Thorn Jack (37 page)

“Shakespeare,” Christie muttered as he and Sylvie trudged after her. “Do all of you steal from him?”

“Why not? He stole from us.”

FINN ENTERED DRAKE'S CHAPEL, WHICH
had been decorated like a Gothic theater with fake birds, red candles, skulls, a statue with bat wings, and various ephemera from some crazy antique shop. She didn't see Christie or Sylvie, but Aubrey Drake stood near a table weighed down by a feast of crimson things. He was laughing with a boy in a black frock coat and a white-as-snow girl whose eyes flashed silver when she looked at Finn. With them was Sophia Avaline, gorgeous in a gown of black satin, feeding a truffle to a willowy young man.

Traitor,
Finn thought. She didn't see Christie or Sylvie, so she backed out of the chapel, turned, and moved through the small fires that had sprung up in stone bowls. The taint of wine and smoke made her eyes sting. She felt a prowling apprehension for her friends.

Reiko
must
know she was planning to save Jack.

The girl onstage began to sing “Scarborough Fair” as if her heart were breaking. Finn lifted her gaze and felt as if an old wound had opened up inside of her.

Reiko Fata, a creature of flame and blood, moved across the lawn toward Jack, who held out one hand gleaming with rings. Finn watched them dance like two figures from a hellish realm, perfect together because they had known each other for two hundred years. And Reiko had an advantage Finn did not.

Reiko was immortal.

As Jack tilted his head and whispered in Reiko's ear, Finn pushed a fist against her stomach and turned away.
Don't be an idiot.
When she raised her head, she saw a line of masked figures heading into the woods—none of the other revelers seemed to notice.

Wide-eyed, she looked back at the party.

Jack and Reiko were gone.

Finn ran after the masked figures, and the trees instantly closed around her. It was moonlit and quiet. Through a filigree of branches and briars, she saw lights moving and raced after them.

And lost them again. In the moonlit dark, she twisted around, hopeless.

She saw a little altar in the hollow of a tree, where a miniature angel reigned over the skulls of small animals and keys strung on dirty ribbons. She approached it, puzzled.

“Don't touch it.”

She jerked around and met the gaze of a tall girl in a gown of cobweb gray, her bare arms glinting with bronze bracelets, her hair a mane of white gold strung with glass crescent moons.

“It belongs to the Lily Girls. They worship something around here.” Her voice was as quicksilver as her gaze. She didn't even attempt to disguise herself with human warmth or movement and seemed as cold as a Viking's sword.

“The Lily Girls?” Finn didn't like that name.

“The dead girls. I am Norn, by the way. Since I know your name, Finn Sullivan, it is only right that you know mine.”

“Norn,” Finn whispered as the world tilted.

Norn's face was solemn. “I remember Lily Rose. She was little, but clever.”

An earthy wind kissed Finn's lips and swept leaves caressingly across her skin. Lily's imaginary friend stood before her. “She didn't
make you up . . .”

“She didn't make anything up.” Norn bowed her head. “I was all alone back then. And I saw her, a little ballerina, pretending to fight something with a toy sword. I began to talk to her.”

Finn shivered as she imagined this cold angel of a girl materializing from the dusk and walking toward her nine-year-old sister. “
You
told her those things, the things in her journal?”

“Stories,” Norn said, lifting her head until her face was in shadow, “to a child.”

“And now she is dead.”

The Fata girl turned, and her voice was faint as she strode away. “You are
among
the dead, Finn Sullivan. Come with me and remember that nothing is as it seems.”

Finn looked back over her shoulder, once. Then she hurried after the Fata called Norn.

AS CHRISTIE AND SYLVIE MOVED
among the revelers, the party became wilder. Although they'd masked their faces and Phouka had told them what to do, they were still nervous. Sylvie was trying not to jump at every noise that distinguished itself from the music. She was scared for Finn, who had lost so much, who had come to Fair Hollow to begin a new life, only to fall in love with someone who had died over one hundred years ago. “Do you really think they're going to kill some—”

Someone snatched the mask from Sylvie's face.

Caliban Ariel'Pan smiled at her as he tossed the mask away.

Christie pushed his metal face up and stepped between Sylvie and the beast. “You can't kill us in front of witnesses.”

“You could drop dead of a stroke. The crow girl could have an epileptic fit, swallow her tongue.” Caliban's gaze slid across them. “Fox boy.”

“Get away.” Christie didn't move, again ready to fling his whole body at the monster smiling sweetly at them.

Caliban stepped back with a velvety laugh. “Doesn't matter. You're both more fun alive. Let's see how long you stay that way.”

He swaggered across the lawn and vanished among the dancers.

There was a glint of lantern light on silk—a line of masked figures was moving up the path, into the woods.

“
Where is she?
” Christie frantically scanned the crowds.

“Come on.” Sylvie tugged him toward the path. She had retrieved the mask Caliban had taken from her. “We need to follow those people.”

 

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

Out then spoke the Queen of fairies

And an angry woman was she:

“Shame betide her ill-faired face,

And an ill death may she die,

For she's taken away the bonniest knight

In all my company.”

—T
AM
L
IN
, O
LD
B
ALLAD

F
inn had lost Norn. The Fata girl had been gliding through the woods as if she'd been born there and had suddenly vanished—but Finn had again seen the lights flickering in the dark and now followed them. They had, at first, seemed like dancing orbs, but, as she'd gotten closer, she could see they were small lanterns carried by masked figures moving as silently as spirits.

The Fatas were going to the oak. And the sacrifice. And Jack's second death.

Finn began to run. Twigs and leaves ripped at her gown, scratched at her face, pulled her hair. Her breath seared through her lungs as she raced toward the lights blinking through the trees. She expected obstacles, attacks, but nothing came at her.

She pushed through a lattice of blackthorns.

Hundreds of lit candles reflected from the metal masks of a gathering that was silent but for primitive music from flutes, drums, and the mournful
screeing
of a violin. There seemed to be others in the shadows, seeming not quite substantial and wrongly shaped. Her gaze skewed away from them and wouldn't focus.

The oak, the god, loomed over the gathering, its roots webbing beneath all the woods, its branches, spreading impossibly far, laced with the sharp, shiny leaves and white berries of mistletoe. There was a cavern in the side of its trunk, a black hollow she hadn't seen before. The fragrances that swept from this hollow were of wet earth, burning stars, glacial hours. The oak, dark with age and sickness, scarred by graffiti, was dying.

Finn tore her gaze from the monstrous tree to the thing set before it: a scarecrow of bones, thorny vines, Emory, and wildflowers woven into the shape of a man, fluttering with black ribbons. The human skull crowning it wore a wreath of mistletoe, like some gruesome, Druidic Day-of-the-Dead sculpture. It was a primitive, horrifying thing, a symbol of blood power and ancient bargains.

A procession came from the night, its leaders a tawny-haired man in a coat of brown fur, and Reiko Fata, trailing scarlet. Jack came after, wearing only his jeans, pendants gleaming against his bare chest. His dark brown hair was wound with a crown of red leaves and tiny apples. He was barefoot.

The trinity moved down the aisle of silent figures masked by the metal faces of cruel gods. Jewels and eyes glittered like tooth and claw. Reiko and her consort separated as they approached the oak. Jack stood alone before the scarecrow of thorns and Emory, his head down, his hands at his sides.

Now,
someone whispered in Finn's ear, and she whirled, seeing nothing but flickering shadows behind her.

She drew in a breath and stepped forward, yanking the backpack from her shoulder.

They turned toward her, the Fatas, firelight glistening in their eyes, across those beautiful masks. She tugged out the glass box and nearly dropped it because she was shaking so badly. “I have Reiko's heart.”

Reiko turned on her, her gown swirling like flames. She seemed impatient, not angry, and that worried Finn. “What are you doing, fool? You can't open that without the ke—”

Finn raised the Black Scissors' bone key and steeled herself against the cold murder in Reiko's gaze. “Free Jack. Or I open this, with the Black Scissors' blessing.”

No one spoke. Some of the masked figures at the edges of the gathering stirred. Finn didn't think they were Fatas or anything that had ever resembled humans.

“Serafina Sullivan.” As Reiko spoke, a wind fluttering with leaves cast itself across Finn, whipping her hair into her eyes. “Give me that or we will take it from you.”

“No.” Finn looked at Jack, who still had his head down, his hands clenched at his sides. “You won't.”

And she pushed the bone key at the lock.

It didn't fit.

She tried again, frantically. She sank to a crouch, jamming the key into a lock that wasn't made for it. A nightmarish sensation of impending death stunned her.

Finn Sullivan,
Anna Weaver had said,
you will die on Halloween.

