Briar Queen (25 page)

Sylvie was drawn toward an alcove of antique weapons, the display piece on the glass counter a small crossbow in the shape of a crow with a woman's head. Seven glinting darts crafted into feathery metal shapes were set beside the crossbow. The dealer, dark haired and sleek in black jeans, smiled at Sylvie, his eyes glinting. His arms and half his bare chest were shadowed with raven tattoos. “Would you like that, little one?”

“No. She wouldn't.” Moth gently drew Sylvie back.

“She would.” The dealer tilted his head, the beads and feathers moving in his hair. “Wouldn't you? Here. Take it. From one, to another.” He slid the crossbow and its bolts into a leather case and held it out to Sylvie.

“We don't accept gifts.” Moth set one hand on the case.

“She is a
croi baintreach
.” The dealer smiled, and his eyes flickered like a bird's. “She'll find her way to violence eventually. They all do.”

“I believe the lady said no.” Sionnach leaned forward and smiled, his Christie-ness accompanied by a flare of rakish sex appeal. “But I'll take it. Thanks.”

As they walked away, Sylvie whispered, “What's crow . . . what he said?”

“
Croi baintreach
. Heart widow.” Sionnach grinned. “A warrior.”

“But I'm not.”

“If you say so.”

AS THEY WOVE THROUGH GOBLIN MARKET,
Moth leaned close to Finn. “Do you remember when we were on that train? When we first arrived?”

“You were a
moth
.”

“I still recall, even in that form—isn't that the white-haired Fata Jack threatened?”

Moving through the flickering shadows and light of Goblin Market was a young man in a pale coat, white hair spilling from beneath a bowler hat of ivory velvet.

“Yes.” She tensed. “That's him.”

Sionnach was purchasing what looked like empanadas from a dark-skinnned Fata with a pink butterfly design painted around her eyes. The fox knights had already bought small cakes, fried chicken, and containers of soup—human food was apparently an addiction here, like crack or meth in the true world.

Finn walked to the dealer with whom the white-haired Fata from the train had been speaking—a purveyor of jewel-colored toadstools in baskets and bottles—and asked, “Who was that white-haired man?”

The slinky dealer replied, “Narcissus Mockingbird. Don't be curious about
him,
pretty thing.”

Finn turned away, recognizing that name—
Mockingbird
. Dread clutched her.

Moth moved to her side. “Where is Sylvie?”

Finn frantically scanned the crowds of sleek and bizarre Fatas in their punk-retro clothing. Sionnach and his two fox knights had also disappeared. “Where did they
go
?”

Four figures in fur coats broke from the crowds and Moth whispered, “Wolves.”

“Finn!” Sylvie was pushing toward them, her face pale.

Finn grabbed her hand and, following Moth, they raced toward a set of glass doors leading to a hall displaying Egyptian statues and sarcophagi. They fled through it, up a flight of stairs. As they turned into a narrow gallery with shuttered windows on one side and gargoyle statues holding glowing lanterns, something howled in the shadows at the other end.

Two more figures in fur coats appeared, cutting off their only escape route.

Moth shoved one of the windows open. “Climb.” He slid over the sill, onto the sloping roof, and Finn and Sylvie clambered after. Far below was a valley of urban decay sprinkled with lights. From somewhere in the distance came the sound of a violin. Moving across the rooftop as if he were a cat, Moth advised, “Don't look down.”

Finn saw broken roofs and the steep canyons between them. The museum seemed to be on a mountain of buildings like one of those tiered cities in Europe.

“Oh
hell
no.” Sylvie balked. Her eyes were ringed with shadow.

The glass window crashed open behind her, and a young man in a coat of black fur began to climb out. Sylvie whirled and slammed the shutters on the
Fata several times, before kicking the dazed wolf back and pushing the shutters closed. She turned.

Finn and Moth were staring at her. Moth murmured, “Maybe we should have let her have that crossbow.”

“Hurry!” Sylvie slid toward them.

Moth led them across the roof. The music from the ruined city below grew louder, a violin solo, eerily isolated.

