Thorn Jack (15 page)

The Monarch, the Queen, the Fool.

Jack turned his back on the mural, striding down the hall. He passed beneath an arch shaped into an openmouthed gorgon's face, then stepped into an Emory-walled chamber where books were piled everywhere. The fragrance of old leather and aged paper was strong. Incense and candles flickered in lanterns of blue glass.

A girl was sprawled in a thronelike chair, one leg flung over an armrest, ivory hair spilling in plaits around her face. Tall and gawky, she wore hip-hugging jeans and a coat of pale fur. She was barefoot; tarnished rings decorated her toes. She was the family librarian, the record keeper. She said, “Tell me why you've come, Jack, tell me true.”

“I've a question, Norn. A family question.”

“Your scent is odd. I don't like it.”

“Does that mean you don't like me anymore?”

“Like is love's false sibling.”

“Says one who has never loved nor liked.”

She leaned forward, her face shadowy. “It is Seth Lot's lust and Reiko's greed that have placed all of us in peril.”

“Yet they've got themselves a Teind.” He tried not to feel rage when he thought about that.

“And so we escape from Death's cruel bind.” She sat back, her hands, tattooed with silver spirals, resting on the arms of the chair. Because she was perverse, she said, “ ‘
I'll go to my queen and beg her Indian boy; and then I will her charmed eye release, from monster's view, all things shall be peace
.' ”

“You stole that from Shakespeare.”

“Why not? He stole from us.” She smiled. “Who is it that has you bleeding like a virgin girl from her bridal bed?”

“No one. I'm no different than I was. Norn . . . did you ever know a girl named Lily Rose? When you were in San Francisco? Because this girl named Lily Rose had an imaginary friend by the name of
Norn
. I find that odd. It's not a common name for an imaginary friend.”

She shrugged. “I never remember the names of the ones I charm.”

“I find names to be important. Lily Rose is dead now—suicide.” He watched the girl carefully, but he saw nothing—the ice didn't crack.

“Jack.” She leaned forward. “Do you think Reiko doesn't know you're bleeding? She's being indulgent.”

“Why do you say Reiko's being indulgent?”

“Our beautiful boy Nathan, and the schoolgirl who made you bleed . . . they were meant to be. The girl could save him. Why do you think Reiko allows you to make eyes at her, Jack? To keep her from Nathan.”

He ducked his head to conceal a flash of rage at the idea of Finn and Nathan, together.

“There.” Norn sat back, remote again. “I've told you something you didn't know.”

He stalked from the chamber to the first-floor conservatory, where his family lounged, playing games or instruments, surrounded by moonlit bromeliads and blackberry vines beneath a glass dome patterned with poisonous-looking art nouveau flowers. Nathan Clare sat in a lamp-lit corner, reading a book. When Jack approached, he looked up, apprehensive. He dropped his gaze, gripping the book.

Jack said quietly, “Look at me.”

Nathan, starry-eyed with fear, obeyed. “What do you want, Jack?”

Jack slid into a crouch, hands clasped between his knees. He spoke gently, “Why did Finn invite you for croquet?”

“Because—we're friends. Nothing more. Look, I didn't know you were interested in her—Jack, please . . . just stay away from her. Just leave her be. She's—”

“Have you changed your mind? Or lost it? You've lasted this long without true love; don't bloody well start looking for it now.”

Terror darkened Nathan's eyes and he whispered, “I know what I have to do, Jack, and I will do it—because I don't want to end up like
you
.”

As Jack bared his teeth, Nathan flicked his gaze up and whispered, “
Jack . . .”

Sensing something behind him, Jack rose to his feet.

A serpentine form bled from the shadows and Reiko Fata stepped forward, slender and gorgeous in a gown of black silk, her bare arms wound with bracelets. “Jack. Are you being cruel to Nathan?”

“We were having a conversation.”

Reiko looked at Nathan, who glanced away, his mouth tight. She slid her gaze to Jack and sweetly said, “This conversation isn't about a girl named after a hero king, is it?”

Jack didn't give anything away. “Finn Sullivan's not interested in Nate. She's
my
trick.”

“She is, Jack.” Reiko leaned close, her lips against his. “And make certain she remains a trick.”

 

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

See yonder Hallow'd Fane! The pious work

Of Names once fam'd, now dubious or forgot,

And buried 'midst the Wreck of Things which were:

There lie interr'd the more illustrious Dead.

—
T
HE
G
RAVE
, R
OBERT
B
LAIR

Once, a very young crow became lost from her tribe. She was their storm gatherer, for the Rooks loved storms. One day, lonely, she took human form. Dressed in black dewdrops and violets, she walked into a gathering of the enemy. And a young man named Malcolm Tirnagoth saw her . . .

—
F
ROