Maurissa Guibord - Warped

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 threads 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 sisters work. Beneath the cloak her bony shoulders shrugged. Life is often messy.

You sound like one of them, Weavyr observed.

Human, you mean? Dont 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 Scythas 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 Weavyrs fingers tapped together in irritation. Its all wrong, she said, pointing to the troublesome spot in the vast fabric. But its not my fault. Its 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. Ive had all I can do to maintain order.

Spyns answer came on a whispery sigh. Yes. Youre 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. Scythas 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, Scythas 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. Spyns 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 heevers Fine Auction House was packed on a stormy spring afternoon. The auctioneers 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. Shed been sitting there so long, shed 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, Tessas 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 shed had any patience, which she didnt, 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 auctioneers 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 didnt 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.

IIm 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. Im fine.