Briar Queen (6 page)

The stranger seemed dazed, as if he'd just woken from a long sleep, or a spell. As he accepted the blanket and wrapped it around his narrow hips, a bracelet of silver charms glinted around one of his wrists. Finn said carefully, “I'm Finn. This is—”

Christie murmured, “Should you be giving him our names?”

The young man rose, clutching the plaid blanket. He was taller than she'd expected. Slim muscles snaked beneath his skin. As he spoke, his cautious baritone had a British tartness to it. “Where am I?”

“In Mr. Redhawk's house. Did you know Mr. Redhawk?”

“No.” He turned, looking around, and Finn sucked in a breath. Tattooed across his shoulder blades was a pair of amazingly detailed moth wings, in luminous silver and platinum hues. He continued, “I feel I've been here for a very long time.”

“Do you remember your name?” Finn asked. He glanced at his hands and flexed them as if he hadn't seen them in a while. She had a sudden, sick feeling that in this house, he'd been something
else
for a very long time.

“No.” He rubbed a hand across his face. He had another tattoo, on his upper
right arm: a black, Celtic spiral that formed some kind of animal.

“Finn.” Christie's car keys jangled as he took them from his pocket. “Go get my Mustang. We'll have to take him to the prince of darkness. I'll stay.”

Finn backed away from the young man, who sank to a crouch, huddled in the plaid blanket, his hands—like Jack's hands had once been, crisscrossed with scars—knotted in his hair.

“I DON'T KNOW WHO HE IS.
I don't know
what
he is.”

Jack hunched forward on a chair in his tiny kitchen. Finn stood at the stove making tea, and Christie slouched in another rail-backed chair. The stranger sat in the main room, transfixed by a movie on Jack's small TV. He wore one of Jack's T-shirts and a pair of his jeans.

“You don't have any theories?” Finn brought three mugs to the table. As tired as she was, the mysterious young man with the moth tattoo fascinated her.

“I suspect he's some poor bastard who's been yanked out of his life to serve the Fatas. What he was doing in that house, I have no clue. Maybe he was enchanted into some sort of antique object Redhawk bought.”

“This is going to be another weird conversation, isn't it?” Christie looked stern.

Jack said, “Yes, it is, Christopher—
don't touch that!
”

The stranger had begun wandering and his fingers were poised over the case holding Jack's Stradivarius. At Jack's reprimand, the young man looked up resentfully, tangled hair in his eyes, and said, “I wasn't going to.”

“Jack. He'll have to stay with you.” Finn watched the youth crouch down to gaze at Jack's cat, BlackJack Slade.

“Yes.” Jack resignedly stirred his tea. “I realize that.”

“What are we going to call him?” Finn watched the young man rise and continue to move around the apartment.

“I've no idea. I'll speak with Phouka tomorrow night, take him to Tirnagoth.”

The young man spoke softly, gazing at two old-fashioned keys on a bookshelf, “‘
By heart, you love her, because your heart cannot come by her; in heart you love her, because your heart is in love with her; and out of heart you love her, being out of heart that you cannot enjoy her
.'”

As he sank to a crouch, the keys in his hands, Jack stood and moved to him,
squatted to face him. “Finn, would you fetch me one of those pins from the desk?”

Finn rose and selected a thumbtack, then walked to Jack. “Jack, I don't want him getting tetanus.”

“Dip it in that bottle of rum then, please.” His gaze never leaving the young man, Jack held out a hand. Finn dipped the thumbtack in a lid full of liquor—and didn't ask about why the rum was there—then dropped it into Jack's palm. “Thank you.” To the stranger, Jack said, “I need to see if you bleed.”

The young man held out a steady hand and didn't even flinch when Jack pushed the thumbtack into his skin. As blood welled, Jack sat back on his heels.

“Moth,” Christie suddenly said and everyone looked at him where he stood in the kitchen doorway. “That quote he just recited . . . it's from Shakespeare's
Love's Labour's Lost
. That last bit was spoken by a character named Moth.”

“Well.” Finn sat on the sofa. “Should we call you Moth? It suits you. With that tattoo on your back.”

“What about his other tattoo?” Christie indicated the Celtic design on Moth's upper left arm. “That looks kind of like a dog or something.”

Finn glanced at Jack, who, along with “Moth,” was staring at the dark tattoo banding their guest's arm.

Jack said, quietly, “It's a wolf.”

BEFORE RETIRING FOR THE NIGHT
,
Jack called Finn to make sure Christie had gotten her safely home. His cipher of a guest had fallen asleep on the sofa. Jack hadn't recognized the stranger's moth wing tattoos, only Seth Lot's mark on his arm. Why had Jack never seen this young man in Lot's house? Was he dangerous or did he need to be protected?

Jack didn't think he'd be able to sleep—he tried not to. But, even after three cups of coffee, his eyelids drifted down.

He dreamed of a winter forest. A girl stood among the trees, head down, a black gown swirling around her. Her heavy dark hair was strung with pearls the color of a corpse's skin. She held a pair of tattered ballet shoes red and slick as blood. As she began to raise her head, he realized he didn't want to see what remained of her face—

The image jerked like an old film, into another scene.

Clotted gore streaked a wolf of white marble. Huddled nearby was a boy in
jeans, his bronze curls crowned with autumn leaves and toadstools. Flower petals bled from a wound in his chest. It was Nathan Clare. He said, “
You mustn't save her. It will bring death to the world
.”

Swift and silent and vicious, flashing tooth and claw, an enormous shadow glided through the forest behind Nathan.

Jack woke in a chilled sweat, whispered, “Nate . . .”

A shadow stood beside his bed, silver glinting in one hand.
Moth
.

Twisting up from the bed, Jack avoided the knife Moth slashed at him and slammed Moth into the wall. The young man fought with feral strength, wrestling Jack against a framed poster of
Frankenstein
. Glass shattered as Moth stabbed the knife into Bela Lugosi and reeled back.

Jack yanked the knife from the poster and turned on his guest.

“She told me . . .” Moth slid against the other wall. “She told me to . . .”

Jack tried not to be distracted by the alarming rate of his heartbeat. The knife was from his collection, a Renaissance blade fine enough to flay skin. He pointed it at his guest and fought an urge to slam it into Moth's heart. Hoarsely, Jack said, “Who told you to kill me?”

Moth looked up, miserable. “The girl with the dark hair . . .”

Jack whispered, “
Reiko
.”

Moth turned and ran for the window. Jack leaped over the bed after him, but the young man was already over the sill. Scrambling onto the fire escape, Jack saw the other jump to the ground and run toward the woods.

Jack went after him, barefoot in the snow, and lost him in a mess of skeletal girders conquered by creepers and tree roots. As he sank against corroded metal, he shivered. What would he tell Finn? That the stranger they had tried to help was linked to dead Reiko, that the spiraling tattoo on Moth's arm meant he had once belonged to Seth Lot?

The wind sliced across his skin. He shivered and remembered that he was mortal.

FINN WOKE TO THE SOUND
of breaking glass and, with disturbing words drifting through her sleep-dazed brain—
the devil is here
—sat up. Her room was dark and freezing. When she saw the glass glittering on her floor, the sweat on her skin iced over.

Again, one of the terrace doors was open, swinging gently in the wind—only, this time, several panes were shattered. Her hand crept to the silver dagger beneath her pillow. She thought,
Seth Lot
.

She reached instead for her cell phone on the nightstand and scrolled to Jack's number.

When she looked up, someone was crouched on the stone wall of her terrace.

She dropped the phone and grabbed the dagger. She swung her bare feet to the floor and said with faltering bravado, “You can't come in.”

The shadowy figure raised its head and she inhaled sharply when light fell over the face of the young man they had named Moth. His eyes seemed even greener in the glow of the winter night. He said hoarsely, “The crooked dog came for you. I stopped it.”

Finn couldn't move. Her hand was sweaty on the grip of the knife.

He jumped from the terrace wall, and vanished.

She lunged forward. “Moth!”

She halted on the threshold. The snow on her terrace was cut with claw marks from a large animal. She backed away. She carefully closed the broken door, uselessly locked it, and sat on the floor with the knife, to finish calling Jack.

He silently arrived an impossible fifteen minutes later. When she saw him on her terrace, she jumped up and said, “Caliban was here.”

“I noticed the prints.” He wrapped his arms around her. He smelled like winter and evergreen. He whispered, “What drove the
crom cu
away?”

“Moth.”

“Ah. A complicated person, that Moth. He tried to kill me tonight.”

I hid my heart in a nest of roses,

Out of the sun's way, hidden apart;

In a softer bed than the soft white snow's is,

Under the roses, I hid my heart
.

                
—“A B
ALLAD OF
D
REAMLAND
,” A
LGERNON
C
HARLES
S
WINBURNE

A
fter the Caliban/Moth incident, Finn wanted a nice, normal day during which she could pretend the Fata world didn't exist. Jack had remained with her through the night and they'd talked, stretched on her bed, until she'd finally slept. When she woke, he was there with coffee he'd gotten from Main Street because he hadn't dared go through the house to the kitchen and risk encountering her father. He'd left after a hungry kiss that he'd reluctantly broken away from. She'd slumped back with a groan and curled around her pillow.

Sylvie, who was unnervingly intuitive, addressed the issue as they drank coffee fraps in Origen's courtyard. “You're such a lucky bastard. Not only is he enchanting on the eyes, but he's got to be somewhat brilliant.”

“Yeah.” Finn didn't mean to sound wistful. “We talk a lot.”

Sylvie whispered, “Ohh . . .”

“It's as if he's afraid he'll infect me with darkness or something. Or snap me in half.” She didn't tell Sylvie that she herself was partly to blame for Jack's reluctance, because she was still afraid of what he'd been.

“Maybe he's really, really Catholic.”

“It's like prom night all over again.” Finn clenched the straw between her teeth, remembering her first boyfriend, Daniel Osborne, blond and shy. “My sister followed me and knocked on the window of my boyfriend's car when things were getting interesting . . . he ended up sneaking into my room one summer afternoon. Afterwards, we had Popsicles.”

“He climbed into your room? Is that a thing with you?”

“Obviously.”

“Aubrey was my first. In his family's beach cottage. There's something sexy about summer, isn't there? I felt like a real grown-up. Then I screwed things up when I kissed his brother, who's two years younger than me.”

“You cougar, you.”

“Speaking of wild animals . . .” Sylvie's voice hushed. “Do you really think that was Caliban last night? And you find this naked and stunned Moth person in Mr. Redhawk's house, and it doesn't occur to you that he might be a double agent or something?”

That morning, on the walk to HallowHeart, Finn had told Christie and Sylvie about Caliban's visit and Moth's true nature. They were quiet afterward, which meant they were upset.
And I haven't even told them about Seth Lot
.

“I don't know, Sylv. I hope not. On both counts.”

ON THE STAIRWAY
of Armitrage Hall later that afternoon, Christie proved he still hadn't grown as a person as he, Finn, and Sylvie watched Jack striding toward them. “Here comes the prince of darkness.”

“
Will
you stop calling him that?”

“I still say you're a lucky bastard.” Sylvie ignored Christie's narrow-eyed glance in her direction.

Jack looked as fine as ever in his greatcoat and windswept regality, and, as usual, the sight of him made Finn feel as if her world had righted itself. He nodded to Sylvie and Christie before saying, to Finn, “I'm going to Tirnagoth tonight.”

She heard her named called and turned. Hester Kierney, stylish in a cashmere coat of electric blue, was walking in their direction. She extended a glittering, white envelope toward Finn. “For you and your friends. An invite to my winter party.”

“Hester.” Jack nodded once.

“Jack.”

“Don't take it,” Christie warned Finn. “You never know what happens at those things . . . human sacrifices and so on.”

“You'll notice”—Hester didn't look at Christie and her smile didn't falter—“I didn't give the invitation to
you,
Christie Hart. Hello, Sylvie.”

