Thorn Jack (18 page)

“She had a
key,
Jack.”

“You think I would give it to her? Did you tell
him
about this?” Jack pointed back at the salon where David Ryder waited.

“If he knew about this, Serafina Sullivan and her companions would go the way of the Lily Girls.”

“The who?”

“Oh, Jack.” She cupped his face in her hands. “Selective memory, again?” Her eyes went black. “I could
make
you remember those three mistakes.”

“No.” His voice began to fray. He thought,
Eve.
“Why? Why are you letting me be with her? Just to keep her from falling for Nathan and rescuing him?”

“I told you. She is my gift to you.”

He tried to pull back from her, but she wound her slim white arms around his neck and whispered into his ear, “ ‘
And I shall purge thy mortal grossness so, that thou shalt like an airy spirit go
.' Jack, give me your heart.”

He'd been a fool to think he could hide it from her, or resist her.

He opened his shirt to do as she asked.

 

C
HAPTER
N
INE

The Monasty are solitary and have no alliances. They are nomads. They keep to themselves. They don't like to be bothered. They are the most unpredictable.

—
F
ROM THE JOURNAL OF
L
ILY
R
OSE

Lily Rose held Finn's hand as they raced across the field toward a huge house veiled by morning mist.

“Look. It wasn't here before.” Lily Rose, lithe and fifteen, waved her hand as if performing a magic trick. Two wolves of pale marble curved along the house's stairway. It was a ruin, the house, its doors and windows gaping. Something nasty and dark and old seemed to seep from it, like rot.

Finn pulled back, but Lily Rose ran on, slowing when the mist across the field curled away from a man seated on the stairs. His hair had the sheen of autumn leaves. He wore a coat of black fur. He stood and began walking toward Lily Rose. His eyes were wolf blue—

Finn had encountered ghosts, and the striking boy named Jack was not at all like other people. Ordinary people didn't have fallen angels for enemies and elegant vagabonds for friends. They didn't act as if their families were to be feared. They didn't hang out in abandoned places infested with spirits and bad mojo.

It was still raining and she felt frayed. She decided she wouldn't go to class today—there was only English Comp, math, and soccer, the phys ed requirement she'd reluctantly chosen. Her da, recognizing the signs, brought her tea and Irish oatmeal thick with cream and cinnamon. He placed her cell phone on the table near the sofa where she'd made her nest so that she could watch old movies.

Restless by afternoon, she dressed in jeans and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt and made coffee. She listened to her mother's music collection and checked her e-mail. She watched a Scooby-Doo marathon as she finally texted Christie and Sylvie.

Later on, she opened Lily's journal.

She was beginning to realize that, as children, she and Lily had probably seen things Finn had sensibly blocked out, or placed in the compartment called “Imagination,” but Lily's illness hadn't allowed her to do that. And could Finn even really trust her own memories? She frowned down at the scrawls of black ink that described a perilous, secret world she'd only begun to discover.
Last night, in the park, he kissed my wrist. It left a scar. I know what he is now. He is a wolf.

Some of the stories, she'd begun to realize with a faint unease, must be true. Whoever the children of nothing and night were, they had gotten to her sister first. And Finn knew she'd seen them as a child, but her mind had dismissed them. Even now, her common sense continued to fight what she'd seen, to push them into the realm of dream, myth, fairy tales, the world her father studied. And what had drawn him to
that
? she wondered. Her da had grown up in Fair Hollow, but obviously he hadn't a clue as to what was creeping through its quaint antiquity.

She looked down at a page of Lily's journal, saw the words
Mockingbird
and
malevolent,
and a sketch of a wicked face with wings. The image blurred. A memory trickled to her like sunlight through leaves—a boy's neon-green sneakers. She gripped her sister's journal and remembered Robbie Simmons, the small, quick boy who had lived next door in Vermont. She'd been nine, and winter hadn't yet taken her mother, when she and Robbie had found each other and spent the year making forts in trees, playing video games, and borrowing his parents' Dungeons and Dragons figurines to stage tiny battles.

