Autumn Thorns

“I don’t know, but it does seem odd that if Ellia is a lament singer and Penelope’s a Gatekeeper, Magda is on the side of Cú Chulainn’s Hounds. Did she go rogue?” Finishing the last bite of fish, I pushed out of my chair; Agent H ran over and entwined himself through my legs. He let out a squeak. “I’ll leave on the lights in every room, so the Shadow Man can’t come in,” I told him. But truth was, I was nervous about leaving them alone. “I need to ward this house and ward it good tomorrow.”

  “You should go through your grandfather’s study before establishing your wards. In fact, you should comb through every nook and cranny you haven’t touched. You have no idea what he—or your grandmother—might have stashed away. Best to know what’s here first so you can either strengthen it or get rid of it.” Peggin slid into her coat.

  “Where are your heels, Miss Priss?” Bryan pointed to her sneakers.

  She rolled her eyes. “I had a feeling this night would end in something beyond dinner and dancing. And, given the weather and the knowledge that we might not end up cozying up by the fire all evening, I opted for easy to navigate in the footwear department.”

  I slid into my boots—the Dingoes—and shrugged on a heavy denim jacket. Bryan was dressed for the weather, too. Sliding my wallet and keys into my pocket, I grabbed my bag o’ tricks—as I was starting to think of the bag of tools—and we headed out to my car.

  Peggin rode shotgun—Bryan graciously insisted. She flashed him a smile as he helped her into the car and then started around to open my door. I waved him back, hopping in without help. Truth was, it was pouring and I didn’t want to wait for chivalry when I could easily get into the car on my own and avoid getting totally soaked. As I turned the ignition, the chime started that indicated I hadn’t fastened my seat belt.

  “That thing drives me crazy.” Finally, it stopped as I fumbled the fastener into the clasp. I put the car into gear and backed out of the driveway onto the street. We could walk to the cemetery, but any chance of putting off getting wet and cold appealed to me. Besides the fact that if we had to get out of there fast, I wasn’t about to rely on my running speed. I really didn’t know track and now wasn’t the time to test my endurance, let alone Peggin’s. Bryan, I had a feeling, could take care of himself.

  We were at the cemetery in no time flat. I glanced around, wondering if Ellia would be here, playing to the dead, but the night seemed so wind-tossed and rain-swept that I doubted she’d be out in the weather if she didn’t have to be. I unfastened my seat belt and slid out of the car. I knew where Penelope’s tomb was. And that was where my grandmother had told me the entrance to the Veil was. At least—one of the entrances to the Veil. There were so many throughout the world.

  The cemetery was a-rustle with dripping rain and the ever-present wind. The evergreens keeping watch over the graves were blowing hard, their tops waving like wild dancers in the night sky. As the clouds boiled overhead, the dim streetlamps that lit the paths of the dead cast eerie shadows on the ground behind us. Grateful for the light, but knowing that light itself wouldn’t keep back the spirits, I led Bryan and Peggin through the labyrinth of headstones, along the well-worn cobblestone paths that wound through the grass. Finally, in the center of the graveyard, I saw what I was looking for—Penelope’s final home.

  Unlike most of those buried in the cemetery, Penelope had been buried in a tomb, a mausoleum. It was small, with just enough room inside for a few people plus her sarcophagus. I wondered who had placed her here. If her mother was responsible for her death, surely she wouldn’t have gone to the trouble to set up a memorial like this.

  The mausoleum was built into the base of a knoll along the edge of the graveyard that led into the Pest House Cemetery. It was built of thick cinder block, and the back half of it vanished beneath the dirt and grass that shrouded it. In the soft glow of the lamps that illuminated the cemetery walkways, the cinder blocks took on a dark, shadowed hue, stained and worn from time. A double door in the center guarded the entrance to the chamber. A plaque to one side of the door read: Here Lieth the Mortal Remains of Penelope Volkov, Guardian of the Veil, Gatekeeper of the Graveyard. Enter and Despair.

  “Have you ever been here before?” Peggin asked in a hushed voice.

