Thorn Jack (38 page)

Reiko ignored her, her scarlet gown slithering as she moved toward Finn, who could still hear Jack's raging cries as he was dragged farther away. He couldn't fight them; he was human. And Finn had done that to him, made him vulnerable. Reiko spoke as if they were having a conversation over fries and soda. “I remembered you, too, little mayfly, from the bridge. The moment my Jack dragged you from the water, I decided to make you into something deserving of his regard.”

“Reiko”—David Ryder sounded impatient—“don't taunt her. There is no honor in it.”

“This,” Reiko said, gesturing to Finn as she addressed the gathering, “is our true Teind, the one we've sought for so long, our braveheart . . . a girl who sacrificed love for her friends, who risked her life for a fool like Nathan Clare, who was willing to die for another. We've watched over her for years—and now she is ours.”

It was a death sentence. The urge to run made Finn instinctively scan the gathering for escape, for a way out . . . but no help would be coming. The teachers looked defeated, and Aubrey Drake and his friends were useless. The inevitability of death closed over her like a wolf's teeth, and she put her hands over her mouth and blinked away tears. She was shaking so badly, she felt as if her bones had become icicles. Her gaze, seeking an ally among the crowd, met Sophia Avaline's.

Avaline, almost imperceptibly, shook her head and looked at a bright figure in the shadows.

Reiko's voice and gaze were gentle. “You came to us, Serafina Sullivan, just as we needed you. Your path to us has been a serpent biting its own tail.”

Finn, watching the orange-haired figure in the darkness, felt the breathless shimmer of hope.

Someone shouted, “No!”

It was Christie, breaking through the ranks.

Mr. Wyatt hauled him back, saying something that froze him in place. As Christie stared at Finn, his eyes wide and dark, Sylvie darted forward.

She nearly reached Reiko with the silver dagger in hand, the one she'd taken from Finn's abandoned backpack, before she was surrounded by the Rooks, who pushed her back. Hip Hop shook a finger at her. “Naughty girl.”

Reiko turned her back on them and faced Finn. “Be honored. Your death will give us one hundred years.”

Christie's anguished yell was echoed by a cry from one of those gathered beneath the tree—Aubrey Drake stepped forward, his eyes wide with disbelief. With him were Hester Kierney, Ijio Valentine, and the four other descendants of the families who had made a pact with the Fatas. Aubrey said, “No. Absolutely not. Not her.”

“Boy. Mind yourself.” Caliban showed his teeth.

“Professor Avaline.” Hester Kierney turned toward Avaline and the other professors —Jane Emory was not among them. “
Please . . .”

Sophia Avaline closed her eyes, opened them, met Finn's gaze again. “Only one. Every one hundred years. If that is the price we must pay to keep the peace here . . .”

“
Peace?
” Christie turned and pointed at Caliban. “He
murdered
Angyll Weaver!”

“And Mary Booke,” someone in the masked crowd called out softly. Finn recognized the voice as belonging to one of Jack's vagabonds, the bald girl with the cat's eyes. Darling Emory.

Mr. Wyatt frowned and looked at Caliban as Professor Avaline carefully addressed Reiko. “Lady. Is this true?”

Reiko was silent, and her chin lifted. David Ryder looked at her. He whispered, “
Answer her.
Did your dog
murder
a mortal?”

“He is not my dog, and whoever killed those girls is not of my court. An outlaw is responsible. I will find the murderer and punish him—”

“He's standing right
next to you
!” Christie shouted, as he was pulled back by Aubrey and a grim Professor Hobson.

Caliban cast them all a disgusted look. He stepped back and bowed to Reiko. “Lady, it is almost time. Can we do this?”

Finn felt rage and strength and hope fading. When she staggered and almost fell, a hand beneath her elbow gently steadied her. She looked up at handsome David Ryder, who inclined his head to her like a knight acknowledging a queen.

She looked at his true queen, and something ferocious rose within her again. “Reiko Fata. If I . . . die for you, will my friends be set free, unharmed forever?”

“Of course.”

“And you'll let Jack go?”

“He shall live the life your sister never did.” Reiko moved closer, and her expression was almost tender. She reached out and tucked the hair back from Finn's face. “You are my little sister now. Soon, you'll be like us.”

As Reiko moved back, Finn thought despairingly of the thing that had taken her mother and sister and now waited for her, its form bound with black ribbons, its patience monstrous.
Death.
She met Reiko's gaze and said steadily, “I want to say good-bye to my da.”

Reiko moved aside. “Of course.
Amadan.
”

Absalom Askew emerged from the night. He wore a black suit with a ruffled collar and ribbons and Finn thought she glimpsed tiny horns in his orange hair, the glint of dying stars in his golden eyes. He stretched out a hand, and the wind scattered crimson leaves around them as Finn twined her fingers with his. She felt a shiver of air like invisible bees passing over her skin. The candles and the Fatas and the dying oak slid away into darkness as she and Absalom walked toward a stone arch glistening with Emory.

“Go on, braveheart,” he said. “Through there.”

She hesitated. Her da was there. She couldn't tell him the truth . . . but she could say good-bye.

She stepped through—

—into the book-cluttered parlor with the sun-yellow walls and the photographs of her family. She heard laughter and closed her eyes, wondered if she could escape—

Reiko and her Fatas would take revenge on all that she loved.

She opened her eyes and walked into the kitchen, found her da at the stove, his shaggy blond head bowed over a pot. He was speaking to Jane Emory, who was pouring wine into two glasses. In the background, the stereo was softly playing “Darkness, Darkness.”

Finn's heart broke as she realized her da would be fine without her. When he looked up, concern and alarm flashing across his face, she could barely speak, “Da . . .”

“Finn? When did you get home? Dinner's almost done.” He took a step toward her where she stood in the dark.

“I can't.” She drew back into the unlit hall. This was no longer reality, this place she'd taken for granted. She was a thing of the shadows now. The warm light of home blurred.

Looking confused and afraid, her father took another step forward, held out a hand. “Finn—”

“Good-bye.”

“Good night, you mean.” Jane Emory, her eyes luminous, had not moved. “Only good night. We'll see you in the morning, Finn.”

No. You won't.
Finn turned and walked away down the hall, toward her death.

“Finn!”

Darkness swallowed her . . .

. . . and she was back in the firelight, among the shadowy figures of the inhuman creatures gathered there to watch her die. Reiko, a goddess in glistening red, smiled and raised one hand.

The ribbons on the scarecrow lashed around Finn's wrists, dragging her back against its thorny shape. This time, she screamed.

NATHAN CLARE WAS LOST.

He'd come late to the event that was supposed to end his one hundred years. Dressed in Victorian black, an aviator's cap with goggles concealing his face, he moved through the Halloween party, among the laughing, mortal children whom he could no longer pretend to be one of.

His girl, who had always wanted to be called Booke, was dead. They had killed her. Nathan wanted to die. He waited and watched and, near the end, followed the
others
up the wooded path.

Somehow, he lost the winking lights in the dark and the cold and the rustling leaves. He twisted around and stumbled as a pale figure emerged from the trees.

“Lazuli! Help me.”

“You were a prince,” the Fata Druid said, pointing the stag-skull staff at him, “for one hundred years. And you betrayed us.”

Nathan felt tears clot his throat. “I'm not one of them anymore! I'm
one of you
.”

Lazuli spoke gently. “No, Nathan Clare. You are nothing.”

AS NATHAN RAN AWAY, LAZULI
Gilfaethwy, who had lived much longer than his young face would have others believe, stood in the sacred grove and raised a hand over his eyes. He wanted his room in Tirnagoth, the rosewood guitar, and the white dog that kept him company.

When he lifted his head and saw a dark figure standing beneath one of the birches, he flinched. The white face and dark eyes of the figure terrified him. He was not used to fear. Or love. If he'd had a heart, it would have jumped into his throat.

Jack's voice was low. “You will tell me how to save her, Lazuli.”

As the other walked toward him, Lazuli closed his eyes, unable to defend himself from what he loved.

CALIBAN ARIEL'PAN HAD BEEN SENT
to fetch Lazuli Gilfaethwy, one of the few who could safely call Death's ambassadors to the Teind: after the schoolgirl was offered, despite her promise, Reiko would have Jack executed. He grinned when he thought of Jack's anguish, his useless blood-and-breath life, which Caliban planned to end as soon as possible.