When Finn recognized the song, she stumbled and steadied herself against a gargoyle.

It was “November Rain,” the first song she'd heard after her sister's funeral. Reiko had once taunted her with it. As wind whipped Finn's hair into her face, the night seemed to lighten as clouds tumbled across the stars. Rain began to fall. Moth and Sylvie shouted her name.

“Finn, what are you doing?” Moth strode back to her. “We need to get off this roof.”

He led her back to Sylvie, who looked fierce, her dark hair sleeked to her head.

“Finn,” she said in a too-calm voice. “How come I don't feel the cold and I can see in the dark? And I'm
strong—
”

“It's the elixir, Sylvie.”

“Careful, here.” Moth spoke as if they were soldiers. He stepped over a chasm between two peaked roofs. Sylvie leaped first, neat as a leopard. Finn drew a breath, jumped—

—her boot heel slid on the stone.

Moth's grip almost broke bones as he caught her hand and dragged her up. She slammed against him, felt the thrumming of his heart, and noticed the bits of gold in his leaf-green eyes as his face came close to hers.

“Thanks.” She quickly drew her hands from his. He nodded and studied her for a moment before turning away.

“Hey,” Sylvie said, her breath coming in hiccups. “I think I found the way down.”

They clambered after her, onto a ledge over the museum entrance. Moth jumped first and reached up to help each of them down onto the pavement. Their hoods up, they hurried into the hall where they'd left Sionnach Ri's motorcycles.

A few moments later, a grim Sionnach strode toward them, tucking something that looked like a Valentine's Day heart made from black obsidian into his hoodie. “Where have you
been
? Lot's wolves are here.”

“We know,” Finn said with a bit of an attitude. “We've been on the roof to get away from them.”

“Your friends left us,” Moth told Sionnach. “Do you know anyone named Narcissus?”

Sionnach shot him a wary look. “Should I?”

When Luce and Merriweather strode into the hall, Sionnach yelled at them in Irish. They yelled back. Merriweather stomped her foot.

A pack of Fatas in jewelry and fur coats broke from the Goblin Market crowds and loped toward them.

“Time to leave.” Sionnach spun around and swung onto his motorcycle.

“I'll ride with you this time.” Sylvie climbed up behind him and put on her helmet.

Wondering if Sylvie was losing her mind, Finn straddled the bike behind Merriweather.

Sylvie reached out and clasped her hand once, before Sionnach and his knights circled their bikes and shot out the doors.

THEY STOPPED IN A GRASSY GLADE
scattered with night-blooming flowers, to eat the human food the fox knights had bought. Finn watched Sylvie and Moth talk with the haughty Merriweather and sly Luce. She felt more alert after the earthly feast and three cans of root beer. Her mind was working now . . .

“Sionnach . . . can I talk to you for a sec?” Finn stood up and walked toward a knot of elder trees. Sionnach ambled after her and leaned against one of the trees, watching her as she gazed into the darkness of the forest and gathered her courage. She said, “You're not taking us to Jack, are you?”

He cocked his head to one side when she looked at him. His eyes didn't glint. He didn't smile. He replied, “No.”

“And you haven't seen Jack . . .” She felt grief crest. “Or Christie.”

“No. Look, that part was true, me knowing if my original was dead—I'd
know
. And Jack was last seen, with Christopher Hart, heading for the Dragonfly witch.”

“Where?” She turned on him. “Where are you taking us?”

“The Mockingbirds.”

She nodded, because she'd suspected that. Her heart crashed into her boots. “You were going to give us to the Mockingbirds at Goblin Market, until the wolves interfered.”

“They don't want to hurt you, the Mockingbirds. They are Seth Lot's enemies. They want to help you
kill
him. You know that saying—the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

“So they murdered the Blue Lady and hired you to trick me?” Finn glanced back at the others, who were still speaking. When Moth looked up and narrowed his eyes, Finn forced a smile, as if she and Sionnach were talking about—not this. “Okay. Take me. Let Sylvie and Moth go.”

