Warped (Maurissa Guibord)

dressed as he was, thought Tessa, in some kind of costume from a medieval fair. She reached out a tentative hand to touch his clothes.
    He woke up fast. At her touch, his hand struck out like a whip and captured her wrist. Tessa gasped as he leapt up, hauling her up with him. He gripped her by the shoulders and nearly carried her as he propelled her forward to push her against the wall. Tessa swore, struggling to get her knee up and wrench herself away, but he only tightened his hold and pressed closer, pinning her to the wall.
    "Where am I?" he demanded. "And what are you doing here?"
    But Tessa ignored the questions and let out a high-pitched scream. He clamped a hand over her mouth. "Quiet!" he hissed. "I'm not going to hurt you." His face as he looked down at hers was pale, giving his tanned skin a waxy look. His eyes were furious.
    His eyes. Tessa stared, blinked and slowed her struggling. She was dreaming. She had to be. That face, those eyes, definitely came from her dream. Didn't they? And it was impossible, but she could have sworn that she saw recognition in his expression as well. She nodded once. Okay . Slowly he took his hand from her mouth.
    "Pray don't scream," he said, examining her closely. "It was you who released me?"
    "Released you?" Tessa whispered, still staring into his eyes with confusion. She trembled as an eerie sort of understanding crept over her. "The tapestry." She turned her head.
    The tapestry hung on the wall, smooth and intact. But in the center of the picture, the clearing was empty. The green grass had been replaced by a shadowy darkness of tangled threads.
    The unicorn was gone.

Chapter 13

At the same moment that Tessa Brody pulled a loose thread from an old tapestry, something else happened. Over the ancient tree Yggdrasil a knife of green lightning split the sky. A tiny rift appeared in the Wyrd. The endless, flowing fabric was torn. Ripples cascaded from the spot, across centuries, across continents.
    The shock of it struck Weavyr into stillness. Her dusky fingers seized up as she watched her precise patterns, the symmetrical forms, become hopelessly tangled.
    "By the powers!" she shrieked. "Not again! Come. Help me, Sisters!"
    The other two Norn came swiftly.
    "What is happening?" Spyn cried.
    "Look for yourself. The Wyrd is torn." Weavyr gasped. Her fingers began to fly, clutching at threads to straighten paths, to restore order.
    "How?" Scytha demanded in a booming voice.
    "The stolen threads," Weavyr replied. "Hold this. No, not that one. No, too late. Here."
    "They've been returned?" asked Spyn.
    "No," Weavyr answered, working frantically. "Not returned. But something has happened. A terrible disturbance. It must be because of the stolen threads, or one of them."
    "Can you repair it?" Scytha asked.
    "I'm trying," said Weavyr. Her cloaked hood shook as if she was shuddering beneath it.
    Lila Gerome strode across the concourse of Logan Airport, her high Prada heels clicking on the tiles and her shiny hair swinging. Abruptly she stopped. Her face contorted into a shocked grimace. She let out a grunt. Clutching her stomach, she lurched forward. Surprised travelers swerved out of her way as she ran into a nearby washroom.
    Lila hung over one of the stainless steel sinks as a fiery pain scorched through her chest. A pain like she'd never felt before. "Wh-what's happening?" she croaked. Her voice. It wasn't smooth. It was as coarse as tar paper. It sounded ancient .
    She clutched her chest, her breath coming in wheezing gasps. Her hands. She lifted them up and stared. The slim fingers thickened and twisted as the joints swelled. Blue, cordlike veins rose beneath the spotty skin. In a moment her hands had shriveled into clawlike fists.
    "The tapestry," she said. The pain was subsiding now, and in its place was an overwhelming terror. Was she dying? No. Lila staggered forward to the full-length mirror on the wall. Slowly she raised her head. Staring back at her was a hunched old woman. Her fashionable suit hung on her rickety frame as if she were a misshapen hanger. Thin gray hair hung around her face, and her small black eyes were nearly buried in wrinkled folds.
    "Shit," she said.
    There was only one way for this to happen. It should have been impossible, but someone must have taken one of her threads from the tapestry. Taken her most precious thread, in fact, and released him. Her unicorn. He was her youth, her beauty, her strength. Stolen. Rage bubbled up, nearly choking her,