“Hey, Hester.”

“Thank you.” Finn considered the envelope.

“It'll be fun. I promise. An oasis amid the stress of midterm exams.”

“And will any Fatas be attending this oasis, Hester?” Christie smiled.

“Yes, Christie, they will.” Hester strode away. Then she paused, and turned, and walking backward, said, “Bring your skates, if you've got any. And Christie . . . try to be fun again.”

“Smack
down
.” Sylvie looked at Christie, who ruefully murmured, “She's never forgiven me for breaking up with her when we were seven. So. Jack. Who's going to take Caliban down? I don't really care about Moth. I mean, he only tried to kill
you,
so . . .”

“Christie.” Finn cast a stern glance at him. “When Moth tried to kill Jack, he said a dark-haired girl had sent him.”

Christie went pale. “Reiko?”

“No.” Sylvie frowned. “Reiko's dead. She
burned
.”

Christie glanced at Jack. “You said there are no human ghosts. What about Fata ones?”

“It's not Reiko. There might be more than one dark-haired girl who wants me dead. And Fatas don't become ghosts. Finn, I'll walk you home after I've spoke to Cruithnear and you're done with class?”

“You can walk me to work.” Finn tried not to let the idea of a ghost Reiko trouble her—she had enough to worry about.

“MISTLETOE.” PROFESSOR JANE EMORY MOVED
among the lab tables. Every student had in front of him or her some sort of winter plant with a little card describing it: poinsettias, holly, ivy, miniature fir trees, and the mistletoe. Finn had gotten black hellebore.

“Each plant symbolizes life in winter, breath beneath the snow, existence
continuing in a hostile environment. The mistletoe.
Viscum album
. Family: Loranthaceae.” Miss Emory lifted Christie's plant and smiled as a few students whistled. Christie sprawled back in his chair. He'd dropped one of his courses for botany because he claimed it seemed more exciting. Finn suspected he just had a crush on golden Jane Emory.

Professor Emory waved a chiding forefinger at them. “The mistletoe is a vampire, feeding on the life of its host—a tree—making the tree's vital energy its own. How does it do this? It grows on old trees, apples and hawthorns mostly. When a threadlike root pierces the bark, it feeds off the tree's juices. The wood of the mistletoe has been found to have twice as much potash and phosphoric acid as the host tree.”

She set the mistletoe back down in front of Christie, who widened his eyes at Finn across the aisle. He said, “Maybe the tree thinks it's romantic . . . the brooding
sexy
mistletoe
sucking
at its energy.”

Jane Emory leaned against her desk. “Maybe that's the nature of parasites—to be appealing until it's too late for the host. Now, to the black hellebore.
Helleborus niger
. Family: Ranunculaceae . . .”

As the class ended, Miss Emory called out, “There'll be an exam tomorrow, on the differences between plant families, tribes, and species. And it'll be based on the genus of each example given.”

Oh hell
. Finn glumly knew she couldn't pack that much detail into her brain.

Christie moved to Finn. “
Not
subtle. Comparing you to a tree and the prince of darkness to mistletoe—”

“Who said she was doing that?” Finn felt defensive; she suspected that was exactly what Jane Emory had been doing.

“
I
say she was doing that.” Christie saluted Miss Emory as he strode out the door.

“Finn,” Jane Emory called before Finn could slip out. She was seated on her desk, looking casually angelic. “Could I speak to you?”

“Sure.”

“I wasn't alluding to you and Jack just now.”

“But you were alluding to
something
.”

“Well. Yes. I suppose I was. Not deliberately.”

“The Fatas.”

“Finn, at some point, we need to talk . . .”

Finn thought about the HallowHeart teachers who had attended the Fatas' sacrifice, the ones who called themselves guardians, protectors of Fair Hollow's residents. Jane Emory, who was one of those guardians, had not been there. But she had known about the Teind.

“We do need to talk,” Finn said quietly, “but not now.”

“Finn—”

“Later, Jane. Maybe.” Finn turned and walked out.

