Briar Queen (19 page)

“You'll have to risk the witch scrying for her—and that might alert Lot's spies. I've led them on for a bit . . .” Leander rose, digging into his blazer pocket. He took out an amulet and held it toward Jack. “Take it. You need this more than I do.”

Jack gazed at the amulet, a dragonfly made of brass and crimson glass. “Where did you get this?”

“I stole it from the Wolf. It's something I was supposed to return to its owner, in exchange for information. But I've since learned what I need to.”

“Why is it shaped like a dragonfly?”

“Because the witch is
called
the Dragonfly. She lives near the Green Mill.”

Jack accepted the amulet and met Leander's gaze. “You know where the Wolf's house is, don't you?”

Leander backed out the door. “Lily can't be taken out of the Ghostlands, Jack. I'll save her before the seven days are up. I'll kill Lot.”

Then he was gone.

“Leander!” Jack felt the brass and glass dragonfly move in his hand. He unfolded his fingers and the amulet, now a mechanical insect, rose, twitching and clicking, from his palm to hover before him.

Jack said, hoarsely, “When I'm done burying my friend, take me to your witch.”

AFTERWARD, BEFORE HE LEFT
,
Jack took the phoenix pendant Finn had given him from around his neck and reluctantly slid it into a cup of tea, leaving only the leather thong exposed.

“Clever girl. If you find your way here . . .”

And Christabel awoke and spied

The same who lay down by her side—

O rather say, the same whom she

Raised up beneath the old oak tree
.

                
—
T
HE
R
IME OF THE
A
NCIENT
M
ARINER
,
S
AMUEL
T
AYLOR
C
OLERIDGE

F
inn fled into the forest, away from the swarming lights. When she glanced back, she saw the branches twist like wooden snakes to form a barrier behind her. The orbs broke into a glowing wall at the forest border and didn't follow.

She turned to face the forest. Mist crept across the ground. The trees were black oaks and firs, coiled together, mammoth, like towers. Toadstools as big as her hands and as richly colored as jewels—emerald, crimson, jet black—spilled over roots and slabs of rock. Only the whisper of wind-brushed leaves broke the silence.

Shivering and fighting a desire to collapse, Finn pushed forward, shoving at branches draped with moss, swatting aside creepers as thick as her wrists. When she accidentally snapped a branch, sap as warm as blood spattered her and she cried out, remembering how Reiko Fata had once turned Sylvie into a tree.

What sounded like a woman laughing in the darkness made her halt as a mind-wrenching terror shook her.

The laughter descended into a sobbing shriek and a death rattle groan. Finn
pulled herself up into a tree and huddled there, felt the old enchantment, the desire to sleep, creeping up. But she couldn't sleep, not here, and despairingly fought it as her eyelids grew heavy. She was so cold, her body kept convulsing, but the tree was warm, its bulk sheltering her from whatever prowled the forest.

As she touched a sticky clot of blood where she'd scraped her forehead on a branch, she saw electric lights glowing through the leaves.

She stood up in the tree and nearly yelled with joy when she saw the neon sign of a Shell gas station beyond the forest. There was a busy highway in front of the gas station—
the true world
. Warmth, shelter, and safety.

After only a moment, Finn slid back down into the crook of the tree. If she walked out of this forest to that gas station, she would never get back to the Ghostlands. She would lose Lily.

She curled beneath the canopy of leaves, with the dark murk beneath her. Somewhere in this nightmare place, her sister walked the halls of the Wolf's house.
Lily. Are you really here?
She thought she might cry herself to sleep, but exhaustion hit her like a train.

A crack of wood shot through the silence, echoing. Sucking in a breath, Finn lifted her head and watched a massive shadow step out of the trees.

It was a prehistoric stag, as big as a car, its antlers hung with objects—a tiny china-doll head; a baby spoon; keys and jewelry. The stag glided majestically past her tree, into the dark, and, as it did, its form seemed to curl upright—until it walked as an antlered man, away from her. Her stunned gaze followed it.

Quelling an instinctive fear of the uncanny, something now familiar to her, she climbed down from the tree and prowled after the antlered shadow as it became a stag again.

Something brushed against her lips.

