Thorn Jack (5 page)

“I don't go to school. You're sure that didn't impress you, what I just said?”

“Have you said it before?” She gave him what she thought was a fierce look. “To others?”

“No, Finn-named-after-a-king, I have not.” He politely guided her in a swirling circle. The others dancing nearby might as well have been leaves fluttering around them in a wind scented with fire and smoke. “You sure you're not a witch?”

“I'm not a witch.”

He lowered his head, and her eyes closed as his warm breath slid across her neck like a kiss. “I think you are, Finn.”

They had stopped dancing. They stood still, his mouth near hers, her heartbeat hummingbird quick, her eyelashes flickering.

“Come with me,” he whispered, and her reason and common sense folded into the radiance of his smile. She wanted to curve her body against his, twine her fingers in his raven-silk hair—

Something pinched her collarbones. She stepped back, pulled her hands from his, stared down at the moth key hung on a silver chain around her neck. “I think it
bit
me.”

“How unusual.” His voice had an edge. She glanced up, frowning when she caught the shadow of something crossing his face, the glint of silver in his eyes, as if what he really was had broken through for a second.

She stepped back. “I need to find my friends.”

Jack bowed to her, and it wasn't stupid or silly, but an elegant, practiced motion. His voice reminded her of ashes and velvet as he said, “Alas, my love, you do me wrong . . . bye, Greensleeves.”

She watched him turn and saunter toward a line of shadowy trees that closed over him like an army. Lights moved among the leaves as if some people were leaving the concert with lanterns. Suddenly regretting her reaction, she headed after him, among the birches. She could smell clover and damp earth and a fragrance like molten metal.

Finn hadn't walked far when she realized the stand of woods she'd entered was completely silent. She was now surrounded by trees with no opening between them. In an instant, she'd become lost. A sudden rush of panic held her still. She thought
, The way out is right in front of me.
Moving carefully through the violet evening and the endless columns of trees, she listened for any noise that might lead her back to the lake. When something cried out in the distance, she flinched and turned in that direction.

Someone called her name. She halted, looked around, tentatively said, “Hello?”

In the gloom beyond a screen of brambles, she thought she saw a white mask, a glint of eyes and teeth. Something in her knew it wasn't one of the concert crowd. She backed away, stepping on a ring of toadstools, but she didn't take her gaze from that sly flash of ivory moving through the night. Leaves rustled as branches bent before a barefoot shadow. Something began to hum a childlike tune, then laughed, a raspy sound that seemed to scrape at Finn like thorns.

Finn ran. Things scratched at her skin, her face. Her noisy, thrashing flight through the trees didn't disguise the presence of whatever pursued her, gliding along without rustling a leaf or snapping a twig.

She dashed into music and light and the shock of it made her cry out. She twisted around, clawing her hair from her face, staring at the dark woods. Nothing came out after her—there was no girl-thing that had taken shape among the birches.

She turned back to the lake concert, loud and bright and worldly. She took a deep breath, composed herself, and moved into the crowds.

Sylvie and Christie found Finn where she sat on the wooden stairs near the lake, as far from the woods as possible. Aware of her scratched skin and tangled hair, she pointed to the trees. “I got lost. In there.”

“There?” Christie looked wary. “Finn, that's someone's backyard. Hey, your nose is bleeding.”

She dabbed at the blood, wincing at the slight pain that pinched behind her sinuses. Sylvie and Christie looked worried . . . like they thought maybe she was losing it. She wondered if she was. A numb fatigue descended over her as she said, “Let's go home.”

ONCE THE INDUSTRIAL CENTER FOR
a steel company, the warehouse district was now a neighborhood of shabby brownstones, bars, and run-down buildings. Across a field of weeds bordered by a wild wood and a fence of black metal was the Tirnagoth Hotel. On the other side was the cemetery.

Jack Fata crouched on a balcony of the abandoned hotel, a bottle of wine between his knees as he observed the revel in the courtyard below. The pumpkin flare of bonfires mingled with the glow of the hotel's stained-glass windows as slender figures danced or played instruments. Teeth and old-world jewelry glinted, and music pulsed through the stones. A savage scream was followed by the sound of shattering glass. At least they'd left the lake concert before reverting to their true natures.

Pain splintered through his fingers. The bottle had broken in his hands.

He rose, glass and beads of wine shimmering over his black coat. Gripping one of the gargoyles, he slid over a windowsill, into a room as red as the inside of a heart. The two scarlet-haired youths who guarded the chamber didn't even acknowledge him as he stepped into a bedroom, its chessboard floor strewn with rose-red furniture, a life-size wax doll with a prince's face and an aura of
awareness
standing in one corner. Above the bed with its treelike posts was a large photograph of a dark-haired girl, her green eyes made even more exotic by black and gold kohl, her glossed lips curving over the logo “Bebe.”

