Thorn Jack (35 page)

Reiko had dressed for her consort in a crimson gown and red platform heels. Red cochineal was painted in designs around her eyes. Phouka, the subtlest of bodyguards in a black frock, a spiky umbrella folded against her legs, stood to her right. Behind Reiko's chair were the three Rooks, their slender bodies sheathed in mourning costumes and malice.

Reiko's smile matched the glitter of Jack's knife. “How is your little Jill?”

“All other women pale in comparison to you, my love.” His true aspect flickered in his brown eyes.

Jack looked at Ryder's new Jill, who sat on the window seat, her head down. She looked exactly like her picture from the wake. Her gown was of green gossamer, her daffodil hair wound with turquoise beads, and there were scars on her wrists from when she'd killed herself. She was only another of the walking wounded the Fatas had charmed to their death.

Reiko smoothed out her red dress. “We have had a candidate among us.”

The
Damh Ridire'
s expression was feral. “Tell me.”

“It will be a trick, like the old days, a marvelous trick.”

“The sacrifice must be willing.”

“Oh. This one bleeds and breathes and shall be extremely willing. We will not lose all that we have.”

“And we have
so much,
” David Ryder said contemptuously. “The Terror, the Glamourie, riding the shadow—we would have had more, if it had not been for the previous failure.” His gaze settled on Jack.

“Jack?” Reiko gestured.

Jack slid his blade across the palm of his hand. As blood beaded, Reiko smiled at David Ryder. “He's mortal again, thanks to a schoolgirl.”

David Ryder ripped up from his chair. “Are you
insane
? Sacrifice a
sluagh
to the—”

“A flesh-and-blood
mortal
. It will be a great trick. It will fetch us more than one hundred years. No more living in the dark. No more ruins. For the Luck.”

“For the Luck.” David Ryder spoke ritually, gazing at Jack with inhuman despair. He turned and stalked from the room, accompanied by his daffodil girl. Before Caliban followed, he glanced at Jack, his eyes glinting death-silver.

Phouka and the Rooks left the room when Reiko gestured at them.

When they were alone, Jack, even with heart and blood and breath, made himself feel nothing as Reiko walked to him. She said, “Tonight, you will give her the heart. Tomorrow, you will die. And, from then on, I will forget Finn Sullivan exists.”

He raised his head to the queen of nothing and night, and said, “And I'll finally be free of you.”

Her eyes went black. He thought she would strike him, but she drew away, raising one hand over her face. Veiled by her hair, she whispered, “
Get out.
”

He did what she asked and left her.

FINN DIDN'T KNOW IF JACK
would understand what she had done. She felt as if she truly
had
lost him, as she sat in her room, attempting to read Lily's journal and hoping,
hoping
, that he would do what could free them all.

When she heard the tapping on her doors, she unfolded from the window seat and saw him. She walked slowly to the doors and opened them. She couldn't say his name as he raised his head, revealing eyes smudged with shadows.

Jack held out a small box wrapped in black paper with silver stars. “I've gotten you a present.”

She realized what it was as she took it from him and breathed out as an almost electric shock ran through her when her fingers brushed his. The “present” seemed to attract darkness. “Come in.”

He did, reluctantly, as if he were a stranger. He looked so ordinary dressed in a dark T-shirt and jeans beneath his coat. His hair fell into his eyes—she wanted to brush it away. She sank down onto the pink velvet chaise near the TV and tore the wrapping paper away from his present to reveal a glass box etched with runes. Beneath the runes, she glimpsed something red and glistening. Although she'd expected it, she almost dropped the box.

Finn set the box carefully onto the floor and wiped her hands on her jeans. She felt sick and triumphant. “Her heart.”

Jack crouched before her and said, “Finn. You're safe from her now.”

She lifted her gaze from the heart to his face, the face of someone whose life had been thieved away by what she was now resentfully beginning to see as a race of soul-sucking parasites. “What do I do with it?”