“Go where? They are safer with you, Finn Sullivan.”

“Please—”

“No.” He refused gently. “And if you tell them where we are going, I will make certain Moth is a moth and Sylvie is unconscious.”

“And when we get there? I've
betrayed
them.”

“The Mockingbirds need Jack. They are searching for Jack. They're superstitious and believe the two who ended Reiko will end Lot—that would be you and Jack.”

Her hands curled into fists at her sides as she whispered, “What's wrong with the Mockingbirds? Because I know they're not right. Moth called them
ghouls
.”

“More like blood drinkers.” Sionnach continued to speak with that gentle ruthlessness. “Reiko Fata and Amaranthus Mockingbird were once like sisters. As impossible as that might seem, some of the older ones were once young. But Amaranthus blames the Wolf, not you, for Reiko's downfall.”

Finn turned her back on him and trudged toward her friends.

Moth frowned as she settled beside him. He handed her a cupcake and leaned close to ask, “What's wrong?”

Finn met Sylvie's concerned gaze and said with a calm that felt more like shock, “Plans have changed. We need to go to the Mockingbirds.”

Moth reached for one of his daggers, but Finn stopped him. “No. The Mockingbirds might help us kill Lot.”

“Is that what
he
said?” Moth indicated Sionnach.

Sionnach sauntered toward them. “Do you know why mortals aren't welcome here, Alexander? Because, when you're here, you
influence
things. You make us
feel
things. You make us
bleed
. It was a fair bargain offered for the queen killer
and her companions. Especially since you were one of those companions.”

Moth slid to his feet and Luce and Merriweather rose, spiky with weapons. Finn and Sylvie jumped up.

“Moth,” Finn said. “The Mockingbirds want to kill Lot . . . and it fits with what goes on here—queens and kings always at each other. And they might find Jack. This is our best chance.”

“I told you they are ghouls. They're crazy.” Moth didn't take his attention from Sionnach.

“At least they're not backstabbing
traitors,
” Sylvie snarled, as she glared at Sionnach.

“Moth. Sylvie.” Finn spoke hopelessly. “We don't have a choice.”

FINN, HOLDING ON TO MERRIWEATHER
as the motorcycle sped down another road, felt as if her blood were freezing. She'd begun to worry about her lack of exhaustion and fear. It wasn't normal to feel zippy all the time, and she'd run out of espresso. She should be falling over by now, or in hysterics—she wasn't; she was calm and focused.

The bikes suddenly curved off the road and onto a forested ridge overlooking a deep ravine tangled with kudzu and obscured in mist. On the other side was a baroque building of pale stone surrounded by yews, their branches scarring the bleached walls as dusk glinted bloodily from the windows. It was a resort from turn-of-the-century Prague, with towers and balconies and fancy statues.

As everyone swung off the bikes, Sionnach stabbed Moth in the arm with a silver pin.

Moth's entire shape blazed into light . . . clothes, backpack, weapons, all shrinking into a shining orb that cascaded into a large luna moth with silver skull markings. As the red-haired Merriweather caught the moth in a wicker cage, Sylvie whirled on Sionnach. “You
snake
!”

“Fox, actually. The snake was the one you burned.” Sionnach turned a harrowed gaze on Finn, who watched the bank of mist creeping toward them from the beautiful hotel. Gently, Sionnach told her, “You can change Moth back. He would have gotten himself killed when they came.”

She whispered, “You're not like Christie at all. You're a hollow thing wearing his face.”

For an instant, something almost like despair flickered in Sionnach's eyes.
Then he took the moth cage and set it at Finn's feet. When he spoke again, the careless mockery had returned. “Say hello to the Mockingbirds for me, Finn Sullivan.”

Finn turned from Sionnach as the fox knight strode back to his bike and his hard-eyed companions. As she and Sylvie backed away from the fog crawling up out of the ravine to touch the toes of their boots, Finn said to Sionnach, “Was this all about Moth?”

