CHAPTER 6
May their backs be towards us, their faces turned away from us, and may God save us from harm.
—OLD IRISH SAYING
Since Finn needed to meet with the HallowHeart professors to ask for their half of the skeleton key into the Ghostlands, she went to the one professor she grudgingly knew better than the others—Jane Emory.
Jane Emory’s cottage was located at the end of a woodsy, residential road, and it was exactly what Finn had expected—a charming oasis of wind chimes, stone sun faces, and clay cherubs. The garden was now veiled beneath snow. Attached to the kitchen was a small greenhouse.
As Finn stepped into the kitchen, Miss Emory opened the fridge and drew out plates of neat little sandwiches and a pasta salad. “Would you like tea or this green juice I blended? I forgot what I put in it . . . kale, garlic—”
“I’ll take the tea, thanks, Miss Emory.” Finn, draping her coat over a chair, noticed the alarming amount of rabbit figurines in the kitchen—not cuddly ones either. Some were primitive totems; others, disturbing hybrids of human and animal.
“Please call me Jane.” As Jane lifted the plastic wrap from the tea sandwiches, she said, “I wanted to talk to you about Halloween night.”
“Why weren’t you there?”
“Sophia Avaline wanted me to look after your father while she and the others went to watch over you and your friends. I think Sophia suspected something terrible was going to happen. I think she put safeties in place.”
Finn sat down and remembered Sophia Avaline’s white face the moment Reiko had announced Finn was to be the sacrifice. “What about Dean Cruithnear?”
Jane hesitated. “I honestly believe he didn’t suspect it would be you. It would have been helpful if he’d told us about the sacrifice in the first place . . . Perhaps he thought it was none of our business because Nathan Clare had agreed to it.”
“Professor Avaline said, that night, the sacrifice is something that must be done, to keep the peace. She didn’t seem surprised.”
“Of course she said that—Reiko needed to believe we were harmless, that we’d accept whatever she threw at us.” Jane looked at her. “They all had knives, you know, and Wyatt had a revolver filled with silver bullets. If any of the Fatas had even suspected that Wyatt and the others were armed . . .”
Finn’s eyes widened as she imagined what would have happened if the professors had gone to war with the Fatas.
Jane sighed. “When I saw you in your kitchen on Halloween night . . . I knew. I just knew something had gone wrong. And then I glimpsed Absalom Askew behind you. He winked at me.”
“Absalom.”
Jane turned to put the kettle on. “From what we’ve noticed, Absalom is an unstable element.”
“You think? And you mean an unstable elemental.” As Finn selected one of the sandwiches, Jane continued, “Before Halloween, Absalom told James Wyatt that Jack would be the death of you.”
Finn frowned at the sandwich. The sunlit kitchen suddenly seemed to darken as if a cloud had passed over the sun.
“Sophia Avaline believed it was a warning.” Jane sat down. “So they all brought iron or silver, sharp things hidden in their clothes, because who would suspect a bunch of college professors to be armed? Before all hell broke loose, Sophia, Hobson, Wyatt, Charlotte Perangelo, and yes, even Edmund Fairchild, were all prepared to battle through that ring of malevolence to free you, armed with nothing more than old-timey kitchen implements and fancy silverware and Wyatt’s Colt.” Jane rose to lift the whistling kettle from the stove. “But you and Jack pretty much allowed us to remain neutral. Halloween . . . well, that was a game changer.”
“Despite what Sophia Avaline said that night, about allowing me to be sacrificed to keep the peace, you don’t intend to ever let the Fatas take another life, do you?”
Jane set two mugs down on the table. “We’ve failed at that, haven’t we? Angyll Weaver was murdered. And Nathan . . . no one knows what happened to Nathan.”
Finn bit into her sandwich even as her stomach convulsed.
“Finn, the Fatas are like earth, fire, water, and air. They can either help or harm—and Reiko’s Fatas seemed intent on harm.”
“You allowed her to get away with so much.”
“We didn’t allow it.” Jane’s voice was filled with sorrow. “We couldn’t stop it.”
“How did you find out about the Fatas? I mean, you, personally?”
“Each of us encountered them in our teens—not Reiko’s Fatas, but others. And we kept our memories of them even after we got older. That’s not common. It was Rowan Cruithnear and Sophia Avaline who found each of us and organized us, and Rowan Cruithnear who gave us jobs in this very haunted town.”
“So there are probably others like you? In the country? The world?”
