Owen swore under his breath as the carving knife slipped and sliced his thumb. He stuck his finger in his mouth, tasting copper, and felt the throb of his heartbeat against his tongue. This was his third cut in an hour.
"If you can' concentrate enough to keep all yer fingers, then try painting," grunted Genzel.
Owen threw down the knife and walked over to his painting table instead and began to mix colors. He picked up bottles without looking, grabbed paint brushes and stuck them in different clay bowls, and within a few minutes all his paints were as muddled as his thoughts, a swirl of grayish-brown.
"I know yer worried," Genzel said as Owen went to scrub out the bowls. His gruff voice was nearly gentle. "But she's tougher than yer giving her credit for."
Owen gave a jerky nod, but didn't reply. He had told Genzel what he knew and the old man had looked painfully sad when he found out what his daughter was doing. He mumbled something indistinct and then, without looking at Owen, said, "What can I do ter help?"
Owen had sequestered himself in the workshop for the last several hours as Jacks had suggested, but was distracted and jumpy. Genzel had been quiet for the most part which was unusual for the old carver who would normally have snapped at Owen for making so many mistakes. Owen wondered briefly what was going through Genzel's head, but it felt too invasive to ask.
Afterall, how did you pose the question, "What do you think about your daughter's murderous tendencies?" It wasn't exactly polite or pleasant conversation.
A knock came at the door and Owen's heart jumped into his throat. He moved back to his work table and picked up the knife. His cut fingers throbbed in time with his kick-started pulse. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Genzel's grip on his own tool tighten. "We're workin' here," the carver called out.
"It's me." Jacks' voice was muffled but it was him. Owen made to go to the door, but Genzel stood and threw out a broad, scarred hand. He made his hobbled way to the door and opened it a crack, as far as the chain would allow. Jacks' eye with its blue halo mark shown through. Genzel undid the chain and let him in.
As soon as the door was re-latched behind him, Jacks said, "I think I found one."
Owen straightened like an electric current had gone through his spine. "Where?" he demanded and stuttered a few steps forward. "Why are we wasting time?" Again, he moved toward the door but Genzel stopped him.
"Hold up there. Let the boy speak before you go rushin' off."
Jacks turned to Owen, pushing his dreadlocks out of his face. His gaze held carefully concealed excitement. "You said one of the spirits at Zabaria's Garden was a three-tailed fox, right? One of them just entered the carnival."
Owen shifted his weight from foot to foot. "We need to get to it before it leaves. It's probably looking for the bird."
"I'll go with you," said Jacks. "I'll keep an eye out for Atlas and Bebinn while you talk to it."
"Ye may want to take yer knife, just in case," said Genzel. Owen glanced at him reflexively and saw the carver's dark eyes were troubled beneath his unruly gray eyebrows. An acidic bubble of nausea popped in Owen's stomach at the thought of using the knife on someone or something, but he pocketed it all the same. Together, he and Jacks left the cabin.
Owen let Jacks lead the way, eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of the three-tailed fox. The carnival was thick with souls this time of Flow. From his vantage point on the outskirts, all Owen saw was an undulating mass of different body parts; a spiked tail here, a scaled and webbed hand there, like pieces of a thousand nightmares stitched together in a living quilt. The thought of entering the crowd, with as thick and heavy as the air in the Spirit World was, turned Owen's stomach even more.
The memory of the last time he had mingled with the spirits was still sharp and bright in his mind.
In a small break in the never ending sea of spirits, Owen thought he caught a glimpse of cinnamon fur, but it was the single tail of a creature that was just as fractured as the others in the great heaving mass of bodies.
"Would it have gone towards the funhouse?" asked Owen aloud. "If it was looking for the bird."
"Worth a shot," said Jacks.
Feeling like a flightless bird of prey, Owen bobbed his head between tents every few yards, trying to spot anything. A fox was bigger than a bird, but not nearly so large as some of the other spirits, and it was going to be like spotting a frog among toads. What if they just missed it by sheer bad luck?
Owen bit down on his tongue, trying not to let his frustration escape. They should have asked Zaharia how to get in contact with her rather than the other way around.
"Owen!" Jacks said as they rounded the last tent. "Look!" He pointed to the bare stretch of flattened grass in front of the funhouse where a foxlike creature sat, its three tails cresting and falling in a wave behind its compact body. It was staring up at the funhouse, head cocked, as though listening for a faint chirp or a heartbeat of wings. Owen recognized it as one of the spirits who had sat at the circumference of Zabaria's Garden.
"How do we get its attention?" muttered Owen. "Anyone in the funhouse could see if I went to talk to it."
Without warning, Jacks put his hands to his mouth and gave a sharp bird cry. The fox's ears pricked up and it turned in their direction. When it saw the two boys hiding behind the tent, the dark mirror eyes narrowed, and it turned to walk off into the current of the crowd.
"Wai—" began Owen before Jacks dug his elbow into Owen's ribs.
"Shut up," hissed Jacks. "Wait."
Fifteen agonizing seconds later, the fox appeared between two tents farther down the line and trotted towards them. It came to a stop a few feet away; its narrow face expressionless, its three tails still undulating in a nonexistent breeze.
