Warped Read online

  She reached out and brushed her fingers over the tapestry. The threads were warm and soft, almost velvety beneath her touch. Then it happened.

  A tingling sensation ran up her arm, quick and warm and so lightning fast Tessa didn’t have time to snatch her hand back. Suddenly everything was gone. The tapestry, the car, even the ground was gone. It was as if a black fog had swept her up and was carrying her far away. She was drenched in darkness, blinded. But she could hear something. In the black fog, a voice spoke. Words swirled around her.

  “Through warp and weft, I bind thee.”

  A shudder went through Tessa’s body and she let out a low, trembling cry.

  “What was that?” Her father’s voice broke through the dark. Tessa’s head jerked up. She felt herself fall with the sickening lurch of an elevator drop. Solid earth materialized beneath her feet as the darkness cleared. She blinked. She hadn’t fallen, she realized. She was standing right where she had been a moment before.

  “What?” Tessa breathed. She swallowed with difficulty against her dry throat and looked around, dazed. Besides their car, the parking lot was now empty. Evening was coming; it was getting cold. And dark. Beyond the edge of the building came the familiar sound of peeper frogs out in the woods. They sounded unnaturally loud. But even louder was the drumming of her heart. She glanced down, almost expecting to see its outline pushing from her chest, like in an animated cartoon.

  Her father came up behind her. His shoes crunched in the gravel. “Did you say something?”

  “Did I?” She hadn’t spoken aloud, had she? She’d only heard something. That weird voice. Those words. “Something just came to me,” Tessa answered slowly. “Part of a poem, maybe.”

  She raised a hand to swipe the corner of her eye. It was moist. She was crying? She turned to her father, tucking herself under his shoulder and hugging him tight. His stocky bulk felt warm and comforting.

  He didn’t let go but drew back a bit to regard her. Her father had gray eyes that might have been icy in color but were too bright and wondering to be anything but warm. “What’s the matter, honey? Are you okay? You look kind of pale.”

  Tessa nodded. “I’m fine. I just got dizzy for a second.” She felt silly now and loosened her hold on her father’s waist to straighten up. What had just happened, anyway?

  “You’re probably hungry,” her father said with a confident nod. He believed in feeding a cold, a fever and pretty much anything else. He ruffled her hair. “Let’s get you home.”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Tessa replied uncertainly.

  She stayed quiet during the ride, her forehead pressed to the cool glass of the window, her eyes unfocused on the blur of trees and road passing by.

  Through warp and weft, I bind thee.

  Tessa remembered the words she’d heard in the blackness. She hadn’t been exactly truthful with her father. For one thing, she couldn’t remember ever reading a poem like that in her whole life. And for another, she wasn’t fine. She couldn’t understand why those words should terrify her.

  But they did.

  Chapter 2

  By the time they got back home, Tessa felt better. Her father told her not to worry about the boxes, he’d bring them in later, and Tessa didn’t argue. From the push to get the front door open (it always stuck when it rained) to the jingle of the brass bell and the comfortable squish of her favorite armchair in the corner, everything felt normal again. Brody’s Bookstore was home. Tessa closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

  The scent of the little balsam-stuffed pillow stitched with the words “Don’t Make Me Shush You” mingled with the fresh coffee Mrs. Petoskey, the part-time cashier, had brewing behind the register. Tessa sprawled back into the lumpy seat cushions and tried to forget about the weirdness at the auction house. Too much caffeine, she thought, or maybe the dust from all those old books, had caused some kind of short circuit in her brain. An allergic reaction, she decided. With special effects.

  It was almost closing time, but there were still a few customers browsing in the store. Tessa noticed a little blond girl wearing a denim jumper walking slowly down the middle aisle. Heel-toe-heel-toe. Heel—The girl looked up and caught Tessa watching her.

  “I like the creaky sound,” she said, rocking back and forth on the dark, gleaming floorboards.

  Tessa smiled. “Me too.” She pointed out a worn spot in front of Mystery and Suspense. “There’s a good one over there,” she said.