“It would be nice if we knew that. Rowan had to stop searching after a while. But you asked how I found out about the Fatas.” Jane chose a sandwich. “I was eighteen. In Virginia Beach, at dusk, I met a boy on the seashore. He was lovely and charming and he had hair as red as reef coral. No one else ever saw him. He was my secret.”
Finn wished she hadn’t guessed where this story was going.
Jane stirred cream into her tea. “I began to get sick. I was tired all the time.”
“You weren’t . . . ?”
“No, I wasn’t pregnant. But I learned, after my parents took me to a doctor, that I’d lost a lot of blood.”
“Oh.” Finn sat back.
“He was what they call, in Irish mythology, a ganconer, a love-talker. In Greece, he would be an incubus. He was bleeding me and taking away the memory of it. He was also a creature of the sea tribes, the water Fatas, who are in no way friendly to us.”
“How did you know it was him? The red-haired boy?”
“I did some research. I wrapped up an old iron spoon and went to meet him. But it’s as if he knew. He never showed up. I never saw him again. After that, though, I could tell . . . I noticed others.”
“So he was like a mermaid love-talker?”
“He didn’t have a tail.” Jane smiled wryly.
“My sister once did a drawing of a mermaid, with starfish and crabs in her hair. She looked like a shark. It was creepy—it wasn’t a nice mermaid. Then Lily started to read about mermaids, a lot. Whenever we went to the beach, she wouldn’t go in the water. I knew something was wrong. Like she was going crazy. But it wasn’t that . . . someone had told her about mermaids.”
“Before she met Leander Cyrus?”
“She had an imaginary friend she called Norn.”
“Did she?” Jane sounded troubled. Delicately, she continued, “Finn, do you think Jack knew about Lil—”
“No.”
“I understand how you feel about him. But he’s been badly hurt—manipulated, traumatized. I can’t even imagine what he’s seen—”
“And I’m only an eighteen-year-old girl who can’t possibly understand those things.”
“Don’t get defensive. Just be careful.”
Finn ruthlessly changed the subject. “I’ve seen Sophia Avaline’s sister. Eve.”
Jane became startled and wary.
“Her name was Eve, right? She’s dead. I mean, well, she’s a spirit, I think. And I think Professor Avaline knows. I think she blames Jack.”
“Finn.” Jane sat back in her chair. “Did he . . . ?”
“Jack didn’t kill Eve. It was Reiko.” Finn gazed down into her tea. “Jack thought he loved Eve.”
Jane was quiet, so Finn filled in the silence: “My sister might be alive, Jane.”
Jane lifted her head, her eyes widening, and Finn told her about Moth, Seth Lot, Lily’s charm bracelet, and Leander Cyrus. Jane looked dumbfounded, then horrified, as Finn told her that she needed the key to the Ghostlands. “Finn, you can’t.”
“If you don’t help me, I’ll find another way.”
“Your father—”
“Won’t know. And have you heard him when he talks about my sister? No. Because he still can’t. Phouka told me no time will pass here while we’re gone, as long as we return the way we came.”
“Damn her.”
Finn leaned forward and calmly said, “My sister, Lily Rose, is a monster’s prisoner. If you don’t help me—”
“You don’t know this is true, Finn.”
“Leander loved her and he’s a Jack. He bleeds. Jane, you have to—”
“Stop.” Jane’s voice was strained. “I know what I have to do.”
AS JACK ENTERED MURRAY’S ARCADE, he surveyed the throngs of teenagers until he saw Absalom disguised as one of them, standing with a plastic gun and shooting at monsters on a screen.
“Jack.” Murray, a Scotsman in his late fifties, approached Jack. The owner of the arcade wore a tracksuit as if he’d just returned from jogging. “A word with you please?”
“About what?”
“Don’t be confrontational. Just”—Murray nodded to the exit door—“come join me on the patio.”
THE “PATIO” WAS A CEMENT BLOCK with a railing, a view of the alley, and an expensive outdoor grill, all garishly illuminated by Christmas lights strung from the eaves. After brushing snow from one of the plastic chairs, Jack sat and regarded the grill with amusement. “Aren’t you afraid someone’s going to steal that?”
“Oh, the someones know better.” Murray settled into the other chair and glanced around. “I should have brought beer. Would you like me to fetch some Killian’s? You are of an age, aren’t you?”
Jack was suddenly on edge. “I am.”
“And how long have you been that particular age?”
Jack’s new heart rocketed. He was on his feet in an instant.
“Now, now.” Murray held up both hands. “I’m Scottish—you think I’d not notice the damn fairy folk in my own backyard?”
