said, lowering his voice.

“What?”

“I told him I’d already taken the book to be appraised and you’d taken a liking to the unicorn tapestry. That’s when he got really worked up. Guess how much he offered me?”

Tessa shook her head.

Her father grinned. “Ten thousand dollars.” He stood up and did a little shuffling dance step.

Tessa’s gaze traveled up as she thought of the tapestry hanging on the wall in her bedroom. “Wow,” she said in a flat tone.

Her father’s smile faded. “I thought you’d be thrilled, Tessa. Ten thousand dollars would cover a good chunk of your tuition for college this fall.”

“Yeah,” she answered slowly. It
was
a lot of money. But the thought of selling the unicorn tapestry left Tessa with a sudden feeling of . . . she wasn’t sure exactly what.

“What did you tell him?” she asked.

Her father threw his hands up with a perplexed look. “I didn’t really have a chance to tell him anything. He said he’s on his way here. Driving from New York. He’ll be here tomorrow morning. If it was an honest mistake, I think we should give them back. Don’t you?”

“I—I guess so,” Tessa answered. But she wasn’t so sure.

“Well, it didn’t sound like the fellow was taking no for an answer. I’m going drive down to Portsmouth and pick up the book from the appraiser.

“Polly should be able to handle the counter. Just give her a hand if things get busy. I’ll bring home some supper.”

After her father left, Tessa went up to her bedroom and closed the door. She walked over to the tapestry. She wondered how old it was. She hadn’t given it a lot of thought before, but it must have been made hundreds of years ago. Weird to think that a real person, living so long ago, had made this. And now it was here, in her room.

Now someone was going to waltz in and take it away, Tessa thought angrily. She bet that lawyer had just realized how valuable the tapestry and the book were and wanted them back. Maybe he even wanted to sell them himself. It would probably end up in some locked display case in a mansion somewhere. Maybe even a museum. It wasn’t fair.

Tessa felt a stab of sadness and knew: she wanted to keep the tapestry.
She was meant to have it
. The weight of the feeling brought sadness but also a fierce burst of pride; her gaze drifted over the tapestry. Then she noticed it.

A loose thread was dangling from the bottom. It was a single strand of silver, drifting in the air like a piece of a spider’s web. Tessa caught it and twined it around her finger. She hesitated for a second. It was only a tiny thread; she wouldn’t damage the tapestry. Besides, it was the kind of thing that would drive her crazy. She tugged. It didn’t snap off.
Pretty strong for something so fragile-looking
.

She stepped back and pulled harder. The thread, rather than breaking, drew out of the tapestry in one long, glittering trail. As it came out, Tessa felt a blaze of heat run from her fingertips, race along her arm and rush through her, leaving a warm, tingling sensation in its wake.

Before Tessa could react, a deep rumbling noise began and the floor beneath her feet tilted with a sickening lurch. She staggered, fighting to keep her balance. The whole room began to shake. Tessa gave a strangled cry and reached for the wall to steady herself—but where her hand should have met the firm surface of the tapestry and the wall beneath, all she felt was a cool, moist . . . nothing.

Tessa, thrown backward by the push of some unseen force, crashed into her dresser and fell. Her whole room shook as though it were a dollhouse in the hands of a giant toddler. The floorboards rose and fell like piano keys as their nails shrieked. The room pitched to darkness as a violent, tearing noise shredded the air. Then, quiet.

She was on the floor. The lights flickered on. Tessa let out a groan and eased herself up to a sitting position. Her shoulder was sore where she’d jammed it against the dresser, and she’d fallen pretty hard on her rear end; otherwise, she was okay.

Tessa looked around. Everything was still, and except for some books fallen from her bookcase and a spill of papers from her desk, her room looked pretty normal.

“What the—?” she whispered. “When was the last earthquake in Maine?”

Then she realized she wasn’t alone.

A young man crouched on the floor beside her, gasping for breath and shaking. Tessa stared as he raised his head to look at her. Dark blond hair fell in coarse tangles across his forehead and reached to his shoulders. His eyes, an intense, startling golden brown, were ringed with dark lashes.

Tessa was so surprised, her scream came out only as a strangled gasp. She scuttled backward, away from him, and scrambled to her feet. Her heart was pounding. “Okay, wake up,” Tessa told herself. “Wake up.”

The guy stared at her. He was panting in deep, heaving breaths, as if he’d been running. He stood. He was tall, and dressed in a gray cloak and suede pants and boots; all were torn and muddy. His lean, tanned face was dirty too, and he had an ugly gash down one cheek.

“You,” he said, in a choked voice. He took an unsteady step toward her, then stopped and looked down, staring at his feet. He stared up at her again. “Sweet Jesu,” he breathed. With that, he toppled forward, collapsing to the floor.

“Hey!” Tessa took a step forward and stopped. The young man didn’t move but lay with long arms and legs splayed out.

“Hello?” Tessa said nervously, then repeated it a little louder, took a step closer and gasped. “Oh my God.” Her thoughts were spinning in frantic circles. “Okay,” she said, looking around. “We had an earthquake. We had an earthquake and a strange guy in weird clothes collapsed in my bedroom.” She closed her eyes tight and shook her head. What was happening? This was way too real to be a dream. Even for her. And too strange for reality. She opened her eyes. There was still a guy on the floor.

“Hey,” she said again, in a voice that she hoped sounded tough, authoritative. But the young man didn’t move. Tessa took another cautious step forward.