  The girl nodded, tugged on her ponytail and went to investigate. A tall woman carrying an armful of books peered out from the children’s nook. She had blond hair too. “Sloane?” she called. Catching sight of the little girl, she hurried over. “Look what I found! About a mouse and a motorcycle. Should we read this one tonight?” She bent down close to the little girl and showed her the pictures. The two of them laughed.

  Watching them, Tessa felt a familiar ache in her chest. Like a punch, only from the inside. She stood. “Dad,” she called. “I’m going upstairs.” Her father looked up and nodded from the front counter, where he was checking the day’s receipts.

  Tessa climbed the stairs to the second floor, went through the door to their apartment and closed it. It was kind of nice living right over the store, though sometimes Tessa wished they lived in a normal house. It seemed there was always something that needed doing in the store. She must have put a thousand miles on those stair treads by now.

  In the kitchen she flicked on the lights and took a portion of lasagna out of the freezer for her dad’s dinner. She wasn’t hungry, and Hunter would be coming to pick her up at seven. Maybe she shouldn’t go out tonight, Tessa thought, pushing the microwave buttons. She wasn’t up for it, what with all the smiling and talking. Both would be expected on a first date. Her face hurt just thinking about it.

  She grabbed a bowl of salad from the fridge and nibbled on a slice of carrot. Then again, she’d already told her father about going out. Now if she didn’t go, he’d want to know why. Here’s the thing, Dad. I’m feeling a little weird and moody, and earlier, I hallucinated a teensy bit. It could very well lead to a discussion about her menstrual cycle. God.

  Tessa put a single placemat at the head of the table and arranged the plate and silverware. Ever since her mother had died four years ago, her father had done his best. She knew that. She frowned and adjusted the knife and fork to equal distances from the table’s edge. But she was seventeen now. She could take care of herself. Besides, her father had something else on his mind lately. Or rather, someone else.

  The timer dinged. She was fine, Tessa decided. She would go out. Smiley talk, here I come.

  Her father came into the kitchen, carrying the wooden crate from the auction. “The store’s all closed up,” he said. “I left the other boxes downstairs. We can go through them tomorrow. But I thought you might want this up here.” He set the crate on the table.

  Tessa didn’t answer. She stared at the crate. There was absolutely nothing scary about it. So why did her legs feel wobbly all of a sudden? She glanced down and loosened the white-knuckle grip she had taken on the kitchen chair.

  Her father lifted the lid. He peered inside. “Tessa,” he said in a low, excited voice. “Get me those cotton gloves in the junk drawer, would you?”

  She got the gloves and handed them to her father, who put them on and reached in to lift out the large book. “Holy smokes,” he murmured, turning the weighty volume in his hands. The book had thick, yellowed pages with the unevenly stacked edges of old-fashioned hand-binding. On the cover, in swirling, embossed letters, Tessa could make out the title:

  TEXO VITA

  “Texo Vita. What does that mean?” she asked.

  “I have no idea,” her father admitted. “It’s Latin, I suppose. Hmm. Vita means ‘life,’ doesn’t it?” He opened the book, then, nestling it in the crook of his arm, gently turned a few of the pages. Tessa stepped closer. The pages were covered with a thin, scrawled handwriting, but she couldn’t make out any of the words.
They were normal letters but all jumbled up and crowded, with way too many consonants and squiggles.

  “I’ve never seen parchment like this,” said her father, “except in a museum. I believe it’s vellum. From sheepskin.”

  She nodded. “The cover has a little bit of red rot. How old do you think it is?”

  Her father frowned. “I’m not really sure,” he said, continuing to scan the text with a look of absorbed fascination.

  His expression was priceless, Tessa thought. As if he’d just won the book lover’s lottery or something. Her father closed the book and set it down gently on the table. His hands hovered over it for a moment, as if he were afraid it would fly away.

  “You think it’s worth a lot?” Tessa asked.

  “Could be. But something like this is beyond my expertise. I know an antiquarian book specialist in Portsmouth. I could take it for an appraisal.” He turned back to the crate and reached in again. “Let’s see what else we’ve got here.”