Her fingernails dug into the pages of the journal. She didn't want to go any further. But she closed her eyes and the childhood images flickered through her brain as she and Robbie ran through the woods, wild kids, and the sun was setting, its descent tainting the air with an eerie glow—

—then she was standing before a boy who looked twelve, and there was another boy and girl with him, and they had hair so yellow it could have been gold. The tall boy had hold of Finn's wrist and he'd said he wasn't going to let go as his brother and sister stared at her with eyes as silver as his. Robbie had punched him in the shoulder—

She didn't remember anything else about that day. That was the summer Robbie had fallen from a tree and broken both legs. He hadn't been able to run as fast after that.

Finn looked down at her sister's handwriting:
The Mockingbirds are devious, a wealthy, clannish, rural family. Piss them off and they'll hurt you
—

She flung the journal against the wall and curled up with her hands over her head, eventually drifting into sleep.

WHEN FINN OPENED HER EYES,
evening had fallen and Jack Fata sat in her father's armchair. At first, she didn't believe he was there. “Jack?”

“Do you want me to leave?” He wore a black coat sparkling with rain.

“
You
left
me
.” She realized she wasn't worried that he'd gotten into her house—which should have worried her.

“I shouldn't have.” His voice was soft, his hands locked together as he leaned forward. “I was angry.”

“How did you get in? The doors are locked.”

He unfolded from the chair and began walking around the parlor, his rings glinting dully as he touched objects. “The kitchen window wasn't.”

A scent had filled the room, a fragrance of rain on rose petals, green and sweet. It smelled dangerous, like the air before a violent thunderstorm. “Jack.”

“Finn.” He caressed a doll. “Don't ever put anything outside your house with the word ‘Welcome' on it.”

He was crazy. He was crazy and lovely and leaving wet boot prints on the hardwood. When he halted before the photograph of Lily Rose sitting on the porch in San Francisco, he had his back to Finn.

“My sister.” Finn moved to her feet. “Lily Rose.”

He looked away. “The one who died.”

He turned, discarding the coat. He wore old jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt. She scowled as he stooped down in front of the stereo and began riffling through her father's CDs. He said, “Do you have any Tom Waits? Paganini?”

“My da likes Tom Waits. Who's Paganini? I'm going to make some tea.” She moved carefully toward the kitchen.

“Paganini was an Italian composer, a violinist, who made a pact with the devil. The devil seems to like violinists. Even Scooby-Doo could figure that out. Ah. Here it is.”

Finn's hands were cold as she placed the kettle on the stovetop. When violin music soared through the house, heartbreaking, eerie, she shivered. She hated classical music . . . it was the last music her sister had listened to before ending her life.

But she didn't tell Jack to turn it off. She pushed her hands through her tangled hair and turned. She was going to ask him about Tirnagoth and its spirits . . .

He was leaning in the doorway. “Only it wasn't the devil they dealt with. It was a race of beings who've hidden themselves from mortal eyes for thousands of years.”

She remembered Lily's journal—where had she thrown it? “That's interesting.”

As he began to wander around the kitchen, touching things, she reached over and plucked one of her grandmother's china mice from his fingers. “Do you play the violin, Jack?”

“Sometimes. I've had time to learn.”

“Have you? Did that red-haired fiddler teach you?”

“Stay away from him.”

The kettle had begun to whistle. She grabbed it. “Why? Is he the devil?”

“He's
a
devil.” His dark gaze suddenly fastened on something. She turned her head to see what had caught his attention and nearly dropped the kettle.

Lily Rose's journal hovered in midair, its ribbons twisting like tentacles, its pages fluttering as if someone they couldn't see was leafing through it. Finn set down the kettle and stepped back. “Jack.”

“Finn,” he whispered, “do you know you're not alone?”

The door that led to the garage opened, and her da stepped in, his head down as he struggled to get the key out of the lock.

The book fell to the floor. He looked up.

There was silence in the kitchen as Jack bent, picked up the journal, and set it on the counter. Finn was amazed by how normal her voice sounded, “Da. This is Jack.”

“Hello, Jack.” Her father looked too calm. He shut the door. He said, “Do you go to HallowHeart?”

“My family doesn't believe in higher education.”

Finn winced as her father folded his arms across his chest. “And what family is that?”

“Da . . .”

Jack didn't drop his gaze from her father's. “The Fatas.”

“Jack was on his way home.” Finn moved into the parlor for Jack's raincoat, and Jack followed leisurely. Her da came after, frowning at the slender boy with the red-tipped hair and the ruby stud in his nose.