As for the schoolgirl . . . Serafina Sullivan was all the things that even a one-hundred-year-old, willing candidate couldn't bring to the Teind: pure of heart, all courage and innocence. Reiko had always planned to bring Finn Sullivan to them, parading her darling Jack at the lakefront concert so that the girl would follow his false chivalry to Reiko's doorstep. That Finn Sullivan had been lured to them by the wicked thing that had come to love her was all the more delightful. It had been a marvelous trick.

“Ain't love grand, Lazuli?” Caliban said as he approached the white-clad figure of the Druid seated in the sacred grove.

Lazuli did not respond.

An unfamiliar wariness pricked Caliban. His boots crushed frost-glittering leaves as he loped to the Druid and knotted one hand in the pale hair, raising the head to gaze down at a face set in an expression of frozen sleep. There was a line of blood across his throat. Lazuli the bloodless had bled to death.

Caliban followed a trail of red to a human heart cradled in the hands of a kneeling statue. He began to swear in a language that hadn't been heard in centuries.

Jack, the lunatic, had cut out his own seedling heart. He wasn't human anymore. He wasn't vulnerable.

FINN CLOSED HER EYES AND
whispered a child's poem as the ribbons tightened around her wrists, binding her to the thorn-and-bone scarecrow behind her. Drums beat a sinister rhythm as a flute breathed its strange melody into the autumn air. A girl was singing, her voice high and wild and inhuman. Someone was crying. Someone else was yelling. Finn wondered if she should even try to fight the sleep attempting to drag her down.

“Serafina Sullivan.” As Reiko Fata spoke, Finn opened her eyes. Reiko was walking around the scarecrow, the train of her red gown swirling in air electric with smoke and cold. “Orfeo. Persephone. A girl named Isis. A boy named Izanagi . . . like them, you will be death's companion for one hundred years.”

“The hell with this.” On the borders, Aubrey Drake flung down his mask and stalked away. His friends followed, dragging Hester Kierney with them. Finn looked at Christie and Sylvie, who, encircled by HallowHeart's professors and instructors, watched helplessly. She was so sorry she'd brought them into this.

A wind reeking of old stone and frost sheared over her as she thought of Jack, who had seen death when they had brought it to him. He had once stood where she was now.
He'll feel the sun again. Fall in love. Grow old. Without me.

If Reiko kept her word. And how likely was that?

Finn realized she did not want to die.

CALIBAN ARIEL'PAN LOPED TOWARD THE
grove of yews where the Fatas had dragged what they had believed to be a helpless,
human
Jack. He slowed and swore when he saw the two lifeless bodies of the guards. A low, animal sound escaped him. Moonlight slid over his pale form, and it was the crooked dog that leaped toward the glimmering lights of the Teind.

THEY BROUGHT FINN BLACK WINE
in a cup. Phouka handed it to her. “Drink it, Serafina. It will be easier.” But her eyes held a warning, and Finn turned her head away. Terror had long ago left her so that only a stony exhaustion remained.

“We can't begin without Lazuli.” David Ryder wouldn't look at Finn.

“Oh, yes, we can.” And Reiko began to speak in a language that bit at the air, slithered across the ground, and crawled across Finn's skin. The leaves of the dying oak tree rustled above her as if whispering. Firelight and shadows writhed over the assembly as the dark powers descended.

Finn's eyes widened as antlers seemed to unfurl from David Ryder's brow. Reiko's gown clung close as a serpent's skin and horns appeared to curl from the night of her hair. Things buzzed and hummed beyond Finn's peripheral vision, marionette-like creatures with burning eyes and bat wings, lurching in the darkness that swirled like a graveyard wind through the oak grove. Her terror felt distant, as if her spirit was already leaving her.

Reiko circled her. She didn't look like a girl anymore, but some hell-thing that fed on blood and hearts. Finn remembered Sylvie's Balinese mask of Rangda, a creature of darkness and death. Reiko had murdered. She was a spirit that had killed flesh and blood—she would not keep her word.

“It will not be knives,” the thing with a girl's face hissed, continuing to walk around Finn and the oak. “It will be
fire.
”

Anger glimmered through Finn and began to catch at synapses and muscles and a fading hope. She looked around. She and the oak were circled by a border of blue light and toadstools the color of Absalom Askew's hair. It was a circle Reiko had enchanted into existence, but hadn't yet stepped into.