Thorn Jack (27 page)

Her face was pale. There was a bicycle on the ground near her, its wheels still spinning. “I spoke with Phouka. And Nathan.”

He stepped forward, dropped, and landed in a crouch before her. He straightened and took a swaggering step closer. Finn's eyes were sooty with silver liner, her tawny hair knotted with thin braids. He could smell the pomegranate gloss on her lips as he said, “Is that parsley in your hair?”

“Yes.”

His gaze dropped to the dark bracelet around her wrist. Iron. “I'll ask again,
What are you doing here?
”

“Who is going to die on Halloween, Jack?”

He took a deep breath. “No one.”

“Who are the Fatas, Jack?”

“You're wearing a salad in your hair and an iron bracelet. You know what they are.”

“And you?” Her eyes were huge, the pupils drowning the whites. “What are you? I know you're not like this because you want to be. You're not one of
them
.”

His coat swirled in a wind that swept their hair across their faces. “I am a dead man, Finn.”

False breath burned through him, nudging at the seedling in his chest. The poisonous reek of the iron made him dizzy. He stepped back from her, this girl with her princess face and ferocious innocence. In jeans and a red coat, she was armed—he could smell silver too—and her voice went into him like a thorn as she said, “I think they killed my sister because she knew about them. I think they're going to kill Nathan.”

He felt Reiko's venom stirring within him and took another step back, whispering, “She's poisoned me against you.
Leave.
”

“No.”

“
Go!
” He put his hands over his face before she could see the blackness fill his eyes. He stood very still, not daring to move as the venom whispered to him, urging him at her, the fragile creature willing to die for him.
Finn. You're a smart girl. You're a clever girl. Run away from me . . .

When the savage darkness had withdrawn, he dropped his hands from his face.

He was alone in the lot scattered with ragged leaves. This time, it was
she
who had abandoned
him.

FINN HAD RELUCTANTLY BICYCLED AWAY
from Jack, leaving him in darkness . . . because she'd realized there was only one way to help him. Back home, she texted Sylvie and Christie, and they came. As she sat with Christie on the swings, it was Sylvie who explained to them what Absalom Askew had said must be done to bind Jack Fata. “The yew stands in the territory of something the Iroquois called Dead Bird, a spirit the Irish immigrants named
Marbh ean
.”

“Marvin?”

“That's right, Christie. Just keep making smart remarks.” Sylvie scowled at him.

Christie looked skeptical. “So we call on something called Dead Bird and we're trusting a pot-dealing fairy boy with orange hair?”

Finn pictured the despair in Jack's eyes and thought of innocent Nathan. “This won't hurt Jack? It'll only keep him from doing what Reiko says?”

“It'll bind him to you.”

Christie's swing swayed back and forth. He said, “But first we've got to ask permission from Marvin. And what do you think
he'll
want in exchange?”

Finn stood. “Let's try it.”

Christie looked from Finn, to Sylvie, and swore.

NEAR MIDNIGHT, CHRISTIE DROVE THEM
to the blackberry field near Soldiers' Gate Cemetery. When they got out of the car, he carried the wooden chair that Sylvie and Finn had painted red. As Finn stood before the swirling art nouveau gates, watching leaves drift around the tombstones as if something invisible was playing among them, she thought that the cemetery was an eerie, wild place, the stone figures that sorrowed over its graves seeming to wait for humans to pass before moving in secret. “Okay.”

Christie pushed at the gate, which clanged and didn't open. He stepped back. “They actually lock it now? Oh, well. I guess we can't talk to Marvin. Let's go.”

Finn touched the moth key she wore around her neck and walked forward. She fitted the key into the gate's lock.
Click.
The gates fell open. This time, Christie and Sylvie didn't ask about the key, but Finn caught them exchanging a glance as they followed her down the path. As she and Sylvie held up their electric lanterns, Finn grimaced at the fragrances of dark loam and mildewed stone. “Where's the summoning tree?”

“Did you hear that?” Christie scanned the monuments, the scraggly trees, the tricky darkness that might reveal, at any moment, something they didn't want to see.

“That was an owl.”

