Thorn Jack (22 page)

“I know. And I'm doing it.”

“You are walking in the shadows, wading through a river of blood. They don't like things being taken from them.
Don't come tonight.
”

“You expect me to do nothing? Not going to happen, Jack.” She slid her arms around him, pressed her face against his neck. She pictured him, in black-and- white, standing beside a horse and coach in another century. She felt his breath quicken as he kissed her beneath her ear. Her hands were splayed across his back; she could feel his muscles tense as his fingers, strong and slender, cupped her hip, the nape of her neck, then knotted in her hair. She whispered his name, even though she knew, in that sensible fragment of her brain, that a kiss from him could mean death.

She fiercely wrapped her arms around him. Maybe a kiss from her could mean life for
him
.

“Finn,” he whispered as he raised his hands to her face, “listen to me. This is what I do. This is what I was made for, by her.”

“I won't break into pieces. I promise.”

“You will.” His lips were so close, it was like a kiss. His voice was low, his muscles like steel cables beneath his skin—as if
he
would break. “They all do, eventually, the ones she sends me after.”

“Let's pretend,” she whispered, “that she didn't send you. That
I
came after
you
.”

Jack closed his eyes as Finn kissed his temple, the slope of one cheekbone, the line of his jaw. Now she felt his heartbeat pulsing like a small animal beneath the hand she laid against his chest. When her mouth touched his, his lips parted with a breath.

He flung himself away, through the doors, which creaked with his passing.

Finn sank to a crouch, her head in her hands.

MERMAID HOUSE SWAM INTO VIEW
from the violet haze of descending evening as Finn's cab slid up the drive. The time on the invitation had been very specific.

As the cab left her, she began to regret coming alone. But she had to
know
. She felt that, tonight, the Fatas would reveal themselves and she'd have some idea as to what she was battling. And they couldn't hurt her—she'd been
invited
.

After a second of hesitation, she walked quickly up the lane before the insane courage deserted her. She wore a dress of antique-green silk that had belonged to her sister and the Doc Martens she'd bought at a flea market. The hood of her red coat was flung over her hair, which she'd coiled with holly. The house suited its name. It looked old and uncared for, the fountain—a mer-boy of white stone clutching a fish—clogged with Emory. Two green marble mermaids curved over the entrance, above paint-peeling doors. The glass of the windows was blue beneath the grime—in the day, the interior must seem as though it was submerged beneath water. Beyond the house, she heard violin and flute music. It was another party held on the grounds of a dead house.
They must collect them,
she thought with a twist of fear,
places without hope.

She was debating whether or not to ring the bell shaped like a cowrie shell, when the door opened and Absalom Askew, slim and elegant in a suit of tawny suede, smiled at her.

“Finn Sullivan.” He had a daisy tucked behind one ear, and she wondered if his hair had been dyed that extraordinary orange. “We've been expecting you.”

Looking past him, she saw a chandelier of blue glass, mirrored walls, and large furniture shrouded in plastic. He stepped out and closed the door. “Come on. Everyone's in the garden.”

Finn followed him to the garden, where tiny lights twinkled in ornamental trees and a table was set with crystal goblets and platters of food. The guests were scattered in groups, drinking and talking while a trio of musicians played instruments beneath a canopy. The air was fragrant with the scents of smoke, wine, and flowers. Everyone was young. Everyone was glamorous.

Fighting skittish panic, Finn counted twelve guests as she followed Absalom across the lawn toward Reiko Fata, perfect in an empire gown of red gossamer. She was speaking to a white-haired young man with a delicate face and a silvery moth tattooed beneath his left ear.

“Lazuli,” Reiko Fata said, as she turned to Finn, “this is Serafina Sullivan.”

The white-haired young man nodded but didn't speak. When his eyes flashed silver, Finn forced herself not to shiver.

“Shall I wander elsewhere?” Absalom was watching a slender girl in a black gown. Finn glimpsed Nathan seated beneath a tree, speaking to the violinist vagabond with the long, red hair.

“Go on.” Reiko moved forward. “Walk with me, Serafina.” Trailing expensive perfume and a darker scent that reminded Finn of reptiles, Reiko led her across the lawn. “What do you think of Fair Hollow?”