Reiko Fata, his only reason for existing, wore a dress of red silk tonight that revealed her legs to the thigh. She leaned against a window of stained glass, her black hair glistening. “Jack. What did you do tonight? Did you do as I asked?”

He dropped into a chair and propped his booted feet on a table. “I played a trick.”

“Are you going to behave badly?” She languidly turned and walked over to him; sitting down on his lap, she slid her wrists across his cheekbones. Her fingernails pricked the nape of his neck.

“Is there any other way for me to behave?” His own wrists were knotted with thorny bracelets that glinted as he raised his hands and broke her hold.

She leaned close to him and whispered, “You weren't supposed to scare her. You were supposed to bewitch, bother, and bewilder her.”

“I wasn't in the mood for the bewitching.”

“Really?” Her lips nearly touched his. “Because it's what our family
does
.”

His eyes went dark. He almost said what he really wanted to.

She rose. Something dark and hot twisted in him as she turned and moved to the curtain of vines and flowers that veiled her bed. She looked back over one shoulder. “Jack.”

He moved to his feet and took a step toward her because he couldn't help it.

The doors swept open and fiddle music skirled from the courtyard below as a boy in a black top hat and striped suit sauntered in. He bowed gracefully, orange hair sweeping the floor. “You called?”

Reiko, still gazing at Jack, said, “Absalom. What is the penalty for someone who interrupts one of our ceremonies? A wake, for instance?”

“Was the wake for anyone important?”

“David Ryder's girl.”

“Oh.” Absalom's eyes glowed as he looked at Jack. “Not important, then. My ruling would be the lesser of three evils—mischief.”

Jack stalked out. As the doors closed behind him, he pictured the schoolgirl with the tangled hair and sweet mouth, the one he had led into the birch wood. His predator's instincts had caught her scent of sorrow and damage, but it was her resemblance to someone he'd known that had intrigued him. Maybe she would be different. Maybe, unlike all the other girls, she could make him bleed.

 

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

Are the dancing girls sleeping or are they dead? The flower fragrance says they are corpses—the evening bell rings for the dead.

—
T
HE
S
NOW
Q
UEE
N,
H
ANS
C
HRISTIAN
A
NDERSEN

A girl named Maude Clare followed a hare

To a black metal house that is no longer there.

And what did she find in the dark of that place

But a prince with no heart and a beautiful face.

—
F
ROM THE
JOURNAL OF
L
ILY
R
OSE

A
fter the strangeness of the previous night, the daytime seemed a disappointment. Slouched at her table in Botany, her mind too fuzzy to absorb plant classifications in one of the two classes she'd chosen for their nonartsy value, Finn wondered if she was going crazy.
There is no such thing as the birch girl . . . and who is Jack Fata?

LATER, IN ORIGEN'S COURTYARD, CHRISTIE
dropped down beside her and unwrapped his sandwich. “What a bitch of a day. I was late for metalworking, so Wyatt just ignored me. Then I burned my finger when I was soldering—is that Nathan Clare?”

“Nathan Clare?” She followed his gaze to a boy walking across Hudson's lawn, who was accompanied by some of HallowHeart's elite, including Kevin Gilchriste the actor, and Aubrey Drake, the captain from the school's varsity football team. Nathan's bronze curls shone, and the threadbare sweater and jeans he wore didn't diminish his looks.

“He's a Fata.” Christie's mouth curled, and, since she'd never seen him react with scorn to anything—even Angyll Weaver—she became intrigued.

“Are they all genetically blessed, the Fatas?”

“A fire killed his family in Europe a while ago. He grew up with the Fatas. They're his cousins.”

“Is that Nathan Clare?” Sylvie had arrived. She sat on the picnic table, opened her bento box, and popped a rice ball into her mouth. “He's lovely, isn't he? Like the whole damn Fata family—I suspect genetic engineering.”

Finn, gazing after Nathan Clare, couldn't imagine losing both parents at once.

“TERROR AND AWE.” PROFESSOR FAIRCHILD,
who taught Gothic Literature, leaned against his desk, looking as if he'd just gotten out of bed. He had the face of a poet and a British accent and didn't seem to notice the avid gazes of some of his students. With his constant air of distraction, he didn't seem to notice much outside of a book. Finn suspected he didn't even have a TV.

“These emotions, combined, create the sublime, something sadly absent in modern life. Can anyone describe the sublime in other terms?”

Nathan Clare, it turned out, had also chosen this class, the last one of the day. So had his friend Aubrey Drake, but Aubrey seemed to be paying more attention to the leaves fluttering past the windows. Nathan looked up from his notebook, the lecture hall's fluorescents shining in his curls. “The sublime is a terror of something you love, something that could destroy you or save you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Clare. And is there anything”—Fairchild addressed the entire class—“that makes us truly feel such nowadays?”

“Religion?” someone said.

“Drugs.”

“Sex.”

“My mom.”

“That's
so
inappropriate, Drake.”

“I meant that in a ‘something you love that could destroy you' kind of way.”

“You see”—Fairchild's gaze fell upon Finn, who had not said a word—“we've become a race of cynics. How can the dreadful, the venerable, the sacred and sublime, reveal themselves to our dulled minds? We are no longer capable of experiencing the possibilities of otherworldliness. Cynicism, not science, has killed our divinities.”

“You mean our being snarky has shot down our gods?”

“Thank you, Mr. Drake. You have, just now, made my point.”

THE SUN HAD DECIDED TO
make an appearance, red and sullen and descending, as Finn walked home with Christie—Sylvie had biked to work at her parents' shop. Beneath a scarlet hoodie, Christie's clothes were more rumpled than usual and he seemed distracted. Finn began to approach the subject of his messiness when someone hollered at them from across the road.

Christie turned. “Fantastic.”

Three figures were walking steadily toward them: a pale-haired boy, a girl with black-and-gold hair, and a tall boy whose long dark hair was streaked with blue. The Rooks. As they drew closer, the girl smiled. The blond boy was expressionless, hands shoved in his pockets.

Finn sighed, annoyed, as the tall boy stepped forward. He wore Christie's woolen hat, and his coat was lined with black feathers. The slighter boy wore a necklace of them, and the girl's hair was plaited with more plumage—they seemed to take their birdlike family name very seriously. Finn could see the crazy on them now.

The tall boy jabbed a thumb at the girl, who pouted. “Hip Hop has issues with you, Hart.”

“Really?” Christie tilted his head and Finn sighed as he continued, “Maybe she shouldn't assume things.”

The tall boy smiled, revealing a diamond in one tooth. “You've made my sister feel bad. Now, I'm gonna make
you
feel bad.”

Christie tugged on Finn's hand. “Let's go.”

“Bottle,” said the tall boy.

The slight blond grabbed Finn by her coat. Astonished that someone had actually named him “Bottle,” she yanked away. The boy frowned at her.

“Trip”—Christie stepped toward the tall boy—“knock it off.”

“Make me.”

Staring at the outrageously named trio, Finn felt apprehension turn her cold—they were facing down fashionable lunatics on a road that was pretty much deserted. She murmured, “Did we just time-travel back to high school?”

“Go on, Finn,” Christie said, the wind pushing at his dark red hair. He didn't look away from the three Rooks. “Go. I can deal with them.”

“No.” Her voice shook with anger. She met the chilly gaze of the tall boy, who stared at her. “They're just bullies.”

“Girl.” The diva with the face of a Victorian doll took one gliding step forward. “You should
respect
your elders.”

“Are you
serious
?” Finn looked at Christie, then back at Hip Hop, who bared her teeth and took a step toward them. For a hallucinatory second, Finn thought her eyes went the mercury-silver of a dead possum's.

“Car.
Car!
” Trip's voice halted the potential violence.

The three drew back as a crimson Mercedes appeared on the road, slowing as it approached, pulling to one side.

The Mercedes's door opened and a girl slid out, auburn hair tumbling from beneath a chauffeur's cap. She wore rock star jeans and a black T-shirt with a Rolling Stones decal. She leaned against the car as Reiko Fata emerged, willowy in a plaid kilt and red blouse.

The older girl moved with an unsettling grace toward the Rooks, who had gone quiet. Gently, she said, “What are you doing?”

Trip ducked his head. Hip Hop was white. Pale-haired Bottle hugged himself as if he was cold. When none of them answered, Reiko Fata turned her attention to Christie and Finn. Snow-skinned, her black hair in loops, she looked as if she'd stepped from a fairy tale. “I'm apologizing for them. My cousins are morons. Christie Hart, isn't it? And Serafina Sullivan.”

Finn was processing the information that the Rooks were, in fact, from the sterling Fata family, while Christie seemed to have lost his ability to charm and was mute.

“We were on our way home—” Finn spoke hesitantly, and the Fata girl's electric-green gaze slid to her.

Christie interrupted. “Actually, we were on our way to our
jobs.
See,
we
have to work for a living.”

Reiko Fata was still studying Finn, who felt as if she stood before an empress—the Fatas, she decided, were like the descendants of some regal, electric-eyed race that hadn't been discovered yet. When Reiko smiled, it made Finn feel even more inferior. Then the regal young woman addressed the three troublemakers. “Go home. Now.”

The Rooks backed away, then turned and strode off down the road and didn't glance back.

Reiko Fata's attention fell upon Christie, who looked as if he'd been hit. “They're uncivilized, the Rooks. But they're family. I apologize, Christie Hart.”

Christie blushed and became wordless again.