Jack sat back down. “Do all Scots have this sort of radar?”
“Only the ones with superstitious grandmothers. And you did obtain some antique pieces for me that seemed impossible to acquire. Also, you’re always gloomy and ghost-eyed, I never saw you until after sunset, and, as for your ‘family’—”
“Okay.” Jack settled back, calmer now. “You’ve got the sight.”
“Ah, yes, I’ve got me ‘the shining.’ I’m not the only one who noticed your tribe . . . Clive Redhawk had an idea the Fata family was otherworldly. I heard him muttering ‘goddamn skinwalkers’ one night when we were in BrambleBerry Books and you lot got out of a Mercedes. Skinwalkers, Jack. How unpleasant is that?”
“Redhawk—Christie’s neighbor?”
“God rest his soul.” Murray looked at his hands as if missing that bottle of Killian’s. “He was full-blood Iroquois. This whole town is haunted, isn’t it?”
“Somewhat. Murray, don’t tell anyone about them.”
“Do I seem eager to spend time in the cuckoo’s nest? Or, if they find out, twisted up like a pretzel? Now, tell me”—Murray leaned forward—“are they a danger to us?”
“Like fire. Like wind or earth or water, if it turns against you.”
“How absolutely terrifying. I’ve already got horseshoes hung all over my doors and iron nails in the window frames.”
“A wise precaution, if a bit dated. Electricity and goodwill usually keep the Unseelie at bay. Or silver. Elder wood. Not steel though. Only pure iron.”
“I’ve got friends here, Jack.”
“And family in Scotland? You should worry more about them. The Scottish court is a bit hostile toward mortals.”
“What a bloody comfort you are. And what about the little girl you’re running around with?”
“Finn?” Jack felt wary. “I won’t let anything happen to her.”
“And Clive Redhawk? Was that a natural death?”
“As far as I know.”
“Jack, if we’ve noticed, don’t think there aren’t others who haven’t also clued in on what’s going on. And don’t think that tribe doesn’t have mortal enemies who could be just as dangerous. Look at how hard-core the Puritans were about the supernatural—”
“Are you trying to tell me something in a roundabout sort of way? Because I get enough of that from my ‘family.’”
“I’m just saying . . . be careful. Now, have you come to talk to that redheaded devil playing Zombie House and pretending to be a boy?”
THE DEVIL PRETENDING TO BE A BOY didn’t look up from shooting zombies on the screen as Jack approached. Jack leaned against the game console and said, “You forgot to change out of that nice suit.”
Absalom shrugged and grinned. “I thought I’d start a decent fashion trend.”
Jack glanced around at the other teenagers in the arcade. He shouldn’t be here, pretending to be one of them. Casually, he said, “You recognized Moth.”
Absalom shot an on-screen ghoul, point-blank. “You and I have known each other too long, if you can read me like that.”
“Who is Moth?”
Absalom slammed his hand on a button to begin another game. “He was an actor in one of Shakespeare’s companies. I was a girl at the time.”
“Of course you were.” Jack folded his arms, still leaning against the console. “Go on.”
“He betrayed me. I cursed him—damn, I did not see that zombie coming. Did you see it?”
“How,” Jack spoke slowly, “did you curse him? In what way, exactly?”
“I’ve done it to so many people, I’ve kind of forgotten. I suppose that’s how Lot found Moth in his travels—sensed a bit of magic, undid it, and had a pretty soldier for his army. I imagine Moth was grateful enough, in the beginning.”
“What was Moth’s name before you wrecked his life?”
Absalom set the plastic gun down. “I don’t recall. The curse I set on Moth won’t fade. Lot probably fractured it, a little. But it’s still there. I can smell it, like gunpowder and molten metal.”
“I wonder how Moth ended up in a dead man’s attic?”
“Oh. Well, do you remember that key that helped Finn last month? Got her into all sorts of Fata things?”
“The one,” Jack said softly, dangerously, “shaped like a moth?”
“I didn’t turn Moth into a bloody key, but, because of my curse, whatever it was, Moth became transmutable, changeable. Someone else turned him into a handy-dandy gadget and left him for our fearless Finn.”
Jack didn’t flinch. “Who did it then?”
“Who seems to have an affinity for keys and insects?”
“The Black Scissors. But he’s not Fata. He can’t—”
“The ability to change mortals’ shapes is a sin. It’s what Reiko did because she was an awful person. It was her talent. The Black Scissors, being a twisted-up mortal, should not be able to mutate people.”
“But you think he did.”
“He was Reiko’s crush, for a time. She taught him all sorts of forbidden knowledge.”
Jack remembered something Moth had said: The sharp, dark man. “Of bloody course.”
A teenage boy and girl passing by looked in their direction and Jack smiled at them. The girl blushed. So did the boy. Jack turned back to Absalom. “You’re the one who changed Moth in the first place.”
“What can I say? I’m a sinner. And I was quite awful, once.”
“Maybe that gave Seth Lot and the Scissors a way to shape Moth, the poor bastard. Moth didn’t seem to recognize you.”
“His memories are in pieces. Curses—and life with us—do that.”
“He’s to be our guide in Lot’s house. I need to know I can trust him, Absalom.”
“Oh, you can’t trust him. I’m on your side, Jack. You helped me with my snake problem, and you and Finn, I’ve no doubt, will cause all sorts of delightful trouble for the Wolf. Wreaking havoc on Fata rulers seems to be Finn Sullivan’s calling. I’m half in love with her already.”
“You want Lot dead, but you won’t come with us. Like Phouka, you don’t want to get your hands dirty.”
“Fatas can’t kill each other, you know that. We use mortals or sluagh or Grindylow. That’s why Phouka won’t involve herself. As for me, when I go to the Ghostlands . . . I become a terror. I’m better here. Better for all of us.”
Jack mightily wished he could unhear that last part.
“You know”—Absalom’s innocent mask cracked, just a little—“you’ll have to slay the Wolf.”
Jack turned and walked away. “I’d no intention of letting him live.”
AS JACK CLIMBED OVER THE WINDOWSILL and into his apartment, he was so distracted by what he’d learned that he didn’t sense he had a visitor until the coldness of the otherworld struck him like a glacier. He went still, aware of Ambrose Cassandro’s misericorde in his left boot, of the Indonesian kris dagger sheathed in one sleeve.
A lamp blinked on.
Sprawled in one of his chairs was a young man who resembled an angel statue, his silver gaze all malice, his scars testimony to a violent life. His fur-lined coat was a gray pelt that brushed the floor.
“Jack.” Caliban Ariel’Pan tilted his head. “How you’ve changed. What’s it like, being a lump of blood and tears?”
“Let’s skip the courtship.” Jack sat on the windowsill, which brought one hand closer to the misericorde in his boot. “You here to threaten or kill?”
“I’m not here to kill you, Jack. He wants you and the schoolgirl in the Ghostlands. You’re curiosities to him. Aren’t you lucky—don’t.” Caliban leaned forward, his gaze fastened on Jack’s left hand, which was sliding toward the boot and the weapon. “Right now, boy, I’m better and faster than you.”
Jack straightened. In a casual tone, he asked, “What did you do to Nathan?”
“We did to him what we do to all traitors.” Caliban stood. “Are you going to let me out of that window, now that I’ve threatened you?”
“Is that all then? Empty threats? Like visiting Finn’s house the other night and getting kicked in the teeth by an aisling boy?”
Caliban sauntered toward him. “You might want to be careful of that pretty boy with the moth wings—he’s insane. And he’s more than an aisling.”
Jack rose and stepped aside. As the crom cu swept past, Jack said, “It doesn’t matter what I am. I’ll find a way to end you.”
Caliban smiled and the beast crept through his voice. “I expected you to say that.”
His fist slammed so brutally into Jack’s chest, Jack almost went out the window. He caught himself against the frame, coughed as agony shot through him. He dodged the second blow and kicked out. Caliban glided back, laughed, and lunged. Jack twisted away. He was smashed against the wall, not the window, but his head struck plaster and he nearly fell to the floor as dizziness overwhelmed him. He retched, struggled as Caliban’s hands folded almost gently around his throat.
Caliban released him and rose. “It’s no fun hurting you when you’re breakable—well, it is, but not as much fun as it’ll be taking you apart when you come to the Ghostlands. See you, Jack, you and your girl.”
Caliban vanished over the sill. Jack sagged down against the wall.
The apartment was freezing—one of the mirrors in the parlor had cracked. As Jack staggered up, he glimpsed a small, dark form on his bed. His heart constricting, he strode over to find BlackJack Slade, curled and stiff, his eyes glazed with frost; the loyal cat had frozen to death from the supernatural cold Caliban had brought with him.
Jack gently wrapped the cat’s body in a quilt and bent his head until his brow touched the fabric.
IT WAS EIGHT IN THE EVENING when Christie and Sylvie picked Finn up at her house, to take her to Hester Kierney’s skating party. She hadn’t wanted to go, but they had guilted her into it.