A shadow swept over her. She slowly raised her head to see a terrible thing—Reiko, smiling. The queen of nothing and night began to circle her, her voice scornful. “Do you think, little mayfly, that I didn't know he was here? My enemy, my
Dubh Deamhais
? The heart I grew for him withered long ago. It's
dust
.”

Finn felt as if she were all hollow bones filled with ice. Her ears began to buzz, and her old enemy, the enchanted sleep, began to creep over her. The glass box and the bone key fell from her hands. Unsteadily, she pulled herself up.

Reiko continued with gentle malice: “That is a new-grown heart and no key exists that will open
that
box. You've failed, girl. You've risked yourself for a ruined boy who only loved you out of desperation and fear.”

Finn heard Jack, in his drugged daze, speak her name, and her heart twisted fiercely. She whispered, “Even though you made him bow his head to you, treated him as if he were a beaten dog, pretended to love him, made him kill for you, you never . . . you
never
broke him.”

Reiko smiled. “I broke your sister.”

Finn lunged and slammed a hand across Reiko's face.

Caliban, snarling, was at Reiko's side in an instant, but she held him back with one arm, her green gaze fixed on Finn while Finn stared, uncomprehending, at the blood that smeared the Fata queen's mouth.

“Back, Caliban,” Reiko said.

Glaring at Finn, the
crom cu
grudgingly moved away.

Reiko and Finn locked gazes for a moment. Reiko slowly raised one hand to wipe away the telltale blood before anyone else saw it.

“That heart,” Finn whispered, “it's not from the Black Scissors . . . it's from
Jack
. You
love
him. Why—”

“It is the ultimate sacrifice.”

Finn was still shaking. She had failed. The Fatas' eyes glinted malevolently behind their masks. She was alone, without friends or weapons. So she said what the girl in
Tam Lin
had said when saving her love from the fairy folk: “I claim him.”

The masked people murmured. Someone swore. David Ryder, the consort, looked furious and said, “Where did you find this nettlesome girl, Reiko?”

“This nettlesome girl”—Reiko turned—“is challenging us. We must honor that challenge, David.” Reiko looked back over her shoulder at Finn, and her smile was beautiful and frightening. “Go on, mayfly. Try me.”

Finn felt the sleep spell fade and, with it, her fear. It was as if she were suddenly filled with a clear, bright light, like sunlight on a steel blade. She stepped over the glass box with Reiko's heart in it and moved toward Jack, who raised his head to stare at her, his gaze dark, desolate.
That
drew her on as the masked figures parted for her, torchlight rippling crimson across metal faces, reflecting gold from the rustling, cathedral ceiling of leaves.

“Jack.” She reached out and clasped his hands, feeling how cold they were despite the pulse thrumming beneath her fingers. She said, “ ‘
Thou art mine and I am thine. 'Til the sinking of the world.
' ”

The dark left his eyes. “
Finn . . . don't . . .”

She slid her arms around him and held him close as she pressed her ear to the strong pulse of his heart. His body felt as familiar against her as if they'd grown up together. She heard Reiko's voice, succulent with satisfaction. “If she can keep hold of him, she can have him.”

“Jack,” Finn whispered, “what does she—”

Jack said, in her ear, “Close your eyes.”

She closed her eyes.

It began as all Fata tricks began, with a disturbing buzz in the air like thousands of flies, a pinching in her sinuses. Finn felt blood trickle from one nostril. She wound her arms tighter around Jack, knotted her fingers in his hair, and fiercely whispered, “
They won't have you.
”

When she felt his body diminish in her embrace, she made the mistake of opening her eyes and saw his skin unravel to reveal a burning, blue light. Her terror slid into cool shock as the ribbons of what had once been Jack took the form of something vicious and winged in her arms, a feathered monster that slashed at her face, her arms. She cried out, struggling, but she didn't let go as the eagle shrieked, its powerful wing beats making it impossible to hold—

It's a trick,
she thought while another part of her brain begged her to run. Jack had said it. Norn and Absalom Askew had warned her.
Nothing is as it seems.

Despite panic and the feeling of her skin being slashed to ribbons, she closed her eyes again and held tight to the predator in her arms. As its beak slashed across her brow, she remembered her mother rescuing a small bird that had injured itself and gently setting that tiny creature into Finn's hands. She tasted blood in her mouth as the powerful shape shrank into a fluttering softness. When she opened her eyes, she gasped, because a sparrow, warm and tough, nestled in her hands.