  “Wait a minute. Don’t—” Tessa broke off as her father lifted the tapestry out.

  Her father peered at it. “Huh. Not in terribly good shape, I’m afraid.”

  “Really?” Tessa said, staring at the unicorn. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from it. “I think it’s amazing.”

  Her father glanced up. “You like it?”

  Tessa wasn’t sure if like was the word to use. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said. “It’s beautiful.” She tilted her head, studying it. The scene was so lifelike; it almost seemed to be in 3-D. The detail was even a little unnerving.

  “Here,” her father said. “You take it.” He held out the tapestry.

  Tessa hesitated.

  Her father chuckled. “You act like it’s going to bite you. It’s only a little dust.”

  She held her breath and reached toward the upper corner of the cloth. Her fingers touched the spot where a tiny bird was pictured, flitting against the distant sky. Nothing happened, of course. What was the matter with her? She took the tapestry from her father.

  “Thank you,” Tessa said. She held it in front of her, feeling the surprising weight of it. Again she had the sense of warmth and softness as she held the curled edge.

  “We can go through the rest tomorrow,” said her father.

  Tessa nodded. “I’ve got to go get ready. I’m going out.”

  “That Hunter boy, right? I’ll listen for him.” Her father eyed the lasagna with suspicion. “That’s not one of those diet dinners, is it?”

  “Vegetarian. Enjoy,” Tessa mumbled. She was already heading down the hall, still holding the tapestry at arm’s length, considering it as she walked. She wondered if it could possibly be as old as the book. Despite what her father said, she thought it couldn’t be. It looked too well preserved. The colors were so bright. She tried to imagine why anyone who owned it would have sold it.

  Chapter 3

  Lila Gerome leaned back in the leather seat of her private jet and tapped the rim of a cut-crystal flute in contemplation. She gazed out the window and took a sip of the chilled champagne. She enjoyed flying. She liked seeing the world down below her, as it should be seen. Far below were the tiny houses, bridges, cars and, even smaller still, people. Tiny, insignificant things, they were like so many pieces on a game board. She had been like that once. Not anymore.

  She stretched out slim, silk-clad legs and let out a faint sigh. Had anyone been sitting nearby, they would have wondered that such an old, creaky sound could have come from such beautiful lips. Lila Gerome often made odd noises. On some occasions it had been amusing for her to let others hear them. For instance, she recalled a brief period of time—when was it? Oh yes, the 1970s. She had performed as the rock singer Belinda. She had rocketed to fame on her unique vocalizations and crooning ballads. And then, just as suddenly as her bright flame of stardom had flared, it was tragically snuffed out. Drug overdose. So sad.

  To this day there were some fans who insisted on playing her vinyl records backward, listening for a prayer to Satan. Lila’s laugh rattled deep in her throat.

  She’d had many different lives, different names, over the years. Such was the burden and the delight of immortality.

  Having to keep moving was a bitch, though. It was an inconvenience she suffered through every twenty-five years or so. Remain in one place too long and the neighbors would begin to wonder. Why does Lila Gerome never seem to age? For the years went by and still she kept the face and figure that would have been beyond the skills of Park Avenue’s most adept plastic surgeons. So she had to move, disappear and reappear somewhere else. Always youthful, always beautiful.

  She adjusted a heavy silver ring on one hand. It was a distinctive piece, with a lustrous yellow stone set in its center.

  Across the narrow aisle she caught a glimpse of her countenance in the stainless steel galley. Silver-blond hair, perfectly sculpted features and luscious red lips. Her real self was perhaps revealed only in her eyes, which, though beautifully shaped, were somewhat small and strangely flat. Sometimes she wondered if anyone could glimpse her real self peeking out. Certainly no one would ever compare her to the shabby old weaver woman she had once been, so long ago. No, never.

  It was truly delicious to be Lila Gerome. She could be whatever she wanted, have whatever she wanted. As long as she had the tapestry and the threads. And why not? She had worked hard enough, had paid enough. A long time ago she had paid the ultimate price.

  The tapestry was snugly packed for shipping to her new home, wherever she decided that would be. She had seen to it herself before she had left the New York house. It was safe, along with the book. Lila smiled.

  Her phone rang as they landed. She glanced at it and gave an irritated sigh as she flipped it open with a bloodred fingernail. “What is it, Moncrieff?”

  “It’s about the auction.” Her assistant’s voice was tense. “I—I think there may have been a mix-up. The chest in the master bedroom. It’s gone, and I—”

  “What!” Lila snapped. She lurched forward and champagne sloshed from her glass.

  “I—I believe the auctioneer saw the book and thought it went with the others from the library. The book and the tapestry … are gone.”

  Her tapestry. Her unicorn. For a moment two feelings Lila had not felt in a very long time gripped her. One was fear. The other was helplessness, which was far worse.

  With an effort, she quieted her mind. There was no need to panic. No one could do anything with the tapestry. She was the only one who could use it. Only she had the skill to control the threads. But to have it out of her reach was intolerable.

  She spoke very quietly. “Moncrieff. Can you hear me? Get it back.” She fumbled in the pocket of her linen jacket and her fingers found something there. A thread. Her fingers wound the thread, and pulled. “Get it back quickly, Moncrieff. Or else. Can you feel this?”

  There was a choked gagging sound on the other end of the phone.

  “If you don’t find it,” she said in a harsh rasp, “I’m afraid you’re going to swallow your tongue.”

  Chapter 4

  Tessa stood on a chair and held the unicorn tapestry up to her bedroom wall. It seemed like an outrageous splash of color against the plain, spare décor of her room. She frowned as she eyed the upper edge. She hated things to be uneven.

  She turned to Pie, who sat on her bed. The cat watched Tessa with an expression of utter feline boredom. “Is this straight?” Tessa asked. Pie responded by flopping onto his side and swishing his tail back and forth. “You’re never any help,” Tessa remarked with a grin.

  Turning to face the tapestry again, she saw the blurred mesh of the woven threads. There were lush greens and midnight blacks and, from the center, the glow of the unicorn in luminescent tones of milk and cream. She blinked. It was odd; up close there seemed to be other layers, other colors, shimmering beneath the surface of the tapestry. And there were more details in the background too. A snake with yellow eyes lay coiled at the edge of the
clearing, nearly hidden by a cluster of flowers and grass. Tessa narrowed her eyes, trying to focus on the threads, but they seemed to fade away. It must have been a trick of the dim lighting, but it almost seemed as if other creatures were moving, disappearing into the shadows of the forest. Strange.

  She tacked up the corners and stepped down.

  There was a hiss behind her. Tessa whirled to see Pie’s bared teeth. His eyes were dilated black moons and his orange tabby fur stood up like it was electrified. He yowled at her, spat another hiss and sprang off the bed.

  “O-kaaay,” Tessa remarked. The sound of Pie’s claws as he skittered down the hall trailed away.

  Her cat was so weird.

  Tessa glanced at the time. She had about fifteen minutes before Hunter would be there. But instead of getting ready, she turned back to the tapestry. Something about it mesmerized her. It was the unicorn. Once more she noticed the droplets of blood stitched along its cheek. It was bleeding, poor thing. She reached out and ran her fingers over the smooth, white surface of its neck.

  This time when the rushing blackness took her, Tessa couldn’t even cry out. In an instant she was flung through the dark. When the fog cleared, she was surrounded by brightness and the smell of fresh grass.

  She was running.

  Hartescross Village

  Cornwall, England

  1511

  There was a pebble in her shoe. The girl ignored it and kept running across the meadow’s wet timothy grass, kicking out her skirts with each stride of her long legs. She dared to glance behind her. No sign of them yet. Still, she wouldn’t stop for such a trifle. In fact, the little stone chafing her foot, the itch of the wool from damp, muddy stockings, even the bite of a mayfly in her ear, all these were nothing compared to the irritation this day had caused her.

  A husband!

  She was but ten and seven years of age, but to hear her aunt’s chatter you would have thought she was a warty old crone.