As Christie drove, he said, “How exactly are you going to get your sister away from a werewolf?”
“I don’t know. And Seth Lot isn’t a werewolf.”
“Does Jack know how to find your sister?”
Finn frowned at Christie. “We’ve been given some things to help us locate the Wolf’s house.”
Christie met Finn’s gaze in the rearview mirror. Finn had dressed for Hester’s party in a red Renaissance-style hoodie, jeans, and a white wool hat and scarf that had been Lily’s.
“You look like mistletoe: white, red, and poisonous.”
“Mistletoe isn’t a threat to anything supernatural, is it? Turn here, Christie.” Sylvie pointed.
“Only a Nordic god named Baldur,” Finn said as the Mustang curved up the drive toward an art deco house, its run-down state and age becoming apparent the closer they got—the windows, decorated with languid, stained-glass women, were grimy. The circular front stair had cracked in half. A tree was growing through one wall, but the grounds were lit up like the holidays, with colored lights spattering the snow and music pulsing. There were cars parked everywhere on the front lawn.
“Is that another one of their houses?” Finn leaned forward, intrigued. She wished she had her Leica camera.
“It was called MoonGlass by the former owners, the Kierneys, Hester’s great-grandparents.” Sylvie hauled her skates from the car floor.
“They just gave it up? A house like that?” The Fatas’ temporal power always amazed Finn.
“They probably don’t even remember why. I bet the Fatas haunted the hell out of it until nobody wanted it anymore. Like paranormal termites.”
“Remember what you told me? What your mom said, Christie?” Finn studied the forlorn mansion. “The spirits used to have places in the world, caves and wells and forest groves . . .”
“Now they’ve got real estate.” Christie parked between a Prius and a Lexus on the snowy lawn. Grimly, he said, “Let’s go have fun.”
They followed a plowed, lantern-lined path to the back, where a maze of tall hedges held a galaxy of tiny lights. Christie, his skates slung over one shoulder, said, “The party’s on the other side.”
Music and laughter threaded from beyond the hedges, so they wove through the maze, which ended at an iced-over pond glimmering with the blades of skaters and the reflections of a bonfire around which HallowHeart’s elite lounged—Aubrey Drake was sprawled in a deck chair and talking to the exquisitely dressed Ijio Valentine. In a sky-blue pavilion, guests clustered around tables of treats. A generator provided power to heaters and two giant speakers. Christie indicated the DJ, a tall boy in a Dr. Seuss hat. “Is that Ricky O’Dell? You’d think, with her connections, Hester could’ve gotten a professional DJ.”
The last time Finn had gone skating had been with her mom and Lily, on the pond near their house in Vermont. Lily had accidentally spun Finn into a tree. Finn smiled and hope roared through her. Lily was alive.
“Skate first. Food later.” Sylvie sat on a bench to wrestle with her devil-red skates. She looked fashionably punk in plaid trousers and a black turtleneck. She’d streaked her hair with red. Christie, dropping down beside her, said, “Is that Victoria Tudor over there?”
Sylvie glanced at Finn. “I’ve counted four of Christie’s exes so far. Vic Tudor is one of them. Sit, Finn, put on your skates.”
“You go ahead. I’ll come after.”
Hester Kierney, pretty and sleek in ice blue, crossed to them from the bonfire. “I’m glad you came, Finn. Sylvie. Christie.”
Christie smiled at her. “For you, Hester, I’ll try to be fun again. Maybe you and I—”
“It’ll never happen,” Hester said, before slipping an arm through Finn’s. “Let me introduce you to the rest of us.”
Christie and Sylvie were already trudging toward the pond. Traitors, Finn thought, before the heat of the bonfire blasted her and she reeled back—
“Finn?” Hester’s eyes went wide with horror and regret. “I’m sorry.”
“Nice, Hester.” A curvy blonde in pink rolled her eyes and gently guided Finn to a deck chair. “Did you forget about her nearly getting barbecued on Halloween night?”
“We, uh, promised not to talk about that.” A boy with brown hair swept over one eye looked over his shoulder. “Vic, get her a cocoa. You like marshmallows, Finn?”
Finn felt prickly, surrounded by the blessed, the ones even Reiko Fata hadn’t dared touch. She straightened in her chair and tried to ignore the bonfire and the unpleasant memories that surfaced. “I like marshmallows.”
A willowy girl who resembled the brown-haired boy handed Finn a paper cup of marshmallow-frothed chocolate. “I’m Victoria. That’s Nick, my brother.”
