Briar Queen (16 page)

“Thomas”—the Black Scissors looked out over the street—“was my apprentice, one of the blessed who decided to rebel against the devils. He's dead. The crooked dog mutilated and killed him. He remains, waiting to be freed.”

Sylvie pressed a thumbnail against her teeth. “You hate them, the Fatas.”

“Isn't that obvious, considering what they did to me? How would you like to become a force to be reckoned with?”

“No thanks. I'd just like the basics in life: to look pretty, eat chocolate, and go to the dance with the handsomest and most popular boy. And the Fatas aren't
all
devils.”

“You and your kind are nothing to them but playthings. They
gut
adolescents and stuff them with flowers and make them into the living dead.” The anger in his voice had replaced the slinky menace. “Your friends have been betrayed.”

A chill stabbed into Sylvie's stomach. “How do you know?”

“Rowan Cruithnear has not gone to the Ghostlands. Something is wrong with Phouka Banríon's Way. Or her key. Thomas Luneht has told me, as much as he is able, that there was some interference.”

Sylvie felt panic quicken her breathing and tried to calm it. “What does that mean?”

“Your friends are abandoned in the Ghostlands without Cruithnear. So, Sylvie Whitethorn, again I ask: Do you want to become a force to be reckoned with?”

She met his dark gaze and didn't see an old thing there, but a young man, merciless and determined. She said, “Tell me your true name.”

“I was once William Harrow.”

She held out a hand. “Nice to meet you, William Harrow.”

His hand, strong and scarred, clasped hers. She didn't say anything about his missing pinkie. Then he held up a pewter key in the shape of an elaborate dragonfly. “Do you want it?”

“Why would I want it?” She began to understand why mortals never liked dealing with otherworldly people.

“Why, to enter the Ghostlands and give it to Finn and Jack.”

“The Ghostlands . . .” Sylvie became breathless with the possibilities.

“The key will open anything.” The key vanished with a flick of his fingers. “You can have it if you promise me something.”

She warily said, “What is it you want me to promise you?”

“Become my apprentice.”

“And what would I do as your apprentice?”

“Not witch things. You are not a witch. I'll teach you how to defend yourself from the Fatas and Fata malice.”

She said, with conviction. “I'll do it. How do I help Finn and Jack?”

“I've been communicating with a friend in the Ghostlands. And we've a theory that ancient Fatas like Seth Lot cannot be killed with the mere stab of a silver knife.”

She wanted to scream at him:
Why didn't you tell us this before?
But she knew why—he wanted something else. “What do you want for
that
information?”

“Nothing.” He smiled. “All communication with my friend has been cut off, but I
have
learned the Wolf can only be killed by poisoning, pinning, and decapitation. A trinity death.”

“All three of those things?” Sylvie felt all hope fall away.

“All three. And if you steal something for me, I'll give you a weapon that'll decapitate a wolf.”

She bypassed the “steal” part of his sentence and said, “How will we find Finn and Jack . . . if we go, to take them your key and your weapon?”

“
We,
Sylvie Whitethorn? I can't go with you.”

Sylvie realized she was thinking of Christie, of entering the forbidden Ghostlands with
Christie
. It was a terrifying, exhilarating idea.

The Black Scissors continued, “In the Ghostlands, the dragonfly key will lead you to a witch named Sylph Dragonfly—she'll take you to your friends. I also advise you to seek out Jill Scarlet, who hunts monsters. She may try to meet you at the place where you enter, but I can't guarantee it.”

Monsters
. Sylvie took a deep breath. “What do you want stolen? And from whom? And who is your mysterious friend in the Ghostlands?”

“I want a book stolen. I want it stolen from Phouka Banríon. And my friend in the Ghostlands is Lily Rose Sullivan.”

CHRISTIE, SITTING IN HIS MUSTANG
in front of the gates to the Tirnagoth Hotel, was relieved—and nervous—when the gates creaked open, shedding
snow and withered ivy. As he steered his car up the overgrown road, the hotel continued its masquerade as a boarded-up shell tangled in ancient trees, ivy, and briars. The instant his headlights hit it, the Tirnagoth became its notorious and sophisticated alternate, glowing with lamps and as stylish and new as it had been when it had first opened in the 1920s. It was a terrifying transformation that almost made him swerve into a tree.