FINN STILL WORKED EVENINGS
at BrambleBerry Books, but not alone. As she watched the new hire skillfully park his Chevy between a Honda and a florist's delivery van, the sun began to set behind a bank of clouds and snow was already beginning to drift past the silent, gargoyle-decorated nightclub across the street.

As he entered, Micah Govannon—a true native of Fair Hollow with that name—shook snow from the long, tawny hair that fell over his face and smiled shyly at Finn. Slender in a dark blue sweater and tartan trousers, he wore black-rimmed glasses. There was a thin scar on his nose, and one on his neck, more on his hands, but Finn didn't dare ask about them. He was Christie's friend and Christie had told her Micah had been in a terrible car accident. He also played the cello, attended Saint John's U., not HallowHeart, and was addicted to coffee.

“Is there coffee?” He unwound his scarf, which she recognized as one of Charisma Hart's creations—Christie's mom was a serial knitter. “Because I really need coffee.”

“In the back, but it's instant. Mrs. Browning didn't get to the Crooked Tree this morning.”

“It'll do.” He strode toward the back, followed by the shop's two resident cats. “I just finished playing a bar mitzvah.”

He returned a few seconds later, coffee in hand, to lean against the counter and look down at the book of poetry Finn was reading. “Is that interesting?”

“It's by Augusta Danegeld.” She showed him the cover with its illustration of a black wolf tangled in briars. “Christie's great-grandmother. Anyway, she wrote really sexy poems about mysterious, otherworldly men in Victorian times.”

“Are the poems scandalous?”

“Like
Fifty Shades
with button-up boots and high collars.”

A flash of reflected light made her glance out the window. A silver Rolls-Royce had pulled up in front of the Dead Kings nightclub. As music and lights glowed from beneath the building's black shutters, the Dead Kings' patrons, some of whom seemed to be nothing more in the dark than a drifting hand, silver eyes, luminous skin, a flicker of old jewelry, began to appear.

Micah had followed her gaze. “That's a popular place.”

“Don't ever go there.”

“Christie said the same thing.”

They watched as a taxi double-parked to release a young man in a pale suit and a girl in a coat of crimson velvet, her face shadowed by its wide hood. As they glided toward the Dead Kings, the young man in the white suit glanced over his shoulder.

Finn gasped, so sharply it made Micah look at her.

“Micah, I'll be right back.” Before he could say anything, she pushed out the door and ran across the street.

At the entrance to the Dead Kings, Mr. Wyatt, HallowHeart's metalworking instructor and the Dead Kings' bouncer, politely stepped in her way. His dreadlocks glittered with snow. “No.”

“Mr. Wyatt, someone I know is in there. Please—”

“Perhaps, Miss Sullivan”—his voice was gentle—“you were mistaken.”

“I wasn't
mistaken
.” Her voice shook. “I'll wait outside all night if you don't let me in.”

He raised a charcoal-colored cell phone. “I have your father's number. From Professor Avaline. Shall I call him?”

Defeated, she stepped away. She trudged back toward the bookshop, where a concerned Micah stood in the doorway. He said quietly, “You just told me not to go in there.”

“I know.” Inside the shop, she dug her cell phone from her backpack and pushed Jack's number. He answered. She said, “Could you come to the bookstore?”

Jack arrived shortly, sweeping into the shop with snow flecking his navy greatcoat. He shook Micah's hand when Finn introduced him, before turning to her, his eyes dark, and asking, “What happened?”

She pointed to the Dead Kings. “I need to get in there.”

“Why?”

“Can I tell you later?”

He frowned at her. Then he headed for the door. “I'll ask again as soon as we're in.”

Finn grabbed her coat. “I'm sorry, Micah. I've got to leave an hour early—Mrs. Browning'll be back soon.”

“Go on.” He accompanied them to the door. “Good luck with whatever you're doing, because I'm not going to ask.”

She hurried after Jack, across the street, and caught up to him in front of the Dead Kings, where Mr. Wyatt eyed them with a wry cynicism that told her he'd expected this.