“She’s met everyone else.” Ijio Valentine’s eyes glittered in the firelight.
“Not me.” The curvy blonde sat next to Finn. “I’m Claudette Tredescant. And we want you to know, we are beyond sorry about that night.”
Her stomach suddenly sour, Finn set down the untouched cocoa. “Aubrey already apologized. No hard feelings.”
Then Aubrey asked, “Where’s Jack?”
“On his way.” Finn began to take off her boots. If she could get her skates on, she could escape to the pond.
Aubrey rose and grabbed his skates. “We’re sort of afraid of him.”
Finn experienced a moment of hilarious disbelief. “Afraid of Jack?”
“Yes.” Hester smiled, but her eyes were dark.
Finn straightened. “You think Jack’s going to start killing you off for revenge or something?”
“The good-looking ones always die first.” Ijio poured something from a flask into his cocoa.
“You had Reiko Fata lording it over you. She was a sociopath. And Caliban was her pet.” Finn’s phone hummed in her pocket. She took it out—and it instantly went dead.
Ijio shrugged. “Oh, we were terrified of Reiko. At least we knew what to expect from her. We never saw Caliban.” The lights flickered for a moment, the music stopped, before everything buzzed back to life. “There are Fatas here, Finn, so electricity and batteries are kind of iffy.”
Finn scowled at her phone and stood, balancing on her skates. “Jack is not going to kill you.” She wondered if they knew about Seth Lot and decided she’d better let Phouka handle that. “‘Hey, Jude’ is playing. I’m going to skate to the Beatles.”
Aubrey gallantly extended one hand, snow glittering in his clubbed-back hair. “Come on. I’ll get you onto the ice.”
She gripped his hand. They trudged across the snow-crusted ground and he walked in his skates like a pro. As she stepped onto the ice, she glanced back and saw a slender figure speaking with Hester Kierney. Her heart jumped when she recognized Phouka Fata—now Phouka Banríon—all wintery, flower-child elegance, her auburn hair coiled up with sparkling flowers.
Aubrey gripped Finn’s hands and gently spun her. She laughed when she found her balance so easily. “I haven’t done this in years.”
“It’s just like riding a bike. You know, I’ve never ridden a bike.”
Christie was weaving in and out among the skaters. Sylvie was spinning with a pretty boy—Black Apple, one of Jack’s Fata friends. A willowy figure wearing a rabbit mask swerved past them. A bald girl in black fur spun, ribbons fluttering on her sleeves. Finn recognized her as Darling Ivy.
“Oh, hell,” Aubrey murmured. “They’re here. Jack’s friends.”
“Well, you can’t not invite the fairies to the ball.” Finn was actually a bit relieved to see Jack’s crew.
“You’re a very brave girl for using that word.” Aubrey glided backward. A blonde in a clinging dress of green silk—Aurora Sae—caught his hand and drew him away.
Finn felt someone grab her wrist, and spun, expecting Jack.
It was Moth, in jeans and a black hoodie, his pewter-colored hair tousled beneath the jacket’s hood, his face shadowed. His gaze in the firelight reminded her of phosphorous. With the shadows sharp in his face, he looked completely otherworldly.
“Finn Sullivan,” he said in his low, British voice, his fingers twining firmly with hers as they glided in a circle, “you should not have come. Keep skating.”
“Why?” she whispered. The air began to buzz as if a thousand invisible flies had just descended. Something pricked at her brain, and she felt the first drop of blood slip from one nostril.
“Because the Wolf is no longer at the door—he’s come through it.” He gently turned her so that she could see the blessed had stepped back from the bonfire and Phouka stood before it, facing away from the pond, her posture that of a warrior about to defend her castle. Some of the Fata skaters were halting near Finn, forming a protective semicircle. The other guests, the normals who hadn’t noticed anything, continued to frolic.
The world spun around Finn.
Christie and Sylvie slid to her side. Christie whispered, “What the hell is going on?”
“Don’t you see?” Sylvie’s voice was faint, her gaze fixed on the activity near the bonfire. “He’s here.”
Here is your enemy, Finn thought. Here is the one who took Lily away.
Tall shadows moved from the hedge maze, bleeding across the snow, unseen as yet by the gathering of HallowHeart’s oblivious, frivolous students. The shadows became strangers in fur coats and clothes with a punk, belle epoque flair. Old jewelry flashed on their fingers and throats. Their faces were young, beautiful, their brutal aristocracy meant to inspire terror.