Sylvie had called him and told him everything . . . including what the Black Scissors wanted him to say—a charm to bring the Black Scissors's sought-after item to Christie, who would steal it from the Tirnagoth Fatas, from Phouka, to save Finn.

He parked his Mustang in the drive and sat there, gathering his courage. And every second he hesitated, Finn might be in peril.

When something jumped onto the hood of his car, he flinched and swore. A boy with long black hair crouched there, his face white against the plumage of his coat collar. His eyes were an unholy silver. Trip Rook.

“Get off my car!” Christie shouted.

Trip Rook slid off, sauntered to the driver's side, and knocked on the window. Christie tried to ignore him, but the Rook didn't leave. Finally, Christie rolled down the window and Trip leaned close with a nasty grin. “Her majesty sent me out to fetch you.”

Wondering why Phouka had sent this psychopath, Christie sighed and got out of the Mustang. As he followed the Rook toward the gates leading into the courtyard, he said, “So, Trip, does she know you threatened Finn?”

“We didn't threaten her. We just told her what's what.”

“Yeah. Why don't I tell Phouka what you said?”

Trip laughed harshly. “Go ahead. It's not like she trusts us anyway.”

“Trip. Be nice.” Standing between the hotel doors was a girl in a black gown, her golden hair knotted with flowers, a pair of fake butterfly wings strapped to her back. A blond boy in red was draped against the door frame beside her.

“I know you.” Devon Valentine, whom Christie recognized as the dancer who had slit his wrists nearly one hundred years ago, smiled and bowed. “My apologies for All Hallows. Trip, go away.”

Trip gave him a single-finger salute and vanished into the shadows. Christie remained at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at the dead boy who had given him to the Grindylow on Halloween night. “I came to see Phouka.”

“I'll take you to her.” The girl cast a flirty glance at Christie as he moved up the stairs. “I'm Aurora Sae. And you are . . . ?”

“Not dead.” And Christie's hard grin was meant for Devon Valentine.

A silhouette appeared in the doorway. “You two. Get lost.”

Aurora Sae and Devon Valentine moved gracefully back into the hotel's light as Phouka came forward, regal in a white coat and boot-cut jeans, her autumn hair tucked into a fur cap. “Christie Hart. What brings you to Tirnagoth?”

He had to remind himself that her freckles and autumn hair were a disguise. She wasn't letting her gray eyes silver, either. He said, “I'm sorry. For accusing you earlier.”

“Come inside then. I'm
inviting
you.” She turned and sauntered back into Tirnagoth. The last time he'd been here, he and Sylvie had fought for their lives against the Grindylow. And Phouka had saved them. He resentfully followed her.

The lobby had undergone a renovation of pink, black, and white. He heard harp music. A girl and a boy playing chess with some funky-looking pieces sat on the lobby desk, its pale wood carved into images of lizards and ivy. Their only source of light was a Tiffany lamp shaped like pink toadstools.

“Did you redecorate?” Christie took off his knit hat and ran a hand through his curls.

“A bit, here and there.”

“I like it. It's very
Alice in Wonderland
meets Japanese horror movie.”

“Just the look I was going for.” Phouka led him into a glass-walled room scattered with ornamental trees in urns and fancy furniture in various shades of yellow and ivory. A painting was hung over a mantelpiece of yellow marble. As Phouka shed her coat and sat, arms draped over the back of the sofa, Christie took the chair opposite and studied the painting—a creepy mermaid with bone-tangled hair and a vampire mouth. He said, carefully, “Did you know about Finn's sister being taken by the wolf man?”

“I did not. And he's not a man. He's a thing wearing a man's shape.”

“Did you tell Finn and Jack about the trinity death?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The trinity death.” He spoke slowly, accusing. “The only way to kill Seth Lot.”

“Your anger is giving me a headache. You've been drinking a lot of coffee, have
you? It's made you frisky. The only death I know for the Wolf is stabbing him with silver as he's riding the shadow—who told you about the other way?”