  I shook my head. “I’ve been to the tomb, but never in it. My grandmother wouldn’t allow me to go with her when she went in. I don’t really know the proper procedure, so we’re going to have to wing this, folks.” I sucked in a deep breath and put my hand on the round door handles. “Here goes nothing.”

  As I pulled on the door handle, the hinges let out an unearthly shriek, as if they hadn’t moved in a hundred years and now only opened under protest. The blood in my veins turned to ice water. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea? And yet, I didn’t have any choice. The spirit shaman had to work with the Gatekeeper of the graveyard. For whatever reason, Penelope had been elected the guardian of the Veil for Whisper Hollow, and sooner or later, we had to meet.

  Letting out my breath in a slow steady stream, I stared inside. A single room with a sarcophagus in it, the chamber was illuminated by a diffused light that seemed to emanate from a crystal chalice that sat beneath a glass display box on a plinth near the back.

  There’s no going back . . . not now. The day I decided to return to Whisper Hollow, I knew there was no turning back from anything that might happen here. This is it, Kerris. This is your life—this is what it’s going to be from now on. Filled with spirits and Ankou and a dark goddess watching over your shoulder. I stepped inside the tomb.

  Peggin followed me, and Bryan brought up the rear. When we were all inside, the door blew shut with a huge gust of wind, slamming defiantly behind us. Peggin jumped, but I forced myself to stand steady. I motioned for them to stay near the door as I crept forward as softly as I could. There was no hiding that we were here, but I wanted to show as much respect as I could. The lighted chalice was glowing so bright now that it filled my vision, and I found myself moving over to stare into it.

  Formed of clear crystal, the chalice glimmered from the liquid that churned inside it—crimson and thick like boiling blood, it kept up a continual motion, swirling in a perpetual phantasmagoria within the large goblet. As I stared at the sparkling display, I heard Peggin gasp, and I knew we weren’t alone. I turned, slowly, to face the sarcophagus.

  There, standing beside it, was a specter so terrifying and beautiful that it was all I could do to stand still. Tall, nearly six feet, the blonde was dressed in a black lace sheer dress beaded with black sequins that shimmered under the light of the chalice. Her golden hair was piled up in a messy chignon, wisps of it tendriling down to kiss her shoulders. Her irises were crimson, bloody against the glowing whites, and her skin pale as porcelain. Dark black shadows accentuated her eyes, setting them off like a raccoon’s mask, and delicate black veins trailed out from the inky black to decorate her face. Her lips were black as night, and another trail of veins spread from her lover’s pout.

  But what transfixed me were the nails jutting from her skin.

  From the crown of her forehead, dappling her neck and shoulders, jutting out through the sheer black lace of her clinging dress, all over her body they jabbed from within, as if someone had climbed inside her with a nail gun and gone crazy, shooting them from the inside out. Small pools of dried blood—sparkling like jewels—glistened around each of the nails. One of her hands trailed down, touching the sarcophagus. She cocked her head to the side, staring at me, ignoring the others, and then slowly began to walk forward.

  I wasn’t sure what to do, but I knew when I was in the presence of royalty, and Penelope felt like royalty. I bowed, steeling myself for what was bound to be the oddest discussion of my life.

  She paused when she was about a foot away from me, looking me over. “So you are Lila’s grandchild? You claim the title of the new spirit shaman?”

  I had the distinct feeling this was a test and all I could do was r
un on instinct. “I am Kerris Fellwater, granddaughter of Lila Fellwater, the new spirit shaman of Whisper Hollow. I claim the title and come to honor the agreement that binds your office and mine.”

  She inclined her head. “Seal the agreement, then.”

  At my confused look, a faint, ironic smile crossed her face. “Your grandmother came to me too soon for you to be properly introduced. I will forgive the breach of the ritual.” Gliding as though she were walking about two inches above the ground, she moved to the chalice. “A drop of your blood mingled with my own binds us to work together. Your great-grandmother’s blood joined mine when I took over this office, and your grandmother’s as well, when she joined her mother as a spirit shaman. Now, the wheel turns and so you will pledge yourself to this ancient bond between the world of the living and the world of spirit.”