“And you, Serafina?” Reiko addressed Finn again and Finn felt uneasy that this glamorous girl knew her name. “Did they place hands on you?”

Maybe that's how rich people spoke in Fair Hollow. Finn murmured, “I'm fine.”

“I'll make this up to you. Phouka, get the invitations.” Reiko pronounced her companion's name as a breathy
fuua.

The girl chauffeur ducked into the Mercedes.

“There's another one of you.” Reiko turned to Christie. “A pretty girl with blue eyes and black hair.”

“Sylvie.” Christie suddenly found his dirt-smudged hands extremely interesting. Finn stared at him because she'd never seen him without his confidence and easy grace.

“Three invitations,” she called to the chauffeur who returned with three envelopes.

Reiko handed the envelopes to Christie. Black, Gothic writing snaked across the crimson paper:
Fata.
“The autumn revel has a Shakespeare theme this year. Welcome to Fair Hollow, Serafina Sullivan.”

She walked back to the Mercedes. As she slid in, Phouka winked at them before getting behind the wheel.

Christie and Finn watched the Mercedes crunch back down the road. He said, “Finn . . . are you paranoid? Because I know
I'm
not, but I kind of feel . . .”

Gazing after the Mercedes, Finn tasted bitterness, as if she'd eaten one of those venomous red toadstools beneath her window. “Like this was planned?”

“So. You're paranoid too . . . I'm going. You?”

She felt a fizzy whisper across her skin as she remembered Jack Fata. “I wouldn't miss it.”

FINN HAD FOUND A JOB
over the weekend, at BrambleBerry Books, which was owned by a friend of her gran Rose. At six o'clock that night, the shop's three resident cats watched Finn as she was taught how to use the register and the phone. Later, the owner, Mrs. Browning, worked in the office while Finn explored the store, admiring the old paintings hung on the walls, and the front window display, which was a screen of black metal shaped into fairies. She selected an interesting-looking book on American history and sat behind the counter to read it. Early American History was her first class tomorrow, and it was taught by intimidating and model-sleek Professor Avaline.

When she heard a horn blare, she looked out the window and saw a red Mercedes halt in front of the building across the street. The narrow building, made of dark stone, had black-shuttered windows and child-faced gargoyles crouched on the roof. A girl in a white chauffeur's uniform slid from the car, auburn hair rippling from beneath her cap. She sauntered to the driver's side and opened the door and Reiko Fata emerged, her black hair looped into plaits, strappy sandals, and a slip dress of wine-red silk emphasizing her long legs. She seemed oblivious to the chill air.

A second figure slid from the Mercedes—Jack Fata, who straightened the cuffs of his black blazer before leaning to say something to Reiko. Together, they sauntered toward the building. The doors opened, then closed behind them. The chauffeur remained, leaning against the Mercedes and lighting up a cigarette.

Finn couldn't figure out why Jack Fata fascinated her. He moved like a martial arts star and dressed like a modern-day Victorian gentleman, and those were interestingly eccentric qualities, but she'd only spoken to him once, and she couldn't figure out that look in his eyes when their gazes had first met . . . mischief that had become a shrewd assessment that had darkened to confusion. Maybe the familiarity she'd felt was because she'd seen him somewhere else. In a magazine maybe, or a film . . .

A battered Corvette pulled up to the curb, and a silver-haired boy hopped out of it, followed by two girls in gauzy gowns. Once again, the building's doors opened and closed. Music now pulsed from behind the stone walls, and red light simmered beneath the black shutters.

Finn forgot about the book in her lap.

The bell over the door chimed and Finn saw Christie enter, his red hair sticking out in tufts from beneath his woolen hat. “Hey. I'm done. How about you?”

She thought then about how Christie, with his pack of brothers and his interest in Shakespeare and Greek literature, was reassuringly familiar, because he'd reminded her of the boy she'd left in San Francisco, Alex Mckee. That's why she liked him, and she wouldn't ruin
this
friendship with a kiss. She set aside her book. “You're early.”

He shrugged. “I wanted to look around. Do you get a discount?”

“Fifty percent. Mrs. Browning is very generous.”

ABOUT A HALF HOUR LATER,
Finn said good-bye to Mrs. Browning, and she and Christie stepped into the night rumbling with music from the gargoyle building. As they walked past cars jammed in tight rows along the curbs, she looked back at the building. “What is that place?”

“It's a nightclub. It's called the Dead Kings. Let's go; I'm hungry.”

Finn, whose small, gypsy world had included few boys, wondered why Christie was always hungry. She thought of Jack Fata again and pushed her hands into her coat pockets. “So . . . what do you know about Jack Fata?”

He gave her a careful look. “Well, he's Reiko Fata's. And she's the great-granddaughter of Malcolm Tirnagoth—the devil worshipper? The one who tried to bring back his kids, they were the walking dead, et cetera?”