Sionnach halted without looking back at her. He'd flung up the hood of his jacket. “I grew a heart, for Moth. The Wolf cut it out of me, for kicks. And Moth walked away.”

Sionnach got on his bike, and he and his companions spun their motorcycles onto the road, leaving Finn and Sylvie to face whatever came in the mist. Finn whispered, “Sylv, why did you come after me?”

“To give you that sword, to tell you how to kill Lot.” Sylvie had picked up the moth cage. With wistful regret, she added, “And I really wanted to see fairyland.”

The mist enshrouded them.

“Finn.” Sylvie went very still. “Something is com—”

Then darkness took them.

Just as Little Red Riding Hood entered the wood, a wolf met her. Little Red Riding Hood did not know what a wicked creature he was, and was not at all afraid of him
.

                
—“L
ITTLE
R
ED
R
IDING
H
OOD
,” T
HE
B
ROTHERS
G
RIMM

Y
ou want to play with magic, boy?
These were the last words mortal Jack heard before Reiko cut out his heart, with Seth Lot crouched beside them, smiling amiably.

Jack had awakened on cold stone stained by his own blood and found Reiko gazing lovingly down at him. He'd screamed as the alchemy of roses Lot had stitched within him stung like hundreds of bees, the thorns stabbing into his bones, venom shimmering through his veins.

Then Finn was kneeling beside him, her soulful eyes wide, her lips moving but no sound emerging. He shook his head, found that he, also, could not speak. As Finn stood and Seth Lot appeared behind her, gathering Finn's hair away from her neck as if he was a lover, Jack tried to warn her, reached for her—

Lot plunged a hand through her and pulled out her heart.

Jack convulsed, watching Finn fall bloodily at Seth Lot's feet.

JACK LAY ON THE FLOOR
of the witch's cottage. Night air whispered across his skin. He could hear the wind chimes in Sylph Dragonfly's garden, a flock of starlings sweeping over the roof. He could smell earth and the incense that had soaked into the cottage's wood. He couldn't feel his heartbeat. His brain was splintered by dark, hungry thoughts.

Whatever black magic Sylph had worked upon him had cast a convincing illusion of turning him back into a thing that walked the world solely to cause harm. Worst of all, he could almost feel the phantoms of Reiko Fata's roses snaking through him, thorns scratching at his bones, petals pushing against his internal organs. He could see in the dark once more.

He dragged himself into a crouch and leaned against the wall. His body thrummed with energy.
Finn
.

He hunched over and something slipped out of his mouth, drifting to the floor—a rose petal that looked like blood. The illusion had triggered something else; his mortality was fading fast now, being drained away by the world to which he belonged.

The door opened. Christie, in a fur-lined jacket and tasseled wool hat, peered in. “Jack? Normally, I wouldn't bother you, but Finn and Sylvie are headed toward a bad place. We've got to stop them.”

Jack's voice scraped out, “Sylph Dragonfly told you this?”

“Sort of. Are you okay? Because you look like you're not.”

“They're together? Sylvie and Finn?” Jack slid to his feet as hope, that fickle fairy thing, hushed through him.

“Together or about to be—Miss Dragonfly says they're both headed toward the same place. You're . . . not really a Jack again, are you?”

“Enough of one.” Jack felt the old smile slice across his face.

“THEY'RE HEADED TOWARD A PLACE
called Mockingbird Hotel,” Christie continued as he and Jack gathered up the satchels Sylph had packed, while she tweaked out the lamps. “There was a Mockingbird Hotel in Virginia. It closed in the '30s because some people were shot to death there.”

“And how do you know this bit of macabre trivia?” Jack sheathed his misericorde in his left boot and slid the
kris
Christie had returned to him up one sleeve. Christie had the wooden dagger from Phouka.

“It's just something I read once. What are the Mockingbirds, Jack?”

“The Mockingbirds are crazy. That's all you need to know.”

They followed Sylph out of the cottage, through the garden, to a gate camouflaged by bean vines and ivy. She yanked the gate open, revealing a cavern of greenery and two bizarre motorcycles of tarnished metal shaped into reindeer, antlers strung with talismans, bodies engraved with runes.