“No, it wasn't, Sylv.”

Finn hushed them. Her skin was crawling, and her hands were cold.

As they walked forward, the yew rose from mist and weeds, looming behind a black mausoleum carved with images of skeletons. A hooded figure of black marble stood near the mausoleum doors, its face hidden, hands clasping a rose. Christie's light flicked over the name carved above the doorway. He whistled.

“Tirnagoth,” Finn breathed.

The yew was impressively spooky, with its twisting trunk and branches clawing at the sky. Christie muttered, “Are yews supposed to be this big? No? I didn't think so.”

They set candles from Hecate's Attic around the tree. Sylvie, using a wand she'd carved herself—with specifications from Absalom, Finn grimly suspected—drew the pentacle. She rose, brushing leaves from her stockings. “Christie?”

Christie crouched nearby, leaves fluttering in his dark red hair. Softly, he spoke.

“Gaze no more in the bitter glass, the demons, with their subtle guile, lift up before us when they pass
.
”

Sylvie stomped her foot. “Why are you quoting Yeats?”

“Should it be Poe? Something from ‘The Raven'? We
are
trying to summon a dead bird named Marvin.”

Sylvie pointed at him. “Your cynicism and lack of respect are going to
ruin
this.”

“We no longer worship the sublime,” Finn murmured, lighting the first candle with a butane wand. Her hand trembled slightly. “Like Professor Fairchild says.”

“Damn, I can't believe I didn't get into that class.” Christie sighed.

A wind scented with smoke and mist swirled tattered leaves across the red chair that had once sat so innocently in Finn's kitchen. Finn rose, saying, “Go on, Christie.”

Christie said, “How about this? ‘
Where got I that truth? Out of a medium's mouth, out of nothing it came, out of the forest loam, out of dark night where lay the crowns of Nineveh.
' That's more Yeats—”

A howling wind tore the breath from them. The candle flames burned blue, igniting a flurry of leaves, turning them into smoldering skeletons. Finn gripped Sylvie's hand as Christie folded his fingers around her other. Starlight glittered behind the birches, and cold descended over the field as the wind stilled. Shadows from the trees crawled across the chair and crows cawed above, as if warning them. Finn thought she heard drumbeats, then realized it was her own heart.

Sylvie whispered, “
Marbh ean. Gabh I le!
”

Finn closed her eyes. The world shifted. An electric current sizzled through the cables above the road, and the air became heavy with the smell of rain. Unable to bear it any longer, she opened her eyes.

What she saw in the chair, at first, confused her. Someone had placed a dead crow on the seat. A shadow slanted over it. She blinked; the crow vanished.

A black figure sat there now, reality tugging at its ragged edges. Finn wondered if terror could really kill a person. Shaking with cold and the urge to run like hell, she stared at the shadow in the chair and said with steady determination, “
Marbh ean.
I've come to ask a favor.”

The voice that replied was like none she'd ever heard—mocking, male . . . ice sliding across velvet. “Shall I grant it?”

Candlelight swerved and lit the figure.

Sprawled in the chair was a young man of indeterminate Asian descent, his body lean and lithe in an ivory T-shirt and white suede trousers stitched at the sides. Bleached feathers and totems were knotted in his black hair. A diamond stud glinted in the side of his nose, and his dark eyes held a silvery light. He was as fanciful as a '70s rock star. He was as old as the stars in the sky. Finn resisted the urge to fall to her knees and bow her head as terror and sweet desire overwhelmed her.
The uncanny valley effect,
she thought.

The young-man-who-was-not smiled, and his voice seemed to echo, “You'd best tell me why I'm here before I get angry. Or bored.”

Christie tightened his grip on Finn's hand. “Tell us what you want in exchange. Sir.”

As his black gaze settled on Christie, the young man—and Finn couldn't bear to think of him as anything else—drawled, “Pretty boy. What do we ever ask in exchange for anything?” There was nothing human in his gaze as he continued, “Blood.”

Christie whispered, “Yeah. I figured.”

Finn, whose mind had decided to pretend that this was a dream because her common sense wouldn't have anything to do with the situation, asked, “How much?”