  It felt so right that it scared me. As frightened as I had been when we entered the mausoleum, I had no doubt this was what I needed to do. I set my bag down on a bench and withdrew the dagger, unsheathing it. Peggin and Bryan watched, uncertainty in their eyes, but as I glanced their way, I knew they wouldn’t interfere unless I called for them. They had accepted my role—it was written on their faces.

  Penelope lifted the glass case protecting the chalice. She set it aside and, with a soft smile, nodded for me to proceed. I held up the blade and, with a quick motion, brought it down against my right palm—just the tip—and watched as a thin weal of blood welled up. As the crimson tears trailed down my flesh, I held my hand over the chalice and watched as the droplets began to fall into the ever-churning mix.

  As they blended in with the kaleidoscope of liquid, a cold wind surrounded me and I found myself standing between the worlds—in the center of a misty web. Gossamer strings radiated out, the threads scintillating with sparkles of light. There, guarding a portal in the web, stood Penelope in all her radiant and gory glory. She smiled fully.

  “Welcome to the entrance to the Veil, Kerris Fellwater, spirit shaman of Whisper Hollow. Welcome to the gateway that guards the world of spirit. Here, the dead come who have been prepared for their journey. Here, I escort them over to the Veil, where they rest before moving on. I hold them as well as I can, and when they break free and return to your world, it is your task to round them up and drive them back to me.” Her voice resonated against the webs, singing rich and low. Here, she was vibrant and powerful, no specter in the shadows.

  “What happened to you? How did you become the Gatekeeper?” I didn’t mean to be rude, but the questions rolled off my tongue. Chagrined, I ducked my head. “I don’t mean to be nosy—there’s just so much I don’t know because my grandmother died before she could teach me.”

  She laughed. “No offense taken. There are many things I can see from where I stand, Kerris, and I know—I see—that no offense was meant.” She waved her hand and a bench appeared. “Sit and listen. This is part of your training.”

  I sat, wondering if Peggin and Bryan were okay. Were they seeing this? Or had I vanished along with Penelope? Were they hunting for me now?

  “I was murdered when I was young. I was murdered for reasons that so disrupted the balance that the Phantom Queen bade me stay at the gate until the balance one day is righted. Then I may rest, as another takes my place. There will always be Gatekeepers, there will always be guardians; we each take our turn for a differing reason. I bear the scars of my death for all to see, that they might know death has come to visit them in my visage, and that none can evade the Veil. Together, you and I and the lament singer—we keep the balance of spirits in check.”

  “How will you contact me if you need me?” I wasn’t sure about opening my front door to find Penelope ringing the bell at four in the morning.

  She laughed. “I see your thoughts, Kerris. No, I will not appear on your doorstep. Have no fear, you will not fail to hear me when I have need for your services.”

  I nodded. “I came tonight to introduce myself, but also to ask you a question. You said you can see my thoughts—do you know what I want to ask you?”

  Pausing, she closed her eyes and the entrance of the Veil flared to life. Then we were standing back in the mausoleum and Bryan and Peggin rushed forward to my side, skirting Penelope as best as they could. Penelope motioned to the plinth holding the chalice. In front of it, a mist appeared, and then in the midst of it, a scene. A steep ravine, alongside a narrow road, led down to a creek at the distant bottom. The scene swooped down into the thicket near the side of the water. And there, a faint glow caught my attention. I squinted, leaning forward, and saw a mound of moss-covered dirt. Then the scene swept up again to the top of the ravine, where a tree overlooked the edge.

  Peggin gasped at the same time I recognized what tree it was. “The Tree of Skulls,” she whispered from behind me.

  I nodded. I knew where that tree was, and what it was—a terrifying reminder of the cruelty of people, and the violence within the soul of a man who had gone so far beyond the boundaries of humanity that he had forfeited all rights to the claim.

  “The Tree of Skulls,” I echoed back. And then the Crow Man’s words came filtering back. She waits in the ravine, for you to find her. Screaming skulls still lurk beneath long roots that dig deep into the ground. “Is that . . . where . . .”

  “Go. Seek. You will find what you look for. When you do, we can set her to rest.” With that, Penelope faded away.

  I raised my other hand to her, feeling oddly sad to see her go. All the fear I’d had of meeting her had drained away, and now I wanted to know more about her—to talk to her longer.

  We hurried out to the parking lot, where I took the passenger seat, Peggin climbed in back, and Bryan began to drive. As we sped through the evening, passing a few cars, we were silent. I was so wound up inside that I had no clue what to say, and Peggin and Bryan seemed to pick up my mood.

  We drove north on Bramblewood Way until it forked into Crescent Drive. Taking a left, we skirted the edge of Bramblewood Thicket until we came to the turn onto Whisper Hollow Way. Bryan took another left, and then, a few minutes later, a left onto Peninsula Drive. Ten minutes later, we eased into a turnout leading to the Tree of Skulls.

  I stared at the trail that led into the woods. Beside the trail head, a large information board, erected by the city council, related the history of this place, and of the Tree of Skulls. I stared at the wooden structure. So much death. So much destruction took place here.

  Bryan edged forward, resting his arm around my waist. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

  I nodded. “I have to . . . this is too important to walk away from. Maybe . . . I’ll finally get some closure. The past is coming back to haunt me, and I have to be prepared.”

  Peggin was holding my bag of tools. “I brought this, in case you need it.”

  Flashing her a grateful smile, I turned to the trail. “I guess there’s nothing left to do but go in.” Bryan offered to take the lead, but I shook my head. This was my job now—this was my fight. The moment we stepped onto the path, out of the parking area, I realized I couldn’t see a damned thing. “Flashlight, anybody?”

  “Got it.” Bryan pulled out a flashlight and aimed it in front of me, so that we could all see the path.

  The trail wound through the woodland, into the depths of the undergrowth. Here the forest was thick, dense with huckleberry and bracken, with fern and brambles and tall stands of skunk cabbage. The peninsula was a temperate rain forest, one of only a few in the North American hemisphere, and—in the depths of the Olympic Peninsula—there were places where it rained an average of 140 inches per year. Though we weren’t in the Hoh rain forest proper, we were right in the shadow of it, and our forest mirrored its mother.

  Conifers towered in the night sky, silent sentinels watching over the land. Red cedar, spruce, Douglas fir, and hemlock—they watched over the land, dripping with moss. Long veils of it trailed off the branches, creat
ing beards of green on the ancient fathers of the forest. The trunks were covered with the soft mossy growths, and mushrooms jutted out from the sides of the trees. The scent was old and decaying, yet vibrant with life. When they toppled—from age or lightning strike or windstorm—they turned into nurselogs, providing a home for wildlife and insects as they decayed.

  To the sides of the trail, waist-high ferns created a carpet of delicate fronds, lacy, and yet the leaves could be sharp when you brushed against them. Interspersed among the ferns were the huckleberry bushes—they were almost bare for the season, losing their leaves—and salmon berries, and brambles from the ever-present blackberries that were all so endemic no one would ever be able to root them out. Salal, and Oregon grape with its glossy leaves, edged the trail, the evergreen bushes remaining vibrant even into the winter months.

  I hoped we could avoid the stinging nettle—of all the plants in the forest, it was the most aggressive around here. While poison ivy and poison oak were common enough, stinging nettle was by far one of the most unwelcome visitors in the forest. The species found in the Pacific Northwest had nasty stinging hairs and hurt like hell. While some people swore by it for herbal medicine, I wasn’t about to give it a try. I had a strong allergic reaction to it, and the welts that rose from even lightly brushing the leaves were highly painful and unpleasant.

  The trail itself was fairly even, though ridden with tree roots that crossed the path, and pebbles and a few rocks buried so firmly that there would be no getting them out. As I pushed forward into the woods, a sense of dread began to steal over me. We continued along for about fifteen minutes, moving deeper and deeper into the thicket, and then, as the pathway began to open up, I stopped. I was standing at the edge of a circular meadow—one that was overgrown but not horribly so. The city kept it up, after a fashion, because of what had happened here. We had arrived. And maybe now we would find out what happened to my mother.

  A signboard loomed to my left side, and Bryan flashed the light on it.