Thorn Jack (16 page)

She didn't believe the pale, mottled arm that slowly folded over the back of the divan.

Finn inhaled and couldn't exhale again as the light in the room changed, dimming slightly, so that, at first, she thought something was wrong with her vision. Then the air began to buzz as if swarming with hundreds of invisible flies. On the divan, a girl with a porcelain face and shoulder-length black hair peered over the bruised arm. The late-afternoon sunlight didn't touch her as she slid into a kneeling position, turning her head to gaze at whatever sat beside her. Finn heard a faint, jangling sound, as if a music box had fallen.

She closed her eyes.
She's just a homeless person. Maybe she's one of Jack's vagabond friends.

But the cold in the room was that of cellars and icy night roads, and it hurt to breathe and there was that buzzing in her ears, as if something was trying to speak to her and her brain wasn't adjusting—

She opened her eyes. “
Stop it!
”

The divan had turned to face her. A second black-haired porcelain girl sat beside her twin, her ivory smock splotched with blood.

Finn reeled back and hit the door, fumbling frantically with the handle.

“She's bleeding.” The first girl's voice was fragmented. “
Why did she die?
”

Finn put her hands over her face and wished the haunts away.

When she looked again, the divan was empty and facing the wall again. A broken music box glittered on the floor.

She yanked open the door and ran.

SYLVIE HAD WANDERED AWAY FROM
Finn and Christie, following the faint sounds of music to a sun-streaked chamber where a harp loomed in one corner and a tall wardrobe painted with peacock images dominated the center. It was extremely cold in the room—gravestone cold. She rubbed her nose. She couldn't hear the music now, only a faint buzzing, like bees. “Christie! Finn . . .”

Something scratched at the inside of the wardrobe.

Because Sylvie had been raised with her Laplander father's tribal beliefs and her Japanese mother's Shinto spirituality, curiosity smashed fear. She didn't make another sound, but waited breathlessly. She
wanted
to see something.

A shadow stood before the wardrobe, a piece of darkness in a tasseled dress and a headband with a rosette . . . as if someone had made a 1920s flapper out of black matter—or as if Sylvie's mind had blanked out its true form to protect her sanity.

She swallowed sour fear and pulled out her cell phone, which had a camera. But the phone was as dead as what stood before her.

The figure glided backward and faded into the wardrobe.

Sylvie fled the room and screamed as she crashed into someone.

“Sylvie,” Finn said, breathing fast. “
Where's Christie?
”

WHILE FINN PEERED INTO ONE
room, and Sylvie explored another, Christie had tracked the murmur of voices to a glass door. He heard only the sound of dripping water from behind it. He pushed at the door and peered into a grimy, black-and-white bathroom with a rusting porcelain tub. He glanced up at a skylight clotted with leaves and dead insects. “Grim.”

He looked down to find a boy sitting in the tub. And terror paralyzed him.

The boy wore a crimson Renaissance jacket, jeans, and boots. Red ribbons draped his wrists resting on the tub's edges. Bright hair framed an innocent, pale face with dark eyes, but shadows seemed to snake around him, and the cold in the air was rank. Christie's breath misted.

The boy, whose breath, if he had any, didn't mist, said, “You shouldn't be here.”

Between one blink and the next, the tub was empty, the rust along its sides resembling old blood—

Christie slammed shut the door.

“Christie!” Finn grabbed him. Sylvie was breathless beside her.

Fighting the urge to be violently sick, he said, “This place is
very bad.
Someone died here.”

“Christie”—Finn's voice was steady—“a
lot
of someones died here.”

FINN WANTED TO SEE MORE,
but fear of the unknown—and common sense—told her to get out. Christie and Sylvie, who had also seen things, were pale and shaky. As they hurried down Tirnagoth's sun-streaked upper hall, she thought she could hear sighs and giggles from the second floor, and, below, a deep voice muttering.

Rushing down the stairs, the three dashed toward the front doors. Sylvie and Christie raced out.

As Finn's foot touched the threshold, she felt something come to life behind her.