He laid one hand on her knee. “You can't open the box. It's a hallowhex box. It can only be opened with a finger bone of the beloved, in her presence, on All Hallows' Eve.” He jerked his chin at the box. “But she promised me . . . you keep that and she'll stay away.”

“And you'll die. They've chosen
you
for the Teind, haven't they? Because of me. Because I made you human.”

“Finn . . . I died a long time ago—”

She lifted the bone key shaped like a serpent. He sat back on his heels and looked absolutely devastated. He whispered, “That . . . is that what I think it is?”

“Reiko's made a lot of enemies. Mary Booke was going to meet the Black Scissors. I kept the appointment. He gave this to me.”

He rose, his face white. “I've done this to you. Now you're dealing with dark spirits and demon highwaymen—”

“
What
have you done to me?” She stood to face him, and fury cracked her voice. “Saved me when I was a kid? Saved me when I was drowning in other ways? As bad as things have gotten, I wouldn't change any of it—I mean, the parts where people haven't died . . .”

He drew close without touching her and said, desperately, “You can't do this. She'll kill you.
Caliban
will kill you.”

“I'm doing it. I've got a silver knife. Is that what it'll take? I open the box in front of her and stab the heart? The Black Scissors said it had to be on Halloween. Can't I do it now?” She turned to push the bone key into the lock, hesitated.

He placed a hand over hers. “Please. Please don't do this.”

“I'm going to do it.”

He looked as if she were being killed before his eyes. “Fata spells are very particular. The box will only open on Halloween. You can only destroy the heart before her. And she must be present for it to have an effect. Now you're going to murder for me.”

As he sank down, she sat beside him and gazed down at the heart in its box between their feet. “It's not murder—I think of it as more of a dragon-slaying thing, because she's a monster.”

“Thinking about it is not the same as actually doing it.” He watched her, his gaze serious.

“I can do it. Now, you need to tell me exactly what's going to happen on Halloween.” She clenched her hands on her knees. She'd put the finger bone key back into her pocket because she didn't like holding it. “Where are they going to . . . murder you?”

“The oak.”

“I figured.”

“It'll be at midnight. They'll meet there. I'll be given something to keep calm.”

“How are they planning to do it?”

“You don't need to know.” Which meant it was going to be awful. Finn fiercely wished she could open that box now and cut that heart to pieces. She said softly, “It's my fault—”

“Now
you're
doing it. I'm
alive
because of you. Even if I die tomorrow, it'll still be one of the best days of my damn life.”

“Idiot.” She let her head drop to his shoulder and closed her eyes.

“You've read
Tam Lin
. This is the reality. This is what you need to do.” And he told her, and she didn't want to believe him. She murmured, “Jack . . . can't you just run away?”

“I've got nowhere to go.” He whispered in her ear, “ ‘
Thou art mine and I am thine. 'Til the sinking of the world, I am thine and thou art mine.
' ”

The poetry was from Percy Bysshe Shelley. She remembered the poem—it hadn't been romantic; a demon had spoken those words to a mortal warrior. “Hey, that's—”

He kissed her and it was an otherworldly kiss, desperate and shimmering, stealing her breath but causing something to prowl to life inside of her. When his mouth left hers, he whispered in her ear, “Don't trust me unless I bleed.”

Morning tinted the sky behind him, and as dawn touched him, Jack vanished like a moth's wings unfolding in flame and she was left holding nothing.

 

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

But had I wished, before I kissed,

That love had been so ill to win,

I had lock'd my heart in a case of gold

And pinn'd it with a silver pin.

—
W
ALY,
W
ALY,
OLD BALLA
D

There once was a girl who tried to save a Jack. She was just an ordinary girl, but he was no ordinary Jack. He belonged to the ban nathair. And when the girl failed to win her lover at the Teind, the white serpent made a cake of her blood and furniture from her bones.

—
F
ROM THE JO
URNAL OF
L
ILY
R
OSE

S
ylvie and Christie arrived in the morning. Finn took them into the sunlit yard where they could discuss strategy on the swing set. Finn's strategy was to tell them as little as possible about what she planned to do, which was to somehow destroy Reiko's heart before they could murder Jack.

“I don't know if there'll be a sacrifice now.” She sat on a swing and tried to look as if she wasn't lying. “Maybe Sophia Avaline and her people will stop it, maybe not . . . I doubt they even know about it . . . they think Fair Hollow is a no-kill zone.”

“They killed Angyll,” Christie said, raising his head, “even though Avaline said they've never murdered anyone.”

“Should we go to Professor Avaline and tell her about tonight?” Sylvie was knotting a finger in her hair.

“No.” Finn gripped the swing's chains. “We can't trust anyone.”

“The sacrifice was supposed to be at the oak Nathan showed you,” Sylvie murmured. “And that's near Drake's Chapel, where the party's taking place.”

Christie watched Finn. “What do you think the dark prince will be doing during all of this?”

She raised her head and stared at them. They
knew
. They knew she hadn't meant that breakup with Jack. “Dammit.”

“It's Jack,” Sylvie said, “isn't it? He's the one they're going to kill. He's the perfect choice . . . brave, beautiful—”

“So what are you going to do, Finn?” Christie leaned toward her. “Because we're not letting you out of our sight. We're gonna be on you like black on a crow.”

“I don't want you involved.” She hunched over and wearily pushed her hands through her hair. “I've got a plan. I just need you both to stay safe—and out of my way.”

“Tell us the plan.”

“Just trust me.”

Christie looked desperate. “
Finn.
”

Sylvie gazed at Finn. “That's the plan—just trust her.”

“No, because you know what? It's not
her
we're trusting. It's the goddamn dead guy who's got her so messed up, she's willing to die for him.” He stood up. “I'm going to Professor Avaline.”

“Christie, you
can't
. We can't trust her.”

“But we can trust Jack Fata?” He stalked away.

Sylvie jumped up. She looked at Finn, the wind slashing her black hair across her face. “I'll talk to him. We'll see you tonight, Finn. And
I
trust you.”

Finn bowed her head. She continued to sway back and forth on the swing. She hadn't told them it was her birthday today.

AN HOUR BEFORE THE HALLOWEEN
party, Finn sat on her window seat and watched the sun set and felt calm. She knew that she couldn't abandon Jack, pretend she hadn't met him, let him die, while Reiko and her tribe resumed their secretive reign of terror. She didn't want to save Jack because she thought he was hers, or because she couldn't live without him. She wanted to save him to set things
right
.

She curled up, her arms around her knees. She'd celebrated a quiet birthday with her da, an early dinner out, a pretty cake, and presents. She'd wanted to tell him everything but, for his safety, had not. She'd faked her way through the day. It was her first birthday without Lily.

“Lily.” She pressed her forehead against the window. “I'm scared.”

There was no answer. Whatever haunted her house had become silent.

“DA. LEAVE IT.” SHE WATCHED
as her father painstakingly sewed a button back onto her red coat. He said, “It's almost done.”

She sat in an ivory tulle gown that had belonged to her sister. Her hair was powdered and pinned up with gauzy butterflies. She wore lip gloss the color of apples, and her eyes were shadowed with the smoky liner Sylvie had given her. Circling one wrist was a silver bracelet, while the other was banded by Christie's iron flowers. Her feet tapped nervously in the red Converses she wore for practicality.

Her da looked up. “You look like Marie Antoinette on her way to the guillotine.”

“The theme's Victorian steampunk.”

“Why is this dance in the bloody woods, in a ruin?”

“It's
Halloween
. And the chapel belongs to Aubrey Drake's family.” She put her arms on the kitchen table, her chin on her hands, and watched him finish her coat. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him, but then her throat closed up. After a while, all she could say was, “Nice job.”

A car horn beeped outside. She slid to her feet. As her da handed her the coat, she impulsively hugged him. “I love you.”