“The
dyr spokelse
are rusty, but they can still travel a great distance—better than trains.” She caressed one of the motorcycles as if it was a living thing and it stirred with a creak, red lights flickering in the eye sockets of the brass reindeer head curving from the handlebars. When the bikes hummed to life with a distinct
tick-tocking
sound from within their brass bodies, Christie stepped back quickly.

Jack moved to the darker beast, peered into one ruby eye. “How do they move?”

Sylph pulled two pairs of antique goggles from her satchel and handed one to Jack, the other to Christie. She swung onto the second bike. As she tugged on an aviator's cap also equipped with goggles, she said, “What energy drives them? Mine. I can put energy back into things, just like I can drain it. I sent one of my dragonflies to Orsini's and it showed me your Finn, Sylvie, and that bastard Alexander—Moth—opening Orsini's door to a fox knight.”

Jack's body shook once with overwhelming relief—Finn had escaped Caliban. “How do you know she's headed for the Mockingbirds?”

“The map on the spirit drum—the pointer went right to their lair,” Sylph replied.

“And the fox knight?” Jack touched one of the motorcycles as if calming a horse.

“Like all fox knights—not to be trusted.”

Christie was pale in the starlight, his eyes glinting from the elixir. “Are we really going to—”

“Get on.” Jack threw one leg over the bike. As he familiarized himself with riding again, Christie swung up behind the witch.

“Close your eyes, gentlemen.” The Dragonfly leaned forward as Christie slid his arms around her waist. “They move fast.”

THE CLOCKWORK BIKES
sped down a highway that soon curved into a mountain forest where no light other than that from the stars was visible and night seemed to be a solid thing. They passed through a wall of mist, and the road ended.

They halted the bikes in a forest glade, its trees hung with the feathered and painted skulls of wolves.

“Where are we?” Christie's voice was faint.

“I don't know.” Sylph was grim. “We've been waylaid.”

From the darkness emerged three masked figures on dead-looking horses with the opal eyes and weed-tangled manes of kelpies. As Jack pushed up his goggles, Christie said, “Please tell me they're friends of yours.”

“They're not.” Sylph didn't take her attention from the riders as one of the ghastly horses came forward, the Fata in its saddle resembling a Native American in stitched black suede, crow feathers knotted in his long hair. He wore a wooden mask shaped like a raven's face. He said, “Jack Daw. Where is your brother, the crooked dog?”

“I don't have a brother, Blackheart.” Jack resisted the instinct to reach for his knives.

The Blackheart's companions remained in the shadows. Both were masked in painted wood. One, in red, wore the horns of a buffalo. The other, in white, had a headdress made from antlers. As the lead Blackheart nudged his kelpie closer to Jack, the water horse's muzzle curled back from carnivore teeth. “The
crom cu
has caused much grief among our nation, Jack Daw. In fact, many of your outlaw kind have been nothing but—”

“Disappointing to you? I agree. The
crom cu
isn't my brother. Feel free to dismember him if he crosses your path. What do you want with us?”

“
The sun will set, the moon will wane
.” As Christie spoke, Jack's irritation level shot sky-high. He narrowed his eyes at the boy.

“
The stars will fall, become our bane,
” Christie continued, his voice steady. “
A tribe will bleed, a nation fade. The spirits will weep and turn away
.”

Silence followed the poem. The lead Blackheart tilted his head and murmured, “Pretty words from a mortal boy—yes, I know he's mortal—I've been told. We won't force you to come with us, but you'll volunteer.”

Jack said, “Where exactly are we
volunteering
to go?”

“The
Dearh Cota
wants to speak with you.”

“Two friends of mine are about to enter the Mockingbirds' nest. We don't have time.”

“You will make time, Jack Daw, because the
Dearh Cota
has the information that will help you take down the Wolf.”

Christie said desperately, “
Finn and Sylvie,
Jack.”

“Let me explain it this way,” the Blackheart continued. “You'll come with us or remain here. Forever.”

