Thorn Jack (21 page)

On the screen, the title card appeared, ornate script on midnight:
He is not a gentleman.

The jittery film told the tale of the young man with the inky eyes seducing the girl to her ruin. At the end, she flung herself from Tirnagoth's roof in a dramatic bit of old-fashioned trickery that nevertheless made Finn feel as if it was mocking Lily's death.

The film snaked to a stop. Finn sat quietly. She didn't feel hysteria or a separation from reality. This
was
her reality, this world tainted with dread and darkness and old secrets.

She could not see Jack again.

JACK LEANED ON A BANISTER
in the Tirnagoth Hotel and watched Nathan Clare moving through the lobby. In one corner, a skinny boy in jeans, a tattoo of raven wings on his back, was playing a harp while two young women in gossamer competed at jacks on the floor.

When Jack closed his eyes, he saw Finn, all long limbs and a searching gaze, a blossom mouth and tawny, tumbled hair. She had found out he was not a gentleman, and heartless as well. So he'd lost her. It was the best thing that could have happened to her. He . . . he would return to feeling nothing.

At the moment, he felt as if he were choking on iron nails.

“Jack.” Phouka leaned back against the banister beside him, her elbows on the wood. She was splendid in a corset of white leather and hip-hugging jeans, her auburn hair threaded with raw pearls.

He said, “Do you ever think about what they took from you?”

“Old age? Disease? Big Macs?”

“We're like them now. The children of nothing and night.”

“Get over it. You've had two hundred years to do so.”

“They set me on Finn Sullivan to keep her from Nathan. She's just an innocent girl and I almost . . .”

Phouka sighed. “I was once an innocent girl. Serafina Sullivan's obviously not jonesing for our Nate. She won't be stopping the Teind. They'll leave her be.”

“Nate.” Jack pushed his hands through his hair. “Do you remember fine wine, Phouka? The kind that burns your throat? Or steak, charred and filled with red juice? Or Belgian chocolate? And love—”

“I remember those things.” Phouka looked lush and mournful. “I liked you better when you were bleeding and brooding.”

He smiled. He leaned toward her and whispered into her lavishly pierced ear, “Do you miss it?”

She stared at him. “I don't know what you're referring to.”

“I think you do.” He stepped back. In his rare moments of dreaming, he sometimes pictured another life, a life of mundane wishes, childish beliefs, and sunlight. “Do you remember when you became part of the family?”

“Why are we having this conversation on a stairway?” She paused. “I believe I became part of the
family
in 1967. Or was that just my favorite year?”

He rested his arms on the banister and examined the old rings on his fingers. “You're not as young as you seem, are you?”

“Are you calling me
old
?”

He clutched the wood of the banister, and it splintered beneath his fingers. He whispered, “I don't know how much more of this I can take.”

“Jack.” The lightness had left her voice. “You mustn't give in to it now.”

“You come from England. Do they celebrate the Teind there?”

“Nathan made his choice.”

“He was desperate, like I was. He was my friend, once.”

“And Reiko sent him away for years because of that. Jack, she's already placed us in debt . . . with you. If
this
Teind isn't paid . . .”

“Then death will become us.” He gazed down at the lobby and the creatures he'd come to think of as his family. “What is she planning?”

“She's planning an offensive.”

“Is she?” His voice was as soft as a predator's paws on snow.

“A trick that might save our lives.”

“It won't”—Jack unfolded from the banister and walked away—“save mine.”

 

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

Those who have received their touch waste away from this world, lending their strength to the invisible ones; for the strength of a human body is needed by the shadows.

—
V
ISIONS A
ND
B
ELIEFS IN THE
W
E
ST OF
I
RELAND,
L
ADY
G
REGORY

The water folk are the most dangerous. They feed on our blood to keep their shapes. Mermaids, selkies, kelpies, the Afanc . . . their clan is called Uisce, so beware of anyone with that name.

—
F
ROM THE JOURNAL OF
L
ILY
R
OSE

F
inn hadn't slept, worrying about Christie. Her phone was tucked close to her pillow so she could have instant contact with him. When he finally texted her, it was to let her know that he wouldn't be going to classes until later on. She'd wanted to hear his voice, just to make sure he was okay.

It was as she was setting down her phone that she remembered Lily Rose's phone . . . a phone she'd just tossed in with her sister's stuff, a phone she'd never
checked
. She scrambled from bed and hurried down the stairs into the dining room, to the boxes holding Lily's things. She went through two of them before she found the iPhone and its adapter. She'd have to wait before going through any photos on it; Lily's laptop had died a year ago and she'd never looked at her sister's files—she regretted that now. The world Lily had seen, the one Finn was only beginning to glimpse, might have been visible in more technological ways than Lily's journal.

As Finn drifted to the hall table and began thumbing through the mail, her heart jumped when she found the crimson envelope.

SHE TOLD SYLVIE WHAT HAD
happened to Christie when they met in Origen's courtyard between classes.

