Briar Queen (39 page)

There were drops of blood in the snow. She followed them, gripping the silver dagger. In places where the branches twined thickly above, the snow had drawn away from patches of crimson toadstools and unnaturally green moss. She avoided these patches as if walking through a minefield. She called Nathan's name again and winced as her voice echoed. She knew the warehouse district was close by, but she couldn't hear any city sounds, only an occasional branch cracking.

She glanced at the sky. She still had time before the sun set. She took from her pocket the vial of elixir she'd smuggled into the true world, the one she'd found in Jack's coat. It wasn't supposed to work here, but she uncapped it, tilted it, and let one drop fall onto her tongue.

An old road appeared before her, its blacktop broken by the roots of ancient birches. The sky beyond the leaves was still red, streaked with clouds. The air burned with a honey glow.

She followed the road to a birdcage-shaped glass building surrounded by brambles and drifts of deadfall. The building looked like an old conservatory, but she couldn't see what was beyond the glass walls because they were so filthy with dead foliage and lichen. The metal doors were partially open, engraved with images of stylized eyes, hands, and feet twined in ivy and stars. An arch of letters above the doors formed the words
STARDUST STUDIOS
.

Malcolm Tirnagoth, who had built the Tirnagoth Hotel, had given his wife this film studio in the 1920s. Jack had starred in the silent movies created here. He'd told her that none of the other actors had come to a good end. Tirnagoth's wife had died from illness. It was a place with bad mojo and it was a Way into the Ghostlands.

The blood drops led right to its doors.

Finn was backing away when a light blinked on inside of StarDust Studios and Jack called her name from within.

This time, she found a little bottle on it . . . and tied round the neck of the bottle was a paper label, with the words DRINK ME beautifully printed on it in large letters
.

                
—
A
LICE'S
A
DVENTURES IN
W
ONDERLAND
,
L
EWIS
C
ARROLL

W
here did they
go
?” Sylvie strode with Christie and Moth down the Tirnagoth hall to the glass doors swinging in a wind that carried with it a sparkle of snow. The sky was streaked with clouds and the orange of the setting sun.

Christie stepped onto the terrace with Moth and gazed desperately at the plot of wild land, black trees on white snow, and the places where shadows seemed to clot. Moving out beside them, Sylvie said, “Finn's backpack.” She lifted it and rummaged through it. “And her phone.” She shouted, “Finn! Jack!”

“
Don't
.” Moth stared down at the trees. “Something else might hear you.”

Christie turned on him. “We need to go look for them.”

“And what will that do? Aside from getting us lost? No. We wait here. When this place wakes up, we tell Phouka. Finn will be safe with Jack.”

“No.” Christie looked bitter. “She'll
never
be safe with Jack.”

IN THE WOODS,
Finn drew back as the doors to StarDust Studios opened farther, revealing a chandelier of thorny black metal spilling light over abandoned film equipment and Egyptian-sleek furniture that cast crooked shadows between pillars with lotus-and papyrus-styled capitals. The raised stage was strung with creepers, bits of colored glass, and antique toys. Lilies, their roots
clinging to the wet floor, grew from broken urns. Velvety white, black, and lava red, the preternatural lilies' scent only enhanced the atmosphere of Egyptian Revival decay.

A figure stood on the stage. It whispered, “Finn? Is that you?”

Stepping to the threshold, Finn drew the silver dagger from her coat. “Where is Jack? And Nathan?”

The shadowy figure raised its head, and the vague light glanced from red hair and white skin. “
Help me
.”

Finn spoke carefully. “Are you the one who screamed?”

The shadow sobbed once, raising hands over its face. “ . . .
murdered
me.”

Finn began to back away—

Crypt-cold air swept through the studio. Something shoved her forward. The metal doors crashed shut behind her. She whirled and kicked at them.
Idiot,
she thought angrily.
Falling for
this.

Behind her, the shadow girl laughed. Gripping Eve Avaline's dagger, Finn turned—

—and inhaled a scream, because a girl's corpse stood before her, one spiteful, milky eye glaring at her from a bloated face. Its voice was blurry with rot. “
Jack
murdered me.”

“Leave her alone.” Another figure was crouched on the stage, darkness dripping from his wrists. “I want her. I brought her.”

The red-haired girl's corpse vanished, and Finn sagged against the doors. “
Nathan . . .”

