Warped (Maurissa Guibord) by Maurissa Guibord Read Free Book Online Page A

blinked, breaking her gaze from the unicorn's eyes with an effort. "I feel kind of funny when I look at it."
    "Probably the dust. Maybe you're allergic."
    "Maybe," said Tessa. But she knew very well she'd shaken out and aired the tapestry. No. It wasn't any antique mold or mildew that was messing with her head. It was the unicorn itself. "What do you know about unicorns?" she asked Opal.
    Opal tilted her head. "Let's see. Shy, imaginary creatures. Pointy headgear. Perennial favorite on the merry-go-round--"
    "Ha-ha," Tessa replied. She hesitated, then asked, "Definitely not scary, right?"
    Opal shook her head. "No scary unicorns." She pointed. "Except for that one."
    Tessa looked again. It did look a little frightening, maybe because it seemed so real. As if the muscular forelegs could thrash through the air and the unicorn might leap forward at any moment. From the expression in its eyes to its defiant stance, the unicorn looked as if it was trying to tear itself free from some invisible restraint. "Does it look real to you?" Tessa asked.
    "I guess," Opal replied.
    "Do me a favor," said Tessa. She gave a nervous nod toward the tapestry. "Touch it."
    "Touch it?"
    "The tapestry. The unicorn. Just touch it," Tessa repeated. "Humor me, okay?"
    Opal shrugged, walked up to the tapestry and put her hand on it.
    "Feel it."
    Opal gave Tessa a dubious look and then rubbed her hands all over the surface. "Ooh," she crooned. "Needlepoint."
    Tessa watched her. "Do you feel anything?"
    "Besides goofy? No."
    Nothing had happened, Tessa realized. Opal hadn't felt anything when she touched the tapestry. Neither had her father. It was only her. Why was it only her?
    "Can I stop with the touching already?" Opal asked.
    "Yeah. Sorry," Tessa said. "I'm just--Never mind." She sat down and fiddled with the laces on her sneakers. "Opal, do you believe in reincarnation or past lives, that kind of stuff?"
    Opal shrugged. "I dunno. I guess. Maybe."
    "Do you ever have dreams about it?" Tessa asked.
    "What, you mean where I'm Cleopatra or something? Nope. But I did have this dream last week that Bugs Bunny was chasing me through the school. Only he was a really mean Bugs. We had to have a lockdown and I hid under my desk." Opal frowned. "Sorry. Got sidetracked. Why do you ask? You think you're reincarnated?"
    "No," Tessa said quickly. "Of course not. Just wondering."
    Opal stepped back from the tapestry and frowned. "Are you really going to leave this up on your wall?"
    Tessa shrugged. "Why not? You're always saying my room looks like an obsessive-compulsive nun lives here. That it needs redecorating."
    "Uh, no, Miss Spartan-Pants. It needs decorating, not redecorating. Like more of your own artwork," said Opal, giving her a pointed look. "Pictures of hotties. Democratic campaign buttons. Not gothic-looking fantasy creatures." She stared again at the unicorn. "That'll give you nightmares, Tessa."
    Tessa let her eyes roam over the tapestry, past the unicorn into the deep shadows of the background and back again to the creature. She reached out to touch it, then stopped. She didn't know what was happening to her. But she was going to figure it out. "I'm going to keep it," she whispered. "It's so beautiful, and wild, and sad."
    Opal bounced back down on Tessa's bed and opened the magazine. She glanced up once more and said with finality, "I think it looks rabid."

Chapter 8

The Forest of Hartescross
Cornwall, 1511
    Deep in the forest, William de Chaucy walked his horse along a rough path. Fallen branches and moss-choked rivulets crisscrossed the way and made it slow going. He had traversed these woods often enough, but it seemed different today. The darkness was surprising. Outside, it was a clear day, but here the trees made a green canopy, hung like a thick blanket overhead. All around him cool emerald shadows played upon black. It was a different world. A dark world.
    He listened. Only the snap of twigs beneath his feet and the moist snuffle of