“I'll see you again,” Jack promised as Finn pulled him toward the door.

She whispered, “Jack. What
was
that—”

His fingers wrapped around her wrist, and the touch of his bare skin against hers was a shock. He whispered, “Nothing to be afraid of. Get rid of that welcome mat.”

“Jack—”

He was out the door, striding into the rain.

She shut the door and turned. Her da stood with arms crossed, an imposing, shaggy-haired Irishman. “And what was he doing here?”

“He brought me a book I wanted.” Finn hated lying, hated even more how easily she did it. “He likes books.”

“Surprising, since his family doesn't believe in higher education. You feel better then?” He definitely hadn't noticed the floating journal.

“Much. I'm getting rid of that old doormat outside, okay?” She hurried out of the kitchen.

As she opened the front door, she saw jack-o'-lanterns glowing throughout the neighborhood. She'd never longed for the ordinary as much as she did at that moment. As she picked up the Welcome mat, a paper fluttered toward her, swirling to her feet. She stared down at one of her printouts of the 1800s coachman who could have been Jack's twin.

She shut the door and ran up the stairs, bursting into her room.

Lily's trunk had been flung open. Scattered all over the floor were the prints of Jack's and Reiko's historical doubles.

Jack wouldn't have come up here to do this. She whispered to the air, “Who are you?”

No one answered.

“THIS IS INSANE, FINN.”

“You didn't have to come, Christie.”

“Sure, and you'd be here alone. We should've brought Sylvie as a lookout.”

“You
followed
me.”

“And I gave you a ride—”

Finn tensed. “Shh. I think I see him.”

“I can't believe he lives here. This is probably his lair, Finn, where he brings girls and does unspeakable things to them—”

“
Shh.
” It was nearly midnight, and they were crouched in the weeds surrounding Jack Fata's abandoned theater, watching Jack leave by the fire escape.

Christie whispered, “
Why
do you want to go in there?”

She watched Jack vanish down the lane and wondered if he had a job—she couldn't even
attempt
to imagine him delivering pizza or working at Dunkin' Donuts. She said, “Because I need to know.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“Cats have nine lives. You can leave. Or you can stay as lookout.”

“Hell, that. I'm coming in there with you.”

He followed her up the fire escape. She pushed open the window, which wasn't locked—
that
surprised her. As they slid over the sill, the smells of incense and candle smoke made her feel as if she were invading a sacred space, and guilt tweaked her. Christie bumped against a table as Finn switched on her flashlight. They didn't want to turn on the lamps because that would be a beacon to anything outside.

“What are we looking for?” He flicked his light over shelves crammed with books and oddities, something that looked like a wolf's skull. The black cat lounging in a chair closed its eyes against them.

“History.” She opened the wardrobe and found Jack's clothes scented with mint and patchouli.

Christie was scanning the shelves. “Look at these.
Wind in the Willows. Alice in Wonderland. Peter Pan
—first editions. What the hell is a badass like Jack Fata doing with these?”

She crouched before a voyage trunk plastered with stickers and, feeling like Pandora about to let something terrible into the world, attempted to open it. There was a lock.

She yanked the moth key hanging from a ribbon around her neck, slid it into the lock, and smiled when it turned—so it definitely wasn't Jack who'd given her the key. Why would he? She lifted the trunk's lid. She saw a dusty Victorian hat of black silk, a collection of cuff links on brown velvet. Next to these were a serpent-headed walking stick and a wooden box carved with doglike images. Beneath the box was the film reel in red casing, the one Jack wouldn't let her watch. She couldn't believe her luck. She quickly grabbed it and tucked it into her backpack.

Her hands shook as she removed the wooden box. She opened it and peered down at old photographs, some in black-and-white, others sepia tinged with age. She spread the pictures on the floor and gazed at Jack in Victorian clothing, standing with his hands on the harness of a horse-drawn carriage. In another photograph, resembling one of those stars from silent films, he sat in a more modern suit and held a violin. In the next, he was dressed in a long leather coat, aviator's goggles pushed onto his hair as he crouched beside a 1940s motorcycle. In the final picture, he stood holding a fiddle, his hair crowned with lilies. He wore a stitched shirt and flared jeans straight out of the late '60s.