“Christie was
possessed
?” Sylvie's shoulders convulsed in a shudder. “But that's not—”

“Don't say it's not possible, because, really, it is.” Finn didn't want to talk about it anymore. She wore silver and iron for protection and knew that, last night, Christie hadn't worn his.

“And Professor Avaline knows—things?” Sylvie said, looking wary now.

“
Lots
of things.”

“And Absalom the dealer is probably one of these . . . people, according to Annie Weaver? He's a Fata, too, and all the Fatas are . . . ?”

“Let's just call them Fatas. Oh, and I got this, this morning.” Finn held up the crimson envelope. “It's—”

“I know what it is.” Sylvie pulled an identical envelope from her backpack. “It's an invitation to another Fata party.”

CHRISTIE HAD ALSO RECEIVED AN
invitation.

Later, the three of them held a desperate, whispered conversation in HallowHeart's library. It was a gloomy afternoon, spitting rain, and the library's fluorescent lighting was giving Finn a headache.

“Did it really happen, Christie? A
possession
?” Sylvie was studying him with narrowed eyes.

Christie gazed out the window. He looked exhausted. “I don't know. It felt . . .bad. Like I got shoved into the back of my head while someone else did the steering.”

Sylvie looked down at her wrists braceleted with charms. “How did Caliban do it, do you think?”

“I don't know, but we'll make sure it doesn't happen again,” Finn said. She didn't know how they'd manage that, but they needed to protect themselves now. “I don't think he'll try it again.”

“They're not
human
. How do we stop
anything
they do?” Christie shuddered. “This can't be real. It can't.”

Sylvie sidetracked his meltdown with calm words. “What about what Avaline told you? There are
others
who know about them
. And who gathered them
here
?”

“She didn't tell us.”

Christie looked sick. “We're not going to that party, Finn.”

She didn't say anything, because she planned to attend the Fatas' party without her friends. She would go for answers. She would go with defenses, because her sister had had none.

Christie was watching her. Sylvie was skimming through several books on folklore she'd pulled from the shelves.

“Can't you just forget him, Finn?” Christie sounded desperate.

Finn looked down at her hands and whispered, “You don't understand.”

“I don't want to.”

“I don't need you to.”

“It's like”—he leaned forward—“you're in a dream, like you don't care what happens to you. You're not thinking you can actually get
hurt
. You're like an adrenaline junkie.”

“And the Fatas are the drug? Thanks for the psychoanalysis.”

“Don't snap at me.”

“I did not snap at you.”

“You did snap at him.” Sylvie looked concerned.

Finn
did
snap then and pushed to her feet. “I'm leaving.” And she stormed off, ignoring Sylvie's call and Christie's charming apology.

As she stalked across the lawn, Finn nearly ran into Nathan Clare, who said, “Finn? Are you coming to the party?”

She took a deep breath, knowing this meeting wasn't a coincidence. “Nathan. I
know
.”

His smile vanished, and he looked weary and wounded. “It's an invitation. You'll be safe by our laws.”

Our laws.
She said, “Yes, I'm going.”

He leaned toward her, and his voice was low and urgent. “
Be careful.
”

“Nathan—”

“I can't talk now.” He backed away. “I've got to go.”

As he turned and strode away, she started after him. “Hey—”

“Finn Sullivan.”

She turned and scowled, because Aubrey Drake was making his way toward her, black hair rippling around his fine-boned face. He wore a cashmere coat with careless elegance, a white shirt crisp against his cocoa-colored skin. “You're invited to Nate's party?”

“It's
his
. . .”

“Well, it's a Fata revel, so . . .” He shrugged and Finn realized the source of his charm—Aubrey Drake, captain of the Ravens football team, was one of
theirs
.

“They're not bad people,” he said, “the Fatas. They just have their ways.”

“And what have they given you in exchange for
your
soul?”

He was quiet a moment, gazing at her. Then he smiled again. “You're a firecracker. No wonder they're worried. Besides, it's not so fantastic—I could've gotten into Penn State and Hester was accepted at Columbia. But we're consigned to HallowHeart. Because that's the way it is.”

Her pulse jumped—no more pretending.

Aubrey's eyes darkened as he said seriously, “Finn, you've got to be straight with them. No lies. Be respectful. You've heard that Rolling Stones song ‘Sympathy for the Devil'? Well, some of those lyrics could apply to
them
. See you tonight—and don't forget to come to our last game, weekend after next—we're playing against the Riverwood Badgers.”

He strode away, calling to a group of his friends gathered near the stairs.

Finn clutched her backpack's straps and gazed past the apple and oak trees, at HallowHeart, with its child-faced gargoyles and Emory-shrouded windows. She watched the students who wandered the grounds or sat on the steps. Two girls in dark coats ran across the grass, laughing, their braids crow-black. A young man with pale hair and a girl who looked like a Brontë heroine crouched on the stairs, passing a cigarette back and forth. Nearby, a group of students, their hair twined with flowers, sat beneath an oak with a pile of books between them.

Between,
Finn thought. This was a between place, and nothing was as it seemed. The black-clad sisters' laughter sounded like crows calling. The students reading leather-bound books had spiral tattoos on the backs of their hands, and the eyes of the boy and girl sharing the cigarette glinted like rubies. Their teeth seemed sharp.

So there you have it.
Finn backed away.
I'm either crazy . . . or this whole town is infested with the supernatural.

FINN WAS CHOOSING SOMETHING TO
wear for a party held by dangerous, otherworldly people, and listening to her mother's favorite Bee Gees song, “Spirit,” when a tapping sounded on the glass doors. Her breath hitched.

Jack.

He has no heart.

He stood outside, in a Victorian coat. He tapped again and his rings clicked against the glass. She walked slowly to the doors, opened them. The night swept in, riddled with tattered leaves and moth wings. He said, “You idiot. You're going, aren't you?”

“If you're going to be rude, you can leave.” In her red Mickey Mouse T-shirt and old jeans, she was again underdressed against his elegance.

His gaze, upsettingly, was cold. “May I come in?”

She stepped back. “Can I stop you?”

He entered, bringing with him the perfume of burning wood and wild roses. As he sprawled in her rocking chair, she closed the doors and tried not to look at him. “Why are you here, Jack?”

“You've been invited to a family gathering.” He curled his hands on the armrests.

“I've already been told the rules”—she leaned against the bookshelves—“by Aubrey Drake.”

“Aubrey. Do you know who his famous relative was?”

“You're not going to say Queen Elizabeth's Francis Drake, are you?”

“Aubrey's family came from Jamaica. Long ago, Sir Francis Drake stopped in the islands and took a shine to one of Aubrey's female ancestors.”

She stared at Jack, this striking young man from a secret mythology. She'd followed him that night at the lake concert because he'd seemed mysterious, cool, unbreakable and she'd sensed his danger, the darkness trailing him like black ribbons. He'd made her feel as if she were walking on a very high ledge while believing she had wings. Now that adrenaline rush was too close to fear. When he tilted his head, the tiny ruby piercing his nose shone like a drop of blood. She had woken him, quickened his dusty soul,
invited
him. She said in a small voice, “
Tell me why you came
.”

“I came to tell you how to behave
properly
at a Fata party. Aubrey Drake isn't a reliable source on manners. Don't drink any wine, and don't wear iron or silver—by our laws, we can't hurt you when you've been invited and such adornments would be a declaration of war. They'll be serving
ordinary
food, as an act of honor.”

“Why am I—are we—invited?”

“They want to seduce you.” His gaze was hot.

She felt her face flush, and it was hard to breathe, even with him all the way across the room. What had she been letting into her house? She'd read enough fairy tales to know that girls with demon lovers never came to a good end.

She was not one of those girls. “So . . . no iron or silver. How am I supposed to protect myself?”

“You know any poetry? Poetry spoken by someone like you has the power of prayer and, unlike prayer, won't make them angry. They can't create any poetry of their own—it's a sword they can admire, but not wield. When they speak it, it means nothing.”

“Is it everyone, Jack?” She moved toward the drawer where she kept her sewing kit. “Is everyone here under the influence of Reiko Fata and her tribe?”

His voice sharpened. “What are you doing?”

She lifted a pin. “Can I prick you, Jack?”

The room's light seemed to darken, and the shadows of familiar things became crooked. The CD player had drifted into silence.

“Can I prick you back?” His teeth were showing as he gripped the arms of the chair.

“I want to
help
you. What did they
do to you
?” Finn said.

“Ask me what they did to Lily Rose.”

It was worse than being threatened or smacked. She curled her hand around the pin and spoke as if she had broken glass in her throat. “Lily Rose is dead.”

“And how do you know it wasn't
me
who tricked her?”

“It wasn't you.”

“How do you know?” He rose and sauntered to the wall of books, where he delicately reached out to touch the photo of a little girl in a white ballet costume. “Is this her?”

“Yes.
Was
it you?” She watched him step back from the photo of Lily. “Was it you who gave me the moth key?”

“No. Finn . . . the moth key—did it open the way to Tirnagoth?”

She nodded. “And your voyage trunk.” She turned and took the film reel in its red casing from behind a pillow on the window seat. She held it out to him as he raised inky eyes to hers and accepted it. “I sort of suspected. Jack, that journal you saw floating in midair . . .” Her voice caught. She composed herself. “It was Lily's. She wrote . . . things.”

“Things?” He was looking at her now as if she would do him some terrible harm.

“Anna Weaver once talked about the children of nothing and night—and that same phrase is in Lily's journal. She knew about the Fatas. That's what they are, aren't they? The children of night and nothing.” Finn walked to Jack as he stood with his head bowed. She reached for one of his hands and pricked his finger with the pin, then sighed when a bead of red appeared. “Let me help you. I
couldn't help her
. . .”

He clasped the back of her neck and pressed his brow against hers. “Do you know what you are doing?”