One figure separated from the pack and approached Phouka. His hair was mahogany brown, his face that of a Brontë antihero with a thin scar across one cheekbone. He wore an expensive suit beneath a fur-lined greatcoat and he carried a walking stick like a weapon.
Phouka walked toward him and greeted him.
“No,” Finn breathed, her stomach knotting up at the betrayal.
“Finn.” It was Aubrey behind her. “You’ve got to trust her.”
Finn thought, Where is Jack? And was glad a moment later that he wasn’t here, because the Wolf was strolling past Phouka, approaching the pond, followed by his pack, and the Wolf knew Jack.
Watching Seth Lot walk toward her, Finn felt a dazzling terror that was almost ecstasy.
Seth Lot halted on the snowy shore with only a few inches of ice separating him from Finn and her protectors. He appeared exactly as he had in Finn’s memory: a young man with an exotic, black-rimmed gaze the blue of tundra skies. Those eyes reflected the firelight as he tilted his head and studied Finn, who met his gaze only because she had no choice. Confused by his attractiveness and his gentle manner—she hadn’t expected a soulful evil—she remained very still.
“Serafina Sullivan.” His eyes didn’t silver and he didn’t smile, but his voice was amiable, a young man’s voice. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
He extended one hand, its fingers scabbed with rings that looked as if they could have belonged to pharaohs or Russian kings. “Please, don’t be afraid.”
This was the wolf-eyed man who had seduced Lily, who had kissed Lily’s wrist and left a mark. Finn glided forward on her skates, defiant, even as Christie tried to catch her and Sylvie whispered her name. She approached the Wolf to show him she wasn’t going to let fear rule her, and said, “Seth Lot,” holding out the hand adorned with her sister’s bracelet.
His cool, strong fingers grasped hers. Although his nails were short and manicured, she could imagine claws as he said, “You’ve heard things about me that may have been exaggerations.” He looked past her, at Moth, and softly said, “Hello, traitor.”
Finn realized Lot had stepped onto the ice. His hands firm around hers, he turned her in a circle as his gangsters prowled forward. Gently, he said, “I’ve heard things about you, Serafina Sullivan, how you caused the death of Reiko.”
“I didn’t”—her voice shook a little—“kill Reiko.”
“I think you did.” He smiled.
My, what big teeth you have. He didn’t, but a threat was implicit in that smile. Finn’s eyelashes fluttered as a poisonous drowsiness crept over her. The Wolf leaned down and, scented with winter and expensive cologne, whispered in her ear, “You know that your sister lives.” He stepped back, releasing her so suddenly, she staggered. He said, “Come for her. I’ll give you seven days in my world. If you don’t find my house by the seventh day, I come find you. Your sister dies. Your Jack dies.”
Finn felt as if something else were speaking through her, past her terror. “And what happens when I do find your house?”
“Then I give you a fair, fighting chance to win Lily back.”
Jack’s vagabonds, in their tatterdemalion finery, now surrounded the wolves on the ice. The Fata called Atheno, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Iggy Pop, grinned and stretched out his arms. “Why does the Madadh aillaid come to a gathering of mortal children, to threaten a braveheart who only defended herself from one who did her wrong?”
The scarlet-haired fiddler, Farouche, stepped to Atheno’s side, his face remote with caution. “Careful, Atheno. It isn’t like the old days.”
“No, it isn’t.” Seth Lot continued, almost lovingly. “In the old days, we would have torn all of you apart and bitten the bones.”
The blessed, and the other students—aware now of the standoff—stood like deer in headlights, fascinated and confused. As Seth Lot and his pack faced Atheno and the vagabonds, Phouka, fierce in her punk fairy-tale glamour, moved toward the Wolf. More Fatas were arriving from the hedge maze, striding across the snow—Phouka had called in reinforcements. Finn hoped things weren’t about to get ugly as Lot’s words jumbled around in her brain.
“This is my court, Madadh aillaid.” Phouka spoke in a voice that could have cut steel. “And you are not welcome here.”
Seth Lot’s gaze scathed the small army behind Phouka. He said something low and vicious. Finn stepped back and felt Christie grip her elbow as Sylvie flung an arm around her. Then Seth Lot continued, “By the Law of Tooth and Claw, I am entitled to the lives of the queen killers.”
Phouka replied, “We don’t follow La Bestia’s rules here. This isn’t the French court or the wolf tribe. You’ve no right in this land to claim anything.”
Seth Lot’s attention returned to Finn, and his blue eyes seemed to glow. Fear almost shattered Finn’s composure.