He looked puzzled. “I suppose this is a grand way to celebrate your birthday.”

She smiled and wondered how she'd learned to lie so easily, “Yeah. It is. See you later.”

“Twelve o'clock. Midnight. Like Cinderella.”

She moved slowly to the door. “Good-bye, Da.”

She spun around and hugged him again.

CHRISTIE PARKED HIS MUSTANG ON
the grass with the other cars. As he, Finn, and Sylvie moved up the path toward Drake's Chapel, now surrounded by lights and music, Finn studied her friends with a mix of worry and admiration. Christie had old-fashioned aviator's goggles pushed into his russet hair and wore a black pin-striped suit with a waistcoat and tie. Sylvie had come in an Empire gown of black gossamer and looked like one of Dracula's brides. Her ornaments were a necklace of little skulls and a black parasol.

“You didn't tell Professor Avaline?” Finn didn't look at Christie as she asked the question. They were all gazing at the party glittering and glowing around Drake's Chapel.

“I didn't tell Avaline. Sylvie threatened to hurt me. Didn't you, Sylv?”

“That I did.”

They began walking. Mr. Wyatt, his dreads tucked into a top hat, stood farther up the lane, greeting the students making their way toward the chapel. As two girls in scarlet gowns sauntered past, holding red parasols over their heads, their jewelry made of gears and bits of metal, the light reflecting silver from their eyes. Sylvie whispered, “
They're
here . . .”

Christie said, “We don't separate. Ever. Got it?”

“We'll be fine.” Finn reached for their hands and led them toward Mr. Wyatt, who tipped his hat and waved them on. Conscious of Reiko's heart in her small leather backpack, Finn smiled at him. He didn't look at her and seemed tense and watchful.

They know,
Finn thought with dread. Professor Avaline and her people knew about the sacrifice.

The music, gorgeous and sinister, crashed over them as they approached the chapel, where Professor Fairchild leaned against a tree, reading a book, his brown curls shimmering beneath a bowler hat. Beyond him was the chapel entrance, its doors open to reveal red candles, a crimson cake, a feast of scarlet things. On a stage built in front of the stained-glass window, a girl with raccoon eyes and rosebud lips was playing a fiddle as her band of Mad Hatters attacked their instruments.

Finn recognized HallowHeart students, but not others who had come as guests or from St. John's U. Most of the girls wore gowns with corsets and ribbons, top hats, or pretty masks. The boys strutted like rock stars in punk Victorian gear and stovepipe hats decorated with clockwork.

“Hello.” Miss Perangelo, the art instructor, appeared, slinky in a gown of emerald silk, her short red hair wreathed with marigolds. Accompanying her, holding a toad as if it was a pet, was a Gothic-eyed girl wearing green tulle.

“Miss Perangelo.” Sylvie acknowledged her, warily eyeing Miss Perangelo's companion.

“Do you like the music?” The band had begun playing an ancient reel with drumbeats, the vocalist's voice operatic and eerie. “They're called the Lazy Gentlemen.”

“I like it. Are the Fatas here yet?” Sylvie smiled innocently.

Miss Perangelo's gaze shimmered. The cameo around her neck was an ivory stag's head on a black background. “They're here. Somewhere. Come, Maeve.”

As Miss Perangelo and her companion glided away, Christie whispered, “Her friend's a Fata—Finn . . . Avaline
lied
—they're in with the Fatas.”

Finn murmured, “You're only just noticing?”

“Just for the record . . . snark is
my
thing. It's not an attractive quality in a young lady.”

Sylvie rolled her eyes.

Aubrey Drake appeared at the chapel door. The captain of the HallowHeart Ravens football team looked dashing in jeans, a waistcoat, and a shirt of scarlet ruffles, his black hair clubbed back. He was speaking with Victoria Tudor, whose gown was made of flame-orange silk. An ivory mask covered the back of her head.