The tiny shape caught fire and burst outward and Finn screamed as flames swept over her clothes, into her hair, bit into her lungs. Her flesh blistered. Her arms surrounded a small inferno that ate into her body, and the agony almost broke her—

Nothing is as it seems.

Sobbing in pain, she cupped her shriveling hands and fiercely imagined what
she
wanted. She pictured the summer she and Lily Rose had caught fireflies in jars . . . the fire vanished and cool, crisp air filled her lungs, soothing her skin as a lightning bug flickered between her cupped hands.

Someone shouted.

The insect suddenly curled outward and grew into a limbless, muscular form that thrashed around her and hissed into her face, baring fangs like fishing hooks. She choked and doubled over as it coiled around her, constricting, its odor of reptile making her gasp before its body tightened like a scaled corset around her. Something broke inside of her. She nearly fainted.

I can't. I can't do this, Jack. I'm sorry . . .

As the python continued to strangle her, she thought of the grass snakes she used to chase in the Vermont garden. Blood burst into her mouth as something else ruptured—

The pressure was suddenly gone. She could breathe again, and she brokenly gasped air into her lungs, lifting one arm to gaze at the grass snake twined around her wrist. She touched it carefully, her breath coming in hiccups.

The snake exploded into a fountain of water and she was holding a wet, shivering young man. She didn't cry when he whispered, “
It doesn't hurt . . .”
But she knew it did, because he wouldn't look at her and there were bruises all over his arms and chest.

He cascaded into the shape of water, which she caught in a silver cup frantically imagined into existence. From the water flew a silvery moth, which she lunged for, and fell to her knees with it fluttering in the cage of her fingers. As she gazed at it, the moth became a shadow, like smoke. She firmly told the shadow it was a ribbon, and it solidified into silk, twining around her wrist, sliding away, swirling into a darkness that became a mass in her arms—

—a black jackal lunged at her throat, its cage of teeth glistening, its claws tearing at her shoulders. She cried out and staggered, but she held on, burying her face in black fur that smelled like wild roses, remembering the dog she'd wanted as a little girl in Vermont
.
“
Jack.
”

The big, muscular shape relaxed against her, still snarling, laying its wicked head on her shoulder. One blink later, she was holding a sleek black Labrador that whimpered, its paws heavy against her.

David Ryder's voice slid through the silence. “Well played, girl.”

Finn lifted her head and defiantly met Reiko's poison-green gaze as the warm dog shape in her arms became human and cold. She smelled corruption, rot, and closed her eyes, shivering as icy water dripped onto her face. It wasn't over.

“Open your eyes, girl.”

She did as she was told. In her arms was a naked young man, his white skin streaked with blue, wet dark hair falling into eyes that were a gelid green laced with the silver of death. He was burning cold. From the corner of his left eye, a drop of blood appeared and became a rose petal. Another rose petal slid from one nostril and drifted against her lips. He didn't move or speak. Finn felt sickness burning in her throat. She no longer held a living boy; she held Death.

“This is the truth of what you love.” Reiko spoke tenderly, flicking her gaze over the decaying body. “A corpse stuffed with roses.”

The origin of Jack's faint fragrance of roses was horrifyingly clear now.

Finn cried out, staggered back . . . let go . . .

. . . and fell into the embrace of the black-ribboned scarecrow.

Shadows and light blurred. It was not a corpse, but Jack, gazing at her, stricken.

“Jack!” Finn tried to lunge toward him, but she couldn't move.

“And so the trick is done.” Reiko smiled. “Serafina Sullivan, you have no power here. And your life is forfeit.”

Jack stared at Finn until two masked Fatas grabbed him and began dragging him away. He howled her name. Finn felt the helplessness of starring in a nightmare.

The Rooks, the three dead children of Malcolm Tirnagoth, removed their masks to reveal solemn faces. Phouka stood nearby, her head bowed. They were all taking off their masks now. She saw strange faces and glamorous ones, disturbing beauty and grotesque—the Fatas, the fairies, the children of nothing and night. Aubrey Drake stood among them, looking shocked. Beside him, Hester Kierney had her hands over her mouth. Professor Fairchild and Sophia Avaline had emerged from the shadows, their expressions grim. As a wind heavy with the scents of rotting leaves and burning swept through the gathering, and Professor Hobson, Miss Perangelo, and Mr. Wyatt came forward, Sophia Avaline said, “Reiko Fata, this
wasn't what was agreed upon.
”