“That depends on how many favors you want.”

Finn's body shuddered from the tomb chill in the air. “One. I want to . . . bring someone to me.”

His eyes narrowed. “
Someone.
”

She nodded.

“Ten drops for
someone,
” he said, and Finn winced as he extended a goblet of dented metal. The age-tainted rings on his fingers reminded her of Jack's. He smiled at her, and his gaze flickered with ghosts. He said, “Use that silver spike the
ban leannan
gave you and give me my due. Then, I shall answer.”

As Finn took from her coat the small silver knife with the cross-shaped hilt, the one given her by a girl named Eve, Dead Bird averted his gaze.

“Why are you afraid of the cross?” Sylvie's curiosity had apparently overcome her fear.

Dead Bird's voice was cold. “Would you like to give your blood for the answer?”

“Never mind. Sir.” She had gone white.

Finn stepped forward and accepted the tin goblet with numb hands.

“Here.” Christie took the knife while Sylvie held the cup. Sylvie whispered, “Are you sure—”

“Just do it.” Finn held her hand over the goblet and felt the knife prick her finger. Dismissing her nausea at how disgusting this was, she squeezed out precisely ten drops, wincing at the brightness of her blood. She took the cup in her other hand and walked to the
Marbh ean,
who accepted it with an inclination of his head. She didn't want to watch as he drank, but she couldn't turn away. When he tossed aside the cup, what fell to the ground was a crushed beer can.

He spoke dreamily, “
I saw a staring virgin stand, where holy Dionysus died, and tear the heart out of his side, and lay the heart upon her hand, and bear that beating heart away.
”

“Why is
he
quoting Yeats?” Christie sounded strangled.

Sylvie said, “Because that's how you summoned him.”

Quietly, the
Marbh ean
continued, “
And though it loved in misery, close and cling so tight, there's not a bird of day that dare extinguish that delight.
”

“Is it
all
going to be Yeats?” Sylvie stared at the
Marbh ean.
The silver designs beneath her eyes glinted. Christie's hand, painted with the same designs, tightened around Finn's as Finn, listening carefully, felt the air tremble.

Dead Bird said, voluptuously, “
The bride is carried to the bridegroom's chamber through torchlight and tumultuous song. I celebrate the silent kiss that ends short life or long.
”

Sylvie whispered, “It
is
all going to be Yeats.”

The
Marbh ean
rose and his voice, wild and strong and inhuman, cemented the summoning. “
That there are still some living, that do my limbs unclothe, but that the flesh my flesh has gripped, I both adore and loathe.
”

Shadows tracked across his face and he was gone.

In the circle, the candles flickered out. Leaves rustled like the gowns of long-dead ladies. They waited. Nothing happened. A sense of disappointment lingered.

“Tengu,” Sylvie whispered. “That's what he was.”

“A Japanese trickster spirit,” Finn informed Christie. “And I'll bet she's right. The bird thing . . .”

“Can we trust him?” Sylvie looked worried.

“I'm not in the mythology club you two seem to have started, but I'm scared stupid. Here.” Christie took from his coat a piece of paper and shoved it at Finn. “Read this. It's a Christina Rossetti poem. I thought we might need it, for extra impact. Anyway, it's very appropriate.”

Finn carefully recited the words, “
Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live my very life again though cold in death: Come back to me in dreams, that I may give pulse for pulse, breath for breath—
”

The wind howled again, and the rustling of the leaves became frantic. Finn spoke before panic took her voice, “
Speak low, lean low, as long ago, my love, how long ago—
”

The leaves stopped moving. The wind fell away. The world became a film that abruptly halted.

Then the circle of candles flared to life, burning blue.

Jack walked from the darkness clotted near the yew and remained within the circle of candles. In his long soldier's coat, he looked like a ghost, his eyes rimmed with designs of red kohl that heightened his otherworldly appearance.

“
What have you done?
” He set his hands on the back of the red chair. His voice, so soft, bit at Finn, who let the paper fall as she reached across the candles and said, “I summon thee, Jack Fata, to my hand.”