With its revels and parties and odd residents, Fair Hollow wasn't like any other place Finn had ever been. And this girl who radiated menace—her black hair too sleek, her skin velvety white—made Finn's spine ice. She said, calmly, “I think my sister would have liked it here.”

“Oh, Serafina, you are too young to hold grudges. Your sister chose to take her own life. I am sorry for that.”

You're not sorry for anything,
Finn thought savagely.
You are a monster pretending to be a girl.
“I remember seeing you in San Francisco.”

“Serafina.” Reiko stopped walking. “It's a coincidence that we were in San Francisco at the time of her death. Someone told her stories—nonsense things—and she believed them. It made her crazy.”

Finn, studying that innocent face, found herself wanting to believe those words, because it would make everything so much easier.

Reiko said gently, “I want you to be comfortable with us. Whether you like it or not, you're connected to us now. You
know
us.”

“I don't know what you
are,
” Finn whispered.

“You don't need to. You like Jack. You like Nathan. Your friend likes Phouka.” Reiko was looking past her.

Finn turned, and flinched, then breathed deeply and almost snarled. Christie had come, and he was talking with the girl chauffeur. And Sylvie, in striped stockings and a little black frock, was speaking with Nathan. They had figured her out. “Damn.”

“They're ours, Serafina, only they don't know it yet.”

“I don't believe you. I don't believe anything you say.”

“Serafina. You don't want to be my enemy.” Reiko still resembled a girl, but her eyes had become dark and her voice held a tone that flattened the air—and that was just the hidden part. Her mask was everything that made Finn feel inferior. She was the flawless model, the head cheerleader, the
other
girl who would always be more beautiful, more accomplished.

As Finn remained stubbornly silent, Reiko moved away. “Come. Everyone is being seated.”

Finn reluctantly followed her to the table cluttered with a small feast Jack had called “ordinary.” A dark-haired boy was tending to the grill, forking slabs of meat onto black plates. There were dark red apples, a crimson cake, mounds of strawberries, chicken and ribs drenched in barbecue sauce.
A murderers' feast.

Everyone took a seat at the claw-footed table, Reiko choosing a chair at one end, Nathan at the other. Finn sat opposite Christie and Sylvie. Absalom, languid as a caterpillar, was flirting with a girl whose golden hair was coiled in braids. The tall youth in white—Lazuli—watched Finn as he peeled an apple. There were others at the table, and none of the faces were plain or uninteresting.

Then Jack swaggered into view, in black-striped trousers and a black shirt with buttoned cuffs, a strand of tiny rubies across his collarbones. He didn't look at Finn as he set one hand on Nathan's chair and leaned down to speak to him. When he looked up, past her, she apprehensively turned her head.

Caliban Ariel'Pan was moving across the lawn, platinum hair shimmering.

She gripped the table's edge and met the gazes of Christie and Sylvie, who seemed as scared as she felt. Reiko was a calculated danger; Caliban was a wild card.

As the wild card sprawled in the chair near Reiko, Jack took the chair next to Sylvie and smiled grimly at Finn over the crimson cake. Someone had poured wine into her black teacup. She ignored it and leaned toward Sylvie. “Why did you come?”

Solemnly, Sylvie murmured, “We're your friends.”

“Where are the Rooks?” Reiko leaned gracefully forward to cut the cake with a butcher's knife. “I told them not to be late.”

Jack gazed at Finn as he replied, “Maybe the Rooks are jealous this isn't their party. Happy birthday, Nathan.”

“Thanks, Jack.” Nathan was staring into his wineglass.

Finn slouched back in her chair and observed the Fatas, watching for anything supernatural. Music from the small orchestra soared over the conversations as the guests, revealing an ornamental affection for one another, began to eat and drink. Caliban and Jack acted like rival siblings. Phouka passed a plate of cake to Nathan while Lazuli, the young man in white, remained quiet. When Sylvie asked him about the apples, he smiled and handed her one.

“Finn.” His plate piled with ribs and black rice sprinkled with red peppers, Christie leaned forward. “Eat something.”

“No. And I wish you wouldn't.”