A large luna moth appeared from the dark. Dismay and joy tangled through her when she recognized the silvery death's head markings on its white wings. “
Moth!
”

She couldn't see the sky, but starlight permeated the forest as she and the moth followed the stag. The leaves rustled like ghost voices. The moth was a comforting luminary. As the stag led her through a blueberry thicket in a meadow frosted by starlight, she began to notice, in the trunks of some trees, knots that resembled twisted faces. She spotted the corroding hulk of a jeep near the stump of an oak.

She stepped on something that cracked and, startled, looked down to see a metal helmet like something out of World War I. As she continued on, she saw more helmets in tufts of moss and leaves, an old rifle disintegrating in the roots of a tree, a gas mask circled by red toadstools like little worshippers around an idol.

When the stag passed through a giant briar arch and vanished into the shadows, Finn hitched up her backpack. Arches here, she was beginning to realize, signified doors. So she stepped through.

Beyond a cluster of elms was a chain-link fence surrounding a black house that resembled an Italianate villa. In the front courtyard, ebony statues glistened, wreathed with blackberry briars. A red Cadillac rusted in the drive. It wasn't a scary house, but, rather, one that seemed to hold its secrets close.

The doors opened and something moved onto the porch.

A young woman emerged into the light. She was wearing a white dress and button-up boots. Her hair was short and scarlet. She clutched a plush toy—a black rabbit. A young man stepped to her side, his face wreathed with crimson curls. He was dressed in an old-fashioned suit and held a walking stick. The pair was as pale as bloodless things and, for a stomach-wrenching moment, Finn thought they didn't have eyes, until starlight glinted across them.

“Is it her?” The young woman nodded as if deciding something. “Yes. It must be her.”

Finn began to back away. Remembering Jack's warning, she didn't reach for her silver dagger. Instead, she fumbled in her backpack for the Leica camera.

“We were sleeping.” The young man had a deep voice. “I'm Roland. This is Ellen. We won't speak your name—there are eyes and ears in this forest, and although most are friendly, one must be cautious.”

Finn pulled the Leica camera from her backpack and pressed the button. The young man flinched at the flash and said, “Stop that.”

“Come in for tea.” Ellen held open the door, revealing a cozy parlor with a fireplace and lamps. It didn't look like a bad fairy's house, but, then, none of them ever did, did they? “And shelter. The forest told us you were coming.”

Still armed with the Leica, Finn moved cautiously toward the house. She trudged up the creaking stairs and the moth followed. Neither of the strangers said anything about the moth.

Ellen and Roland led her into a salon scattered with claw-footed furniture, old books, and toys that looked as if they'd come from the Edwardian era. As Ellen sat on a green velvet sofa, Roland clattered around in an antique kitchen Finn could see through glass doors smeared with lichen. She gingerly settled into an armchair that reeked of cigar smoke and kept the camera in her lap.

“You're bleeding.” Ellen gently set aside the rabbit toy. “You can't do that here.”

Finn touched the cut on her brow. She whispered, “What are you?”

Ellen sat primly, hands folded in her lap. “What a rude question.”

“Sorry.” Finn's fear ebbed. “I need to find . . . a place. Can you help me?”

The young woman's eyes were burgundy brown. Her skin breathed cold, but Finn had learned to not recoil from anything that looked human but wasn't. “Look, I need to get to Orsini's Books, at Crossroads.”

“That's very far.” Roland returned with a tarnished pewter tray full of tea things and some unsavory-looking muffins. As he set the tray down, he said, “Worldly food. It's old, but it's all we've got.”

The tea looked fine, but the muffins had mold on them. As Finn held the teacup just to warm her numb hands, the moth settled on the cup's rim. “Do you know how I can get there?”

“The train.” Roland sat beside Ellen and hunched forward, studying Finn. He took up the walking stick and twisted the handle shaped into the head of a horse. As the handle snapped off, he tilted down the staff and a tiny vial slipped into his hand. He lifted it to the light, revealing a liquid so purple it was almost black. He tossed the vial to Finn, who caught it and frowned down at the bottle swirled into an artwork of skeletons and fruiting vines with a brass skull for a lid. She whispered, “It's the elixir, isn't it? To conceal my blood.”

“We bought it from the Blue Lady a long time ago. When we were different. One drop will make you as the Fatas are. It will mask your mortal scent.” Ellen folded her hands in her lap. “If you take more, it'll change you, poison you.”