Jack spoke through gritted teeth. “Ride fast and we'll follow.”

The lead Blackheart turned his kelpie. His two comrades followed, the red one idly saying to the white one, “At least the mortal didn't recite ‘Hiawatha' at us, like the white folk usually do. The next mortal does that, I'll get someone to cut out his or her tongue.”

“Whatever happened to scalping?” The white one looked wistful.

“They don't recite poetic clichés with their
hair
. Removing the tongue makes more of a statement.”

“Fantastic,” Christie muttered as Sylph and Jack revved up their bikes. “More water monsters
and
a Fata comedy team.”

THE BLACKHEARTS LED THEM DOWN
a road lined with witchy-looking elms decorated with painted rattles and wooden stick figures. As they passed beneath an arch made of withy and blackberry vines, the trees gave way to a street lined with abandoned brownstone buildings, their balconies strung with colored lights, graffiti on the doors, and talismans hanging in windows of broken glass. The red light muted the sky behind a blackened church at the street's end and made the church's stained-glass windows glimmer like sangria. Citrus trees in urns lined the stair, along with a variety of canine-headed gargoyles. Parked in front was a battered Jeep Cherokee scrawled with silver symbols, a wolf skull attached to the fender.

As the Blackhearts and the clockwork motorcycles halted before the church, the red doors opened and a slender figure in a hooded coat of scarlet, two brindled hounds at its sides, stepped out. Jack got off his stilled motorcycle and murmured, “Jill Scarlet. The
Dearh Cota
.”

“Wait . . . that sounds familiar. . . .” Christie stared at the figure as it spoke in a young woman's voice.

“Jack Daw. Do you think you are the Wolf's death?”

“Maybe”—Jack smiled savagely—“I'll be yours if I don't reach the Mockingbirds in time.”

The smile in the shadows of the red hood was equally as feral. The
Dearh Cota
didn't look dangerous—she appeared to be a young woman in a ruffled black dress, striped stockings, and button-up boots—but Jack knew better. She receded back into the church, followed by her two hounds. “Come in. I won't keep you long.”

Jack ascended the stairs, and Christie and Sylph followed him into the church
that now served as a home, bookshelves and paintings on the walls between the windows and the altar area a bedroom with parchment screens. Jill Scarlet gestured with a slim, scarred hand toward an antique sofa and chairs set around a potbellied stove. Jack and Christie sat. Sylph wandered around.

“I'll fetch you something to eat.” As Jill Scarlet pushed through a pair of doors that shut behind her, Christie leaned toward Jack. “Who is she?”

Jack replied, “She's Little Red Riding Hood.”

Sylph, who still wore the aviator's cap, its goggles pushed up, sat in the chair beside Christie. “The very one.”

Jack continued, “The fairy tale didn't originate in Germany, but in the Basque province of France, when there were wolves and things that looked like wolves. She was an innocent girl—”

“Aren't they all?” Sylph tilted her head.

“She was an
innocent
girl”—Jack frowned at Sylph—“who met Seth Lot. When she realized what he was and tried to twist from his grasp—with a hatchet—he killed her and made her into a Jill.”

Christie whispered, “I
hate
this place.”

Jill Scarlet returned with a basket of tangerines, dark bread, cheese, a bottle of black wine, and a carton of Fig Newtons. She set the basket on the steamer trunk that served as a coffee table. She pushed back her hood and sat opposite them on the altar steps, the hounds settling on either side of her. Mink-brown hair tumbled around her shoulders. Her argent gaze was unsettling; her scarred face seemed familiar . . .

Jack began figuring some things out as Christie said, “
Jill Scarlet
. Sylvie and I were supposed to meet you—”

“And you weren't around when I went to the StarDust Studios. I thought the
Dubh Deamhais
had changed his mind.” She studied Christie critically. “I see why he chose you.” She turned that reflective gaze on Jack. “Do you want to know how I became a Jill?”

Before Jack could avoid it, she'd reached out and gripped his hand.