He looked wistfully down at the tempting meal. “I know I shouldn't, but I'm
starving
.”

“That might not be your fault.” Sylvie sniffed at her apple.

“Our hospitality doesn't involve poisoning the guests, does it, Lazuli?” Jack reached over, stabbed a small roast hen with a fork, and dropped it onto Finn's plate. He met her gaze. “It's safe. Eat. Don't drink the wine.”

Then the Rooks arrived.

Trip, Hip Hop, and Bottle strolled across the lawn, the boys in black ruffles and red silk ties, Hip Hop dressed in a black corset and a skirt of red tulle. She carried a crimson parasol. Trip held a rectangular bat. Reiko gazed at them with cool displeasure. “You're late.”

As they leaned against one another in a pose that struck Finn as familiar, Trip spoke, his eyes dark and sly: “We were at a game of cricket.”

“You know how we love cricket.” Hip Hop tilted her head. Beside her, blond Bottle didn't say anything.

Finn suddenly recognized that pose, those sly faces and almond eyes. The world tilted. She felt that uncanny shiver in the air, a sting in her sinuses, as if her frontal lobe was being pinched.
No. They can't be.

Caliban spoke courteously to Finn. “Want to know about the Rooks' names? Bottle looks like the angels in Botticelli's paintings. Hip Hop is what a rabbit does, and this bunny can lead anyone to a good time. And Trip? He's good at making accidents happen.”

“Caliban.” Reiko's voice sliced the smile from his face.

Finn had straightened in her chair. The three Rooks in their Victorian-punk clothing held the same pose as Malcolm Tirnagoth's three children in their photograph from the 1920s, the one Sylvie had shown her. And Sylvie, the collector of old photographs, was staring at the Rooks as if she, too, had realized they were dead things from another century.

The Fatas had almost fooled her tonight, with their false affection and their attempts at family eccentricity. Although they mimicked humans, they were
not
. Finn and her friends were seated here with white-skinned, silver-eyed beings and the living dead, the children of nothing and night.

Finn's stomach churned. She looked at Jack, who was eating a piece of cake with his fingers, picking it neatly apart. The nightmarish reality of the otherworld suddenly blindsided her, and she felt that enchanted sleep prowling closer. “Jack . . .”

“Jack.” Reiko's voice slid across the table, chimed against the crystal goblets. “I want to dance.”

Jack looked at Finn. He rose and sauntered toward the musicians and Reiko followed. As the band began another song, a delicate, Renaissance harmony—“Greensleeves”—Reiko slid her arms around Jack and they began to dance as if they had been together since the beginning of the world.

Finn made a small sound, feeling an almost physical pain.

The conversations at the table continued as the Rooks approached and rudely began picking delicacies from the platters. As Bottle stuffed a red-frosted cupcake into his mouth, Christie pushed his food away.

Finn glanced away from Jack and Reiko, to Sylvie and Christie, who watched her with solemn expressions.

“I think the Rooks are . . .” Finn couldn't finish.

Sylvie nodded, while Christie looked wary. “
What?
”

“They're Malcolm Tirnagoth's children,” Sylvie said. She resembled one of the present company with her tilty blue eyes, the black hair rippling around her face.

The lights flickered, and the violins changed to a gypsy reel as the three friends stared at the Rooks. Nathan had begun to dance with a girl in a white gown, her pale hair like a dandelion puff. As others waltzed with delicate precision around them, Finn wondered if that was the someone Nathan hadn't wanted his family to know about. What had changed?

Christie said quietly, “Did you notice how they keep Nathan watched, like he's some kind of good luck charm? And he's the adopted one.”

So is Jack,
Finn wanted to tell them, but he wasn't, really, because the Fatas weren't a family . . . they were a
tribe
.

Phouka Fata was walking toward them, her hair wound with pearls and her body sleek in a kimono-dress of mauve silk; she wore sandals that laced to her knees. When Phouka smiled at Christie, Finn saw the enchantment begin, even saw him resist at first when Phouka held out a hand.

“Christie,” Phouka said and, as her voice drew his gaze up, Finn reached out to grab him, but he was out of her grasp and letting the Fata girl lead him away.