Warped (Maurissa Guibord)

tale."
    Hugh shook his head. "The crone says the unicorn cannot be captured by ordinary means. A trap must be set, and then the creature must be fettered with iron shackles."
    "Trap? What kind of a trap?" the earl asked. His eyes brightened, seemingly despite himself, at the prospect of a challenging hunt.
    "A virgin must be placed in its haunts," said Hugh.
    "Then make it so," said the earl. "And if this is true, if there is such a beast," he went on in a commanding tone, "kill it, Hugh. With your own hands, kill it. It won't bring Will back to us, but such a thing must not be suffered to live. It's a danger to the village."
    Hugh's breath was ragged with emotion, and wetness glittered in his eyes as he answered:
    "I will destroy it."

Chapter 11

Tessa couldn't sleep.
    No matter what shape she punched her pillow into, it wasn't comfortable, and every book she picked up she tossed aside. Her thoughts kept revolving around one idea: something was wrong .
    Outside were the sounds of occasional cars passing, but the building was quiet. She was alone. Her father had called; he would be home a bit later. She'd heard music playing in the background as he spoke over the phone. "You're sure you're okay? I'm just around the corner, at Alicia's."
    Tessa heard the carefulness in her father's voice, and the worry. "I'm fine, Dad," she'd said firmly. "And that thing I said this morning--I'm really sorry. It was stupid."
    "The way you feel is never stupid, Tessa." He had paused as if to say something else but then seemed to change his mind. "I won't be too late."
    Now Tessa heaved herself up from the bed and turned on the desk lamp. Her father was happy; it was a good thing. She should just focus on her own life. Or lack thereof.
    She remembered what Hunter had said about the volleyball accident, about their having some kind of fate or destiny together. Tessa scowled. No. Hunter Scoville was not her destiny.
    Anyway, she didn't believe in fate. If everything in this life were preordained, destined to be, well, that would mean that someone, somewhere, had decided that Hey, on December 12, Wendy Brody will be in a head-on car collision on I-95 South. Make sure it's when she's coming back from a shopping trip. For Christmas .
    Tessa recognized the same painful twist of sadness she always felt when she thought of that day four years ago. She pushed it away.
    As far as she was concerned, life was one big series of accidents. Some were good, like when you meet your best friend during your most embarrassing moment on the playground in second grade. Some were bad, like when you kill somebody's mom, somebody's wife, by falling asleep behind the wheel of a tractor trailer.
    There was no such thing as fate, or destiny. Only what you could make happen. What you could swerve to avoid. What you could fix.
    Tessa looked over at the tapestry. In the shadowy light the fierce eyes of the unicorn stared at her. What you can make happen . Tessa stepped closer. She closed her eyes, reached out and touched it.
    She was in a shady, wooded place. Here and there, spears of sunlight shot through the leaves to make pools of glowing, dappled color on the ground. She sat, resting on a swath of green moss. She let her eyes roam up over the latticework of branches high overhead. It was beautiful here. Peaceful.
    Where was she? She couldn't remember. She knew only what she had been told: she must stay here and be very quiet, very still.
    Her hands worked nervously, smoothing the thick folds of fabric in her lap. She looked down. The beautiful gown was not hers. The blue velvet felt heavy and constricting and the lacings of the bodice stole her breath. Or perhaps it was her uneasiness that made her chest so tight. Her breath sounded clamorous in the silence around her. Be quiet , she told herself. Be still .
    There was a monster in the woods, a beast that must be caught.
    They said it killed William de Chaucy. He had been killed on the very day he had followed her into these woods. Proud, handsome, bookish William de Chaucy was dead. She had hardly known him. They had never even spoken. And yet why, when she thought of him, did she grieve? Knowing he was gone from this world ... it made something inside her feel empty and locked away. It was as if something had been stolen from her.
    An old weaver woman had come to the village, telling everyone how she had seen the beast slaughter the young nobleman. Now the earl was set on hunting it, set on vengeance for his