The shadow on the stage rose and moved down the stairs, the gloom drifting away from a familiar young man who wore jeans and a crown of hyacinths. Around his right arm were black tattoos—wolfish shapes that made Finn queasy. His eyes glinted metallic as he came closer. Then he became a shadow again and a voice taut with anguish drifted from the silhouette, “
I can't remember
.”

“
Nathan
.” Finn's fear paled into grief. “You are Nathan Clare.”

He stepped forward. “You're Finn.”

She slid the dagger into her coat. “What happened to you?” Although she knew, she needed to hear him say it, to believe it.

He lifted one hand as if to touch her face. Then his eyes went black.

He lunged at her, lips parting to reveal sharp teeth.

“Don't,” she said, only that, and he halted, his head down. She clenched the
silver dagger's hilt. “Nathan, you're
not
a love-talker, a ganconer . . . whatever they've made you.”

His eyes were brown again. “The Lily Girls are here . . .”

Abigail, Beatrice, Eve—three of Reiko's victims, for whom Jack had been used as a lure. Finn realized the red-haired specter had been Beatrice, who had died in the 1920s. She knew Beatrice and Abigail were vengeful spirits and had probably been the ones to botch Christie and Sylvie's arrival in the Ghostlands. “Nathan—did Beatrice lead Jack somewhere?”

“They're dangerous, Finn . . .”

The doors to the studio slammed open. Finn spun around.

The sun had set, and Caliban Ariel'Pan, silver hair drifting around his shoulders, swaggered in.

CHRISTIE STOOD BETWEEN TIRNAGOTH'S FRONT DOORS,
anxiously surveying the landscape for any signs of Finn and Jack in the dying light. When he saw a figure staggering across the snowy grounds beyond the courtyard gates, his heartbeat spiked with alarm. “Moth, Sylvie, get over here.”

They moved to his side. Moth growled, “That's not Jack.”

As the figure approached, clutching one arm, blood drops spattered the snow. The courtyard gates opened.

Then Christie recognized the young man in a fur-lined coat and jeans. “
Micah?
Micah Govannon . . . ?”

The last of the sun faded in a streak behind the clouds. As if a protective bubble had burst, chaos broke out around them.

Shouting Fatas pushed past Moth, Christie, and Sylvie, loping across the snow toward Christie's friend, to help him. Christie turned in the midst of the mayhem to see the lobby filling with more grim-faced Fatas and Phouka Banríon striding toward him.

“Get inside,” she said. “The wolves are coming.”

NATHAN'S REVENANT HAD VANISHED
when Caliban appeared. Kitted out in black leather that resembled armor, and a long coat, the crooked dog stood on the threshold, his eyes a malefic silver. He said, “Jack's busy with a wolf at the moment.”

Finn retreated as he sauntered toward her. “Who were you talking to, darling?”

She sneaked one hand into her coat and gripped the hilt of Eve's silver knife. He halted, cocked his head to one side. “Are you going to do it? Go on. See if you can get past me after putting that knife in me. If you fail, I get to make the next move.”

She tensed to make a run for it. He braced himself like a goalie in front of the doors and curled one hand at her. She took a deep breath—

She spun and raced for the glass doors in the back.

But he had a Fata's predatory speed—he caught her and shoved her against a wall. She cried out as the dagger clattered to the floor. He let her go. She backed away.

As if pushed by an invisible hand, a dusty bottle of wine scraped across a table near her—she saw it out of the corner of one eye.
Nathan?
She wondered how a bottle of wine would save her—

She grabbed the bottle. She swung it at Caliban's head. He clamped a hand around her wrist and pried the bottle from her, studied the label. He shoved her back into a chair and hooked a table leg with one foot, dragged the table between them. “Nineteen twenty-three. Shame to waste this—don't run, Finn. If I have to chase you, I'll be angry.”

He wiped the dust from two wineglasses, set the glasses between them, and sprawled in another chair. He uncorked the wine. As he poured it, Finn carefully reached for one of the vials in her pocket and loosened the cap with her thumb.

Then she went for the dagger on the floor.

“Oh, Finn.” He seized her by her coat collar and yanked her back. She hit the table, wincing as he pressed her against it. “What an exciting girl you are.
Sit down
.”

“How old are you?”