"You've come from Zabaria?" asked Owen. The fox gave a quick dip of its head, eyes never leaving the two boys. Owen took a step towards the spirit, but the creature bared its teeth and took an equal step backwards. Owen raised his hands, palms out, and slowly knelt to the ground so he and the spirit were eye-level. "I don't want to hurt you," he said, trying to keep his voice as low as possible. "We need you to take a message to Zabaria."
The fox glanced at the sky and then back towards the funhouse. Owen understood the question.
"The bird didn't make it. He was caught." The fox growled and crouched lower to the ground. Gleaming yellow claws emerged and sank into the turf. The bristling red fur along its back began to turn black. "We couldn't save him," continue Owen. "I'm sorry."
The spirit growled again, nodded and straightened. As its fur settled, it faded back to ginger. "Can you get a message to Zabaria for us?" It looked from Jacks to Owen and nodded again.
Owen took a deep breath. "Tell her that Bebinn is using the children to send souls back to get revenge on the living. Tell her that people are dying and children's souls are being ripped apart. Tell her that she must be stopped."
The fox turned, tufted tails fanning out behind it, and began trotting back along the tents. Owen pushed himself back to his feet. Though they had succeeded in what they came to do, his body still felt strangely heavy, as though he still carried the weight of the message. "Because it's only just begun," he thought. He imagined the creature streaking across the same plains he and Genzel and Lira had trekked across so many months ago and could only hope it would make it there. After that, he didn't know what would happen.
Hold on, Lira, he thought.
"We have a problem," said Jacks. Owen jerked around to follow his gaze in time to see Atlas slip into the crowd. Her shiny black hair gleamed in the pale orange light that hovered over everything in this world and then it was gone.
"She's going after it," said Owen.
"Follow the fox—I'll go after her." Jacks dashed out into the crowd, uncoiling his whip from his pocket as he went. Owen pulled out his knife and took off the other way.
His heart beat painfully in his chest. They had to make sure the fox got across the carnival before Atlas caught up to it. Owen entered the throng of spirits at the same entry point the fox had, but, like before, it was impossible to identify anything in the crush. He angled diagonally across the carnival, knowing the spirit would take the shortest path to the fields on the other side. He pushed people and beasts and things out of his way, ignoring the protests. One shoved him back hard and he stumbled hard to the ground. A clawed foot connected with his shoulder, tearing the shirt, and he struggled back to his feet. He prayed desperately that Jacks had a clear sightline on Atlas.
When he finally burst through the crowd, Owen was breathless, shoulder stinging and bleeding. He looked around wildly, knife still clenched in his fist. In the distance, Owen saw the parting of the long grass and the white tips of three bottle-brush tails. He had little time to feel relieved. A harsh cry came from behind him.
"Owen!"
Owen's muscles tensed and he spun in time to deflect a blow from Atlas who was also wielding a knife. The blade slashed open his forearm, blood spattering the dry grass. Atlas raised her hand again, light glinting off the steel, but it froze, arched high above her head as the end of a black whip wrapped around her tiny wrist. It trembled, suspended in time, and Atlas' cold gaze pierced Owen as sharp as any knife point, before she was pulled backwards off her feet.
The little girl hit the ground with a thud and Owen couldn't help but flinch at the sound. Jacks was at her side instantly, wrestling away the knife and pinning her arms to her sides. Atlas fought briefly then lay still, breathing hard.
Owen pressed a palm to his bleeding arm, blood dripping between his fingers, and came over to the struggling pair. "Thank you," he said to Jacks. The horse-keeper nodded and pulled a length of rope from his pocket, lashing Atlas' hands together.
Owen crouched next to Bebinn's servant, glaring. "Where is Lira?" Atlas spat in his face. He had never seen the messenger, usually so cool and aloof, this enraged. Her lip was bleeding where she must have bit it and her usually neat braids were ragged and trailing across her face.
"I knew you were trouble from the beginning," she rasped. "All of this is your fault."
"My fault?" demanded Owen.
"Her little chest heaved. "Everything was fine until we brought you here. You turned Lira against me."
Owen wiped the spit from his cheek. "She was always against you." He rose to his feet and looked to Jacks. "What do we do with her?"
Jacks looked at Atlas uncertainly. "Bebinn will miss her if she's gone too long."
"We can't just let her go," said Owen.
"What makes you think you can keep me?" snapped Atlas. The red marks on her hands were blending together as she tried to twist free of the binds and her skin was rubbed raw.
Owen's thoughts raced. They couldn't keep Atlas locked up forever if they wanted to avoid Bebinn, but they could give the spirit time to reach Zabaria. But what Zabaria would do, or how soon she would do it, Owen didn't know. Once they let Atlas go, she would go straight to Bebinn and then what? Everything felt so wildly out of control.
"Let's take her to Genzel," said Owen finally. "He'll know what to do."
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Dun dun dun....
So what do you guys think? Predictions? Feelings? Let me know! Thank you always for reading and putting up with my crazy update schedule!