Thorn Jack (29 page)

The world spun away. Back from the memory she'd been made to forget, she sank to her knees, gripping the sword. “
It was you.
”

He hunkered down beside her. “I didn't remember any of that until now. I almost did, earlier, when I saw you in the yellow and red. The bridge . . . it just triggered something.”

She gazed at him and her throat ached. “You were there, in Vermont, and you never remembered me. And I never recognized
you
. . .”

“I'm sure Reiko did something to make us forget. And, Finn, I think something in us
did
remember.” He clasped one of her hands. “I think we recognized each other at the lake concert.”

“It was you.” She wanted to cry and laugh. “Why were you in
Vermont
?”

“Do you remember that locket I gave you?”

She lifted it from where it hung around her neck. He reached out, clicked the locket open, gazed at the portrait of the Renaissance boy. “His name was Ambrose, and he was a friend of mine. His last name was Cassandro.”

She breathed out, “That's my mother's maiden name.”

“People your age married young, way back when. Before the Fatas took him, Ambrose had a bride and kids—which led to descendants. He kept track. When someone in his family died, he would try to pay his respects. Secretly.”

Finn gripped his hand, the same hand that had pulled her ten-year-old self from the water eight years ago.

“Ambrose went to your mother's funeral. Reiko went with him because he was her Jack at the time. And I went with Reiko.” He looked at her. “To Vermont.”

She pushed a hand against her mouth as the memory of another young man's face emerged. “Ambrose was there . . . after you pulled me out. You were on your knees, talking to me. I was crying. He lifted me up and handed me to my da.”

Jack was solemn. “That was him.”

She leaned toward him. “Do you think
Reiko
remembers
me
?”

“I don't know, Finn . . . but I'm thinking yes, because it's too much of a coincidence that you're here in Fair Hollow.”

“She was in San Francisco. I saw her, Jack. And Aubrey Drake—he told me Hester Kierney's dad got my dad the job here . . . the Kierneys and the Drakes are connected to the Fatas.”

Jack was very still, a symptom of what she now recognized as worry. He said, faintly, “So she brought you here. Full circle.”

“She
does
remember me.” Finn clutched the fake sword and wished it was a real one. “What happened to Ambrose?”

“He's gone.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “I don't like this. There are too many knots.”

Finn rose. Dragging the sword, she faced the bridge—Reiko had placed that fear in her. She stalked forward.

“Finn!”

In the middle, she halted and looked over one shoulder at him. “I bound you to me. Do you have to do as I say?”

“No.”

“If I get up on the railing of this bridge and walk the rest of the way, I want you to kiss me.”

He straightened and started toward her, but she'd already climbed up and was balanced on the bridge's wide railing. She tried not to look at the black water below.

“Finn . . . don't be an idiot.”

“I'm not. I'm showing you that a kiss is not going to be dangerous and that I won't let Reiko make me afraid. Besides”—she held the fake sword horizontally with both hands, like a balancing device—“you'll save me.”

“A minute ago, you wouldn't even
walk
over this bridge.” He strode toward her. “And now you're being reckless. You were right—you shouldn't cross without me.”

She was exhilarated by the fact that he'd always been with her. “Were you with her in San Francisco, Jack?”

“Yes,” he said quietly, “but I don't remember seeing you there.”

“Let's get Nathan away from her.”

“If you don't come down, I'm
dragging
you down.”

“But I might fall the other way, so don't try it.”

“Finn”—his voice was soft—“don't you remember, when you fell, what was
in
the water?”

She halted. He wasn't looking at her, but at something beneath her, between the railings of the bridge. When she'd been a child, struggling in that water, had something grabbed her ankle? “Jack. I don't want to remember any more.”

He still had his gaze fixed on the railings beneath her feet. She watched as he crouched down and began speaking in a language she didn't understand. She didn't dare move. She heard a ruffling hiss, the scrape of something against stone, a splash in the water.

As Jack rose, she slid down into his arms, against him, and whispered, “Did you just save me again?”