He stepped back, confused, a predator who didn't understand a weird reaction from his prey. He decided to play along. “Older than most of your ancestors,
leannan
. Why this sudden desire to be sociable?” His eyes became glittering slits. “Stalling until your lover finds you? He doesn't even know
where you are
.”

“What were you like when you were human?”

He stared at her. He bared his teeth. “Say that again and I'll slice a bit off you with your pretty knife.”

“Well, you'll need it, won't you? Because I'm going to say it again:
What were you when you were human?
”

Caliban spun to snatch up Eve's silver dagger by its ebony hilt.

Finn dumped the contents of the vial from her pocket into both glasses before he whirled back around.

“Think you're clever, do you?” He backed her up against the table and she flinched as his body contacted hers. He whispered into her ear, “You're braver than most. I'm almost beginning to feel a bit romantically inclined toward you.”

After this nauseating statement, he picked up his glass. “Drink,
leannan
.”

She reached for her own glass.

“Ah, no.” He snatched it from her and forced
his
glass against her lips. “You drink from
this
one.”

She met his gaze and drank. If she'd dumped the
elixir
into the wine—well, it didn't work in this world and she'd already taken a few drops. If it had been the
Tamasgi'po
—
that
only had something to do with restoring memory. She didn't know if either would have any effect on the
crom cu
. She was gambling.

Caliban stepped back and drank from the same glass, emptying it. He flung
her
glass across the room. It smashed against a mirror as his hungry gaze slid to her. “So, Miss Clever, what kind of poison did you drop into the glass we
didn't
drink from?”

SYLVIE AND CHRISTIE STOOD IN TIRNAGOTH'S LOBBY,
surrounded by Fatas preparing for war. Sylvie could now identify with the people on the
Titanic
—the ship was going down; the crew was in a panic; and she couldn't see any way out.

Christie turned to Phouka. “Finn and Jack are out there.”

The doors were still open, revealing the snow-patched grounds and Phouka's Fatas, young women and men in black suits, waiting, armed with small crossbows and beautiful, engraved pistols. Phouka said, “If Finn is with Jack, I believe she'll be safe.”

Christie spoke through clenched teeth. “Why does everyone keep
saying
that?”

Sylvie reached into her backpack and drew out the two knives she'd bought from a real blacksmith at a medieval fair. She handed one to Christie, who sighed. “Have you ever killed anyone, Sylv?”

“No.”

“Well, I have.” He scowled when she, Phouka, and Moth glanced at him in surprise. “A Green Lady. A
siren
. I told you.”

Sylvie wondered if he'd killed the siren by accident.

“It was traumatic and not something I'm proud of.” He lowered his voice. “It's not like picking things off in a video game, Sylv. It's really disturbing and messy.”

“But you get used to it.” Moth tugged the jackal-hilted sword from the walking stick strapped over one shoulder and stalked toward the open doors.

Christie said sourly, “Well,
he's
come a long way from being the confused innocent he once was.”

“Christie. Sylvie.” Leander Cyrus, still resembling a golden-haired bridegroom in his grubby white suit, came striding toward them. He held a pistol of ornate metal. He glanced at Phouka. “Banríon, isn't there a safe place for them?”

“Too late.” Sylvie's gaze was on the night beyond the doors, where tall, glowing-eyed shadows had begun moving across the snow. Tirnagoth's light glistened on jewels and fur, teeth and nails.

The wolves had arrived.

FINN BACKED AWAY
as Caliban prowled toward her. He grinned, revealing unnervingly perfect teeth. “Don't be shy, darling. Let me see what's in your pockets.”

She snatched up a lamp and swung it toward his head. He knocked it from her hand and it flew across the room, smashing to pieces against one of the pillars. She fell back over a table, kicked out as he lunged at her. She grabbed a crystal sphere paperweight and flung it. He caught it and gazed into it as if he could see his future.

Then he staggered. The crystal orb fell, rolled away. Finn, bruised and aching, straightened, watching as his eyes darkened. He stumbled toward her, caught himself against a moldering chaise. He croaked out, “What . . . the
wine . . .
?”

His snarl shouldn't have come from a human throat. He leaped at her, his teeth sharp—

He was wrenched back by a force that slammed him against a rusting spotlight and Eve's dagger fell from his hand.

As the
crom cu
straightened awkwardly, Finn took a breath and looked at Jack, who watched Caliban. Defensively, she said, “I had it.”