“Seth Lot can only be killed by three things at once—poisoning, pinning, and decapitation. Right?”

She leaned forward, intent. “Where have you gotten this information from? I didn't
know
.”

“The Black Scissors—who said he got it from Lily Rose Sullivan.”

She sat back. “You can't trust him.”

“Can I trust
you
? You people don't care about anything. Why did you send Finn and Jack to the Ghostlands?”

Quietly, she said, “We wade through rivers of your blood. We become your dreams, your nightmares. We're scarcely able to think properly, what with the lot of you constantly battering us with your emotions. We're elemental and free and because—with a few exceptions—we don't flaunt our passions to the world, you think we're cold. I don't care for your accusations or your attitude.”

He bowed his head. Then he looked up, desperate. “Do you think Finn'll die in the Ghostlands?”

“I don't know, Christie. As soon as the key is fixed, Rowan Cruithnear will get the Black Scissors's information to Finn and Jack.”

Christie hunched over and put his hands over his face. He said through his fingers, “Could I get something to drink?”

“I'll fetch you some water.” She stood and left the room.

Christie raised his head. With shaking hands, he took the crumpled paper from his pocket. He rose. He began to recite the words Sylvie had given him.

A small object flew in from the hallway. He gaped as it circled him like a surreal bird—it was a hand-sized book with an ivory leather cover, its pages fluttering. It dropped to the floor at his feet and shut. The book had a lock—a tiny porcelain hand.

He snatched up the little ivory book and tucked it into his jacket.

When Phouka returned with a glass of water, Christie accepted it and drank it down. He said, “I'm going home now. Because I don't think you can help me.”

He walked out, his heart jackhammering. Her gaze remained upon him until the door closed.

IT HAD STOOD NEGLECTED
in the woods for years, a birdcage-shaped structure of glass, a conservatory with metal doors and a sign of Egyptian art deco elegance that read
STARDUST STUDIOS
. Its parking lot was shattered by roots and weeds. Vandals had scarcely touched its tempting shell, and there were only a few breaks and cracks in the glass. The debris of leaves and rotting branches had fallen from its domed roof as if repelled, smearing and staining the exterior. Beyond the dirty glass were the silhouettes of old-fashioned furniture and film equipment. No one had ever broken in. Attempts had been few. It was as if the structure repelled people, as well.

But other things were drawn to its humming power; nested within the glass shell were four lost souls who could sometimes be glimpsed as a ghostly face, a filmy gown, the shine of an eye. These others kept themselves hidden from the sinister figure who walked the borders, the one who communed with the dead, the Black Scissors, whose spy, a spirit once named Thomas Luneht, trailed him like a dragonfly glimmer.

These spirits, waiting within StarDust, wanted revenge.

IT WAS NEARLY TWO IN THE MORNING
when Sylvie and Christie, wearing small backpacks, trudged through the woods with flashlights.

“There.” Sylvie aimed her light through the trees to reveal the glass birdcage shape of StarDust Studios.

“
That's
the Black Scissors' door to the otherworld? The film studio Tirnagoth gave to his wife? Are you having any second thoughts, Cherry Blossom?”

“Are
you
, Christopher Robin?”

“Hells no.” He plunged forward and she grinned and followed.

When the tall figure of the Black Scissors emerged from the surrounding darkness, Sylvie felt Christie tense beside her. As the Black Scissors tilted his head, waiting, Christie said, with desperate bravado, “You show us yours. We'll show you ours.”

The Black Scissors smiled, the upper half of his face shadowed by the brim of his hat. He lifted something strapped to his back—a walking stick of dark wood with a grip shaped like the head of an Egyptian jackal. “In this is sheathed an iron and silver sword. The wood sheathing it is from an elder tree beneath
which Lot buried his victims. The sheath will prevent the iron from decay in the Ghostlands.”

Christie took the ivory book from his jacket.

“Two exchanges.” The Black Scissors held up an ornate key shaped like a dragonfly. He offered it to Sylvie. “Yours.”

She accepted the key. She was as nervous as if she'd just made a deal with the devil—but he was a devil who expected her to get through this, to make it back out of the Ghostlands.