The fake sword clattered to the stone as his mouth fiercely and hotly set on hers. Her lips were chapped, so there was a sting to the kiss, but it was sweet. She clung to him and he lifted her, clutching her so tightly the breath left her and went into him. Tangling her fingers in Jack's hair, Finn didn't let him pull back this time.

He took his mouth away and whispered, “I'm stealing you from your
life
—”

“No.” She tightened her arms around his neck. “I'm stealing
you
from
yours
.”

“It's past midnight,” he murmured in her ear.

“Da will never let me out of the house again.” She reluctantly stepped away. She snatched up the sword. “Take me home.”

“This way.” He clasped her hand. “Lionheart.”

As they walked from the bridge, she whispered, “What was it that you were speaking to? The thing in the water?”

“He doesn't live in the water,” Jack said without breaking his stride. “He lives under the bridge.”

Wide-eyed, she looked over her shoulder and saw a shadowy figure in a hat and coat crouched on the bridge, watching them. She closed her eyes and muttered, “I am never going over that bridge again.”

“Even if I'm with you?” he teased.

“Even if you're with me.” She paused. “You don't think he looked up my dress, do you?”

THE RAIN HAD BEGUN AGAIN
as she hurried alone up the path to her house. She halted when she saw her father on the porch, holding a jack-o'-lantern and speaking with a dark-haired woman in a skirt and blazer.

Professor Avaline turned as Finn approached. “I'm glad we had the chance to speak, Sean. Serafina.”

As the woman lifted a black umbrella and clicked toward her sporty Cadillac, Finn frowned at her da. “What did she tell you? You can't trust her, Da—”

“Come inside and we'll talk—”

“I'm staying here until you tell me what she said.”

He faced her as the rain sleeked her hair to her head and stung her eyes. “Jack Fata's involved in some things. He's—”

“And you
believed
her?”

“She's concerned for you, Finn—by the way, you
forgot to call
.”

“Why would she know these things about Jack?”

“
Will
you come out of that rain?”

As she moved grudgingly up the steps, he said, “Why don't you invite Jack to dinner?”

“Why don't you invite Jane Emory?” She stalked into the house and slammed the door.

CHRISTIE HAD DECIDED TO STAY
home on family fun night so he could comb through every mythology and folklore book he'd been able to find in the library. Just for the comfort of noise, he'd turned on the upstairs television and the widescreen in the family room. He found the Food Network comforting. Lately, he felt as if his spirit had nettles in it. He often found himself thinking of Phouka—of her curvy lips and rippling hair, her fragrance of cinnamon and patchouli. It was like craving something he knew would eventually kill him, but he couldn't help it.

When water dripped onto his nose, he looked up, saw the stain on the ceiling, and swore.

He pelted up the stairs, groaned when he saw water trickling over the floor from the bathroom. The door was shut, but he heard splashing inside. It was one of his brothers, probably Conal, playing a trick. He pushed at the door. “Con—”

The door gave way. He fell in—

—and scrambled back, accidentally slamming the door shut behind him.

The tub was overflowing with black water. A beetle skittered across the toilet as an unearthly chill made mist of his breath. When something moved in the tub, he wanted to close his eyes and wish it away. “Stop . . .”

What emerged from the water was the head of a nightmare horse. Black and rotting, its eyes sulfurous, dead, it made no sound as its head was followed by shoulders, a torso, arms, a miasma of decay.

Even sliding into shock, Christie found the words he needed. “
You weren't invited.
”

Baring yellow teeth, the thing said in a clotted voice, “Water is my domain. And this house stands above my well.”

I'm dreaming.
Christie pushed back against the door with a whimper, his legs useless. He was wet with sweat and shivering in the chill vapor.
Please let me be dreaming. Please . . .

The thing with the head of a horse clutched at the tub's rim, its claws leaving scratches on the porcelain as it heaved its black, glistening body up—

Christie yanked the door open and pelted down the stairs, flinging himself outside—

He tumbled down the steps. As he landed heavily in the weeds, his teeth went through his bottom lip. Spitting blood, he staggered to his feet with a sobbing breath.

A large shape appeared in the doorway, its head misshapen, its fingers long with claws. Through a film of tears, he watched it slope down the steps.

A voice cut through his shock. “Christie.”

He turned to find Reiko Fata smiling at him. Sleek in a crimson coat and boots, dark hair writhing from beneath the coat's hood, she was corruption in the form of a girl as she extended one hand, her eyes silvering. “I'll send it away. From you. From your family . . . if you come with me.”

He heard the horse-headed thing grunting as it followed his scent.

Blood in his mouth and tears in his eyes, he held out a trembling hand to her. As his fingers touched hers, her breath sliced across his skin and flayed it away.

ON THE ENCLOSED BACK PORCH
of her parents' apartment, Sylvie went through her collection of photographs; she touched the image of Thomas Luneht, the boy who had killed himself in the 1970s. With his dark hair and fierce blue eyes, he seemed her kindred spirit—and he still existed in some eerie, Fata fashion. She knew Caliban was afraid of him, but why? What happened to those who accepted Fata promises? Although Reiko Fata's offer had frightened Sylvie, those who dealt with the Fatas—the Drakes, the Valentines, the Kierneys—seemed to prosper. But what about those who'd fallen out of favor . . . like the Lunehts?

“Sylvie.” Her stepmom came to the door and leaned against it. The lamp Sylvie had brought onto the porch made her blond ponytail shine golden. She was the absolute opposite of Sylvie's mother, the velvet-haired beauty from Tokyo. She was nice enough, but she had no pathos. “I've made tea.”

“Did you put it in the green porcelain again?” Sylvie closed the lid of the Kali lunchbox filled with antique photos. “I don't need a tea ceremony every time I drink tea.”

“I thought you liked it in the porcelain.” Kim, eyes downcast, turned and moved away.

SYLVIE HAD TO GET OUT
of the apartment after that.

As her bike whirred past the Emory-covered wall surrounding the old church, she heard fiddle music and halted, peering into the churchyard. A young man sat on the steps, his hair long, darkly copper, his face that of an Egyptian pharaoh. He wore black jeans and nothing else. When he stopped playing the fiddle and looked at her, his eyes flashed silver. “Sylvie Whitethorn. May I speak with you?”

He knew her name—it didn't matter. She wore Christie's iron ring and an ivory netsuke charm. The hoops in her earlobes were made of pure silver. She slid from the bike and wheeled it toward him because she was curious, and Reiko Fata had not threatened her.

“How do you know my name?” she asked.

“She told me.” He raised his fiddle and played a few quick notes. “She needs an apprentice. A snakeling. She wants you.”

Aware that she must be extremely courteous in dealing with his kind, Sylvie said, “No, thank you.”

“You did very well with Dead Bird.”

She flinched.

He rose, looked down at her, and began to whisper, “Take those things from your body that hold me from you,
aillidh, aingidh faodalach
.”

She unclipped the silver earrings and let them fall. She slid Christie's ring from her finger. Gazing into the man's quicksilver eyes, she began to unknot the netsuke charm from around her throat as he reached into her coat and carefully drew out the steel dagger she'd bought at a Renaissance fair. With an amused smile, he tossed it away.

The ringtone from her phone woke her.

She stared in disbelief at her discarded armor, whirling to run—

Cold fingers knotted in her hair and tore the netsuke from around her neck as, tenderly, he said, “I am the ganconer. No girl or boy has ever refused me.”

As she tried to claw his fingers from her hair, he whispered into her ear and she slumped against him.

AS THE COPPER-HAIRED FIDDLER CALLED
Farouche closed the churchyard gate behind him and walked away, wheeling Sylvie's bike, he began to whistle.

WHEN FINN WOKE, SHE BANGED
her head against glass and winced—she'd fallen asleep on the window seat in her room, with Lily Rose's journal in her lap, opened to the story of a prince who had fallen in love with a creature made of lilies.
His name was Black Apple
, Dubh ubha,
and he was the only son of the queen of witches
. . . Black Apple, she recalled uneasily, was the name of one of Jack's vagabond friends.