Holding the vial as if it was a grenade—she wasn't about to drink anything given to her by strangers—Finn whispered, “How do I get to the train?”

“You'll have to go through Maraville to reach the train station.”

The moth suddenly swirled up from the tea and flew across Finn's mouth.

“Look away,” Roland said quietly, “from the moth.”

Finn skewed her glance to a taxidermy wolverine on a nearby table.

The air cracked. Out of the corner of one eye, she saw a burst of light and shadow. A second later, she heard a British baritone shivering with breath. “Finn.”

She turned her head to find Moth standing there, his eyes wide in the firelight, his dark hoodie and jeans making his skin seem paler. She moved to her feet and almost hugged him, but settled for a smile. “What
happened
?”

“A kiss. The girl selling soup at the fair asked for a kiss, and I changed the instant I did it. Twice now, I've brushed against your lips and become myself again.”

“A kiss? So, in the forest, when you kept sweeping against me—but it didn't work.”

“The Black Forest doesn't like transformations.” Ellen looked out the window. “It won't allow that sort of thing. It used to be an army of mortal men, and they were enchanted by a
ban dorchadas
.”

“A
ban dorchadas
is a witch,” Moth reminded Finn, who, recalling the World War I helmets and rifles in the forest, shivered.

“You need to go to Harvest Station,” Roland said. “There are maps in our attic, in a cigar box, I believe. We drew them. Do I know you?”

The question was directed at Moth, who squinted. “I don't remember.”

Finn was gazing down at the elixir and wondering what it would do to her. She whispered, “What is Maraville?”

“A town. A rotted-out place. You need to trust us and drink that.” Roland pointed to the vial.

Moth held out a hand. “Let me see that?”

She gave him the vial. He uncapped it, sniffed it, let a drop fall onto one thumb, and tasted it. He nodded and returned it to her. “It's safe. Go on. You'll need it. One drop.”

“How do you—never mind.” She thought of Jack searching for her, how he would worry. Could she trust Moth? She didn't have a choice. She tilted her head back and let one drop of the elixir fall onto her tongue.

She'd expected a kick—and got one; the elixir tasted of lightning and champagne, mist and berries. It made her insides warm like a blush and her eyes water. As she slid toward the floor, Moth caught her, and said, “Don't fight it.”

She hunched over as her stomach heaved and closed her eyes.

When she opened them, the world had become one of exquisite details and
colors so vivid they didn't seem real. She could see the patterns in Moth's irises, the strands of gold in his pewter hair. Ellen and Roland seemed as luminous as lamps, their hair so red it was like crimson velvet against their gloomy surroundings. She straightened and felt every muscle glide beneath her skin. Her exhaustion had vanished. Strength coiled through her.

Moth pointed a finger at her. “
Don't
get used to it.”

She moved around the salon, touching things—a porcelain figurine, a bottle of dried figs, a selection of rusting metal keys. She could see the most delicate details. Everything had a scent and seemed to have a secret; the world had become hyperreal. She heard Roland say, “In the attic, there are trunks of other people's belongings. You may find things you can use.”

Finn turned. “Why are there other people's things in your attic?”

“Seth Lot used to bring his captives here.” Ellen reached for Roland's hand, clasped it. “It's called stitchery, what he does, to make Jacks and Jills.”

Finn flinched. “You mean, he
murdered
them here?”

“He murdered
us
here.”

With these words, Ellen and Roland vanished. The parlor descended into dusky shadows. The red light from a new morning bled over the rotting furniture and the button eyes of the toy rabbit on the floor. Cold and dust drifted through the room. Finn couldn't move. She wondered if she'd ever be warm again with the elixir frosting her blood.

She felt Moth's hand close over hers. “Finn.”

She wanted to go home. She tucked the vial of elixir into her backpack. “Let's go to the attic and find some useful things.”

As she walked into the hall, a disturbingly familiar perfume that reminded her of nightshade and snakes drifted over her.

She and Moth stepped into a high-ceilinged chamber shaped like an octagon, its art deco furniture shrouded beneath cobwebs. The black floor, patterned with crimson spades, was littered with leaves, the red walls hung with large paintings of ruins in the wilderness. A stairway curved up in the chamber's center.