She twisted around to find the hotel lobby as it must have looked in the 1920s, a Polaroid negative swimming in sepia. Shadows moved but didn't take form. A familiar voice said, “Finn?”

Breathless, she grabbed the Nikon on the strap over her shoulder.

Then she was yanked out. Her breath hitching in her throat, she glanced back into the lobby, but she saw nothing except darkness and rot. The last of the sunlight vanished from the sky, and a cold, violet murk seemed to descend.

“Finn.” Sylvie shook her from her daze.

“I think I'm going crazy,” Finn whispered.

“No.” Christie looked sick. “That
place
is crazy
.
”

When they had fled a safe distance, they turned to look back at the hotel, sinister and barbed against the evening sky.

“It's haunted,” Christie said with grim assurance. “There was a dead boy in the tub.”

“Is that what you saw? I saw a shadow girl from the Roaring Twenties.” Sylvie was backing away. She sounded awed. “It really
is
haunted.”

As they began trudging down the gravel path, Finn told them about the two girls on the divan, shivering when she recalled their doll-like appearance, the stillness of the air around them. She didn't tell them about hearing Jack's voice back there. She continued, “I don't know what this has to do with the Fatas . . .”

Sylvie tugged at one of her own pigtails. “We should come back with film cameras—”

“I'm done.” Christie's voice, so uncharacteristically flat, startled Finn. He turned and faced them, and he looked fierce. “I'm not curious anymore. I'm scared shitless. I won't sleep tonight. I doubt I'll sleep for a week—that bathroom smelled like blood . . . I think that boy killed himself in there.”

Finn tried not to think of the ghoulish girls on the divan and knew she'd be thinking about them while
she
attempted to sleep.

Sylvie said, “Black mold causes hallucinations. I bet that place is filled with mold.”

It was a lame excuse, and none of them believed it.

“It went bad.” Christie stuck the ever-unlit cigarette between his lips. His hand shook. “The hotel closed after Malcolm Tirnagoth was killed. In Asia, don't they have this thing called feng shui . . .”

“Architects build to keep out bad fortune and direct good luck through the rooms—are you saying that Tirnagoth was built bad?” Finn resisted the urge to look over her shoulder at the menacing bulk of the hotel.

“I read that some mojo guy said the hotel was built to
attract
bad.” Sylvie looked thoughtful.

Finn considered this as she continued up the gnarly road, her friends following. She was trying to figure some things out—so when they stopped talking, she barely noticed.

She
did
notice when a chill brushed across the back of her neck. She halted. “Christie? Sylv . . .”

Looking around, she found herself alone. Finn's courage plunged into an icy pool of panic as she yelled, “
Christie! Sylvie!
”

It was dark now. The leaves rustled as the wind whipped her hair into her face, and the gates creaked. She twisted back around—

A girl stood a few feet from her, black hair veiling her face, her skin white. She wore a black dress and stood too still.

Finn whispered, “What are you?”

The girl raised her head, revealing the face of someone her age, a pretty face, somewhat familiar, with dark eyes. “I'm Eve.”

“Eve.” Finn didn't know if she was talking to a real girl or a spirit, so she decided to be practical despite the clammy fear twisting through her. “Where are my friends, Eve?”

“Tricked away.” The girl turned and walked, and Finn, bewildered, followed her down the Tirnagoth drive. The girl halted near a birch tree so white it looked unreal. “This is where I tried to be brave.”

“How—” Finn broke off as the girl knelt beside the birch . . . but she didn't look at the girl—she stared at the letters carved into the tree in the middle of a heart:
E+J.

“Here.” The girl pointed at something in the roots of the tree. “This is where I dropped it.”

Finn, still wondering about those initials, looked down at the cross-shaped hilt of an ornate dagger.

“It's pure silver,” the girl solemnly told her, “made for the Templars to fight . . . what they fought. My sister gave it to me . . . I couldn't use it . . . not against him.”

“Who are you?”

Light glimmered silver across the girl's eyes. Then she whispered,
“Why did she die?”

“What did you say?”

The girl turned and ran into the woods.

Finn stared at the dagger. Then she bent down to pull it free. The hilt was cold, as if a human hand had never touched it.
Why did she die?
Those were the words that had haunted her since Lily's suicide.

The gates creaked again. She rose quickly to her feet, stepping on the dagger. “Chris—”

It wasn't Christie who stood between the open gates.

“Whatever are you doing here, little
coineanach
?” Platinum-haired Caliban Fata smiled, his dark coat billowing, glittering as if it were made of scales.

Finn's voice knotted in her throat. “Where are Christie and Sylvie?”

His silver gaze slid to her. “Don't know.”

He was trying to scare her. But after being terrorized by Tirnagoth, Finn's brain had adjusted to the sinister. “
Where are they?
”

“Do you want to know who the girl was?
Ask Jack.
”

Aware of the knife beneath her foot, Finn didn't take her gaze from Caliban as he stepped toward her. He growled, “Tell me your name. All of it.”

“Serafina Sullivan.” She wanted to run, but he would catch her . . .

“Serafina Sullivan. But you left out your middle name.” He reached toward her, and silver glanced across his eyes. “What is your true name?
Tell me
.”

“Don't touch me.” Finn stumbled back. The dagger spun from beneath her foot. She absolutely believed, now, that he had hurt Angyll Weaver.

“Don't touch—what is that? Did Eve give that to you?” Caliban's eyes flickered to the dagger. “Such a fine, brave gir—”

Something loped from the shadows, catching him off guard, and slammed him against a tree—Finn stared at Christie, who yelled, “
Run!
”

Caliban grabbed Christie, smashing him against another tree. He struck it, face-first. Finn yelled.

Sylvie ran from the tangled trees toward Christie, but Caliban stepped in her way, grinning. She swung her flashlight at him. He knocked her down.

“Stop,” Finn whispered. “
Stop.
What are you
doing
?”

Caliban picked up the dagger, smiled, and flung it at her feet. “See if you can get me with that before I reach the pretty boy or the crow girl.”

He strode toward Christie, who was struggling to stand. Sylvie was on her feet, too, looking feral and angry and reaching for a piece of broken blacktop. When she lunged forward, Caliban laughed and casually shoved her away.

Finn grabbed the dagger, straightened—

Suddenly Jack stood before her, so close she could see the black-rimmed pupils of his eyes. Softly, he said, “Go.”

He glided toward Caliban as Christie, still unsteady, backed away with Sylvie. Caliban bared his teeth. “
Sluagh
. I am
sick
of you.”

“Jack!” Finn darted forward, but Sylvie grabbed her hand and Christie yanked at her other. They dragged her away until she finally ran with them.

When they reached the parking lot of the noisy apartment building and Christie fumbled with his keys, Finn, realizing she still had the dagger, slid it into her coat pocket. They ducked into the Mustang and Christie gripped the wheel. “Shit. Shit. Sh . . .”

“Where
were
you?” Finn whispered.

“I got lost.” Sylvie was pale. “Alone.”

“Me, too,” Christie said. “Things just got . . . like I couldn't think my way through those trees. Like temporary brain damage.”

“Caliban Fata . . .” Finn pushed her hands across her face.

“He was messing with us.” Christie wiped at his bloody mouth, and Finn felt a snarling fury when she remembered how Caliban had struck him.

“Are you okay?” She pressed her shaking hands into her lap. She didn't want to think about what was happening between Jack and Caliban now.

“Should we call the police?” Sylvie sounded dazed. Finn saw that she still clutched the piece of blacktop she'd been about to brain Caliban with.

“No police—what the hell would we tell them?” Christie looked at Finn. “Don't let him near you.”

Finn didn't know whether he meant Jack or Caliban. She pushed her hands through her hair. She hated that she was shaking. “We have to go back and help Jack—”

“No. That look in his eyes, Finn—it's like he doesn't care about anything, whether he lives or dies. Even that psycho Caliban or whatever he calls himself has something like goals. Evil goals, yeah, but still . . .”

“You're talking about Jack.”

Christie started the car. “So ends our tour of the Tirnagoth Hotel. ‘
That thing all blood and mire, that beast-torn wreck, half-turned and fixed a glazing eye on mine
.' ”