“They're all here.” Christie looked around. “The children of the damned. I see Hester Kierney. The one in pink is Claudette Tredescant. And that's Ijio Valentine in the goggles.”

“Doesn't anyone here have normal names?”

“The normal ones do.”

Finn wondered how the parents of those privileged kids, the Blessed, had continued their pact with the Fatas when they'd forgotten it with age. Were their children now the ones who dealt with the otherworld? The idea was vaguely horrifying.

“What's the plan again?” Sylvie looked as if she were about to start pacing like a caged thing.

“Just stay safe. And trust me.” Finn leveled her gaze on Christie, who looked away.

“There's Hester,” he said. “I'm going to talk to her for a sec.”

Another performer had taken the stage, a girl in white gossamer, who wrapped her stockinged legs around a crimson cello and began to play a sweet, mournful tune—“November Rain” by Guns N' Roses. Finn went cold all over. That song, the one she'd heard after Lily's wake, was Reiko's first strike against her.

“Finn.” Aubrey Drake approached. “You're here.”

She kept Sylvie and Christie in view as they spoke with Hester Kierney. She was desperately trying not to think about the sacrifice, the cadaverous oak, and the Fatas' potential revenge. “I'm here.”

“Don't be that way.” He was watching her. “I like your hair clips. My girlfriend's into moths and butterflies.”

She touched one of her hair clips. The bone key she'd gotten from the Black Scissors was secured into her hair, a serpent among the butterflies. “Aubrey—”

“Aubrey!” a blond girl called, interrupting Finn.

He backed away. “Coming, Claude! Finn, later, we need to talk—”

A storm of music drowned his words. People began dancing again. Turning, Finn realized her friends were gone.

Aubrey called to her as she pushed through the punk Victorian girls and kohl-eyed boys in bowler hats; Finn sensed menace like an icy blade across the nape of her neck. She saw, moving among the dancers, a figure in a skull mask, his pale greatcoat billowing in a wind that simmered with ashes and the wings of moths. She could smell things burning . . . incense, firewood. She didn't say Caliban's name out loud, but she thought it, and that skull face turned toward her.

She moved in the other direction, realizing Reiko's second strike against her might be aimed at her friends.

CHRISTIE FOUND HIMSELF ALONE IN
a confusing crowd of schoolmates and potential enemies. When a girl in a black suit stepped up to him, a top hat wreathed with flowers tilted over her brow, he thought the pretty face and the orange hair looked familiar. She said, “Looking for someone?”

“My friends.”

Her cherry lips curved. “Kiss me and I'll tell you a secret.”

Light slid across her eyes, which were golden, not silver. And she was so luscious. He stepped close, touched his mouth to hers, tasted sweetness. The girl whispered in his ear, “The mirror is a third eye.”

He blinked, then watched her glide away through the dancers. Had she just felt him up? He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pewter compact mirror, an antique engraved with a Greek hero holding a decapitated head, its hair a mane of snakes. Why had she stuck the thing in his pocket? He started after her. “Hey—”

Someone caught his sleeve. For a moment, he didn't recognize Phouka. The Fatas' girl-chauffeur had gone glamorous in a sleeveless gown of silver satin, her arms and throat gleaming with jewelry shaped into leaves, her auburn hair piled onto her head and tangled with little white flowers. She slid an arm through Christie's and began walking with him. She smelled like apples, and her eyes were rimmed with silver, details that magnified her exoticism. Idly, she said, “I saw your friends.”

“Sylvie? Finn?”

“I'll take you to them.” She led him toward a line of trees. He could smell burning wood as leaves swirled and crackled. The sky was velvet black, the stars cold. The birches were ghostly in the light from the hurricane lamps. Christie wondered if he should ask Phouka if she knew about the sacrifice. Then she said, “You shouldn't have kissed the Fool, Christie.”

Christie grinned. “Are you jeal—”

Caliban Ariel'Pan swaggered from the trees, followed by a red-haired Fata and the blond—and dead—dancer, Devon Valentine.