Then a voice carried through the vagabonds, “I’m here, Wolf.”
“Jack,” Finn whispered, turning her head.
Jack, in a navy greatcoat, moved carefully through the Fatas to place himself between Seth Lot and Finn.
“Jack.” Seth Lot smiled. The two of them seemed like young men, not antique spirits. “My favorite and best sluagh. Regardless of what your false monarch says”—he nodded to Phouka—“I expect you and your muirneach to come find me. If you do not, I’ll rip through every one of these pretty children”—he gracefully indicated the blessed and the students, who were, fortunately, too far away to hear his threat—except for Aubrey, who swore breathlessly—“until you do. Do you understand me, Jack Fata?”
The tension in the air crackled like gunpowder. Finn whispered, “His name is Jack Hawthorn.”
Seth Lot’s gaze fell upon her and she continued faintly, “He is mine and I am his. Until the end of the world.”
“Is that so, Serafina Sullivan?” Seth Lot spoke intimately, as if it were only the two of them. “Then I look forward to ending your world.”
He turned and, followed by his pack, strode past Phouka and the other Fatas, toward the hedge maze.
When the wolves had gone, Finn felt all the strength leave her. Jack’s body shored hers up and one of his arms braced her. He said hoarsely, “What were you thinking? Challenging him like that?”
She wrapped her arms around him, breathing in his scent, pressing her face against his chest and the drum of his heart. “He knows we’re coming after Lily. It’s what he wants.”
FINN AND JACK ENTERED HER ROOM through the terrace doors. Christie and Sylvie had driven home with a Fata escort from Phouka. Moth had remained with the Fatas.
As Finn switched on the lights, the malicious resonance of Seth Lot’s voice echoed in her head. She said to Jack, “Are you going to tell me why you’re all bruised and banged up?”
“Caliban came to visit.” Jack lowered himself onto the pink sofa, wincing a little. “He killed my cat.”
“BlackJack Slade?” She sat beside him. “Jack, I’m so sorry . . .”
Then she asked, “Do you wish—”
His mouth curved at one corner and he rested his arms on the back of the sofa, legs apart. “If you’re asking if I wish I’d never been made human, shame on you.”
She settled beside him, into the curve of his arm. “Ouch.” She slipped a hand into an inside pocket of his coat and drew out the dagger that had poked her shoulder blade. “How many of these do you have?”
“As many as I need.” He smiled rakishly as she drew her legs beneath her and frowned at him. She was much more afraid for him than she was for herself. The way Lot had said Jack’s name—it had been like an old lover who wanted to tear the other’s throat out.
“I am sorry about BlackJack.” She slid a hand into one of his and his lashes lowered briefly. A muscle twitched in his jaw. He said, “I think our main concern should be the Wolf.”
“He’s not lying about Lily.”
“Finn—”
“Why would he lie? He could just tell us to go to the Ghostlands or he’ll kill our friends and family . . . my friends and . . . I mean . . .”
“I know what you mean.” He met her gaze, his own warm. “And you’re right—he doesn’t need to lie.”
A shiver convulsed her as her mind conjured an eternal sentience, a freak of nature that had willed itself into a solid form—the Wolf.
“We can take him,” she whispered fiercely. “You can take him.”
“No need to stroke my ego. And you sound like a gangster’s moll.”
She slid onto his lap and folded her arms around him. She pressed her brow against his. “Jack. We’ll be okay.”
He shifted a little, winced again. “It hurts, doesn’t it? Being mortal. I forgot how much it hurts.”
TONIGHT, JACK WALKED IN A GARDEN with a girl in a red dress. As she turned, her skin split and fell away and a charred creature of fire and ashes said, “Jack . . . don’t you love me?”
He woke with Reiko’s name clotted in his throat and an unearthly cold in his bones. His heart was like a stone. He was dead again. He breathed out an anguished, “No . . .”
Beside him, Finn stirred in her sleep, tightened her hand around his, her white sweater rucked up around her midriff. Clad only in his jeans, he shivered in the cold room. He could feel things now—chill and warmth, the drum of his heartbeat, the heaviness of the blood through his body. Tonight, he felt a breathless terror of the inevitable, of his heart stopping, of the blood pouring from him, of mortality.
His heart beat once, twice, and continued its steady pulse. The blood moved sluggishly through his veins.
It’s only temporary, he thought, closing his eyes, this.
He tenderly touched Finn’s warm, tangled hair with trembling fingers. To protect her, he might have to give up all that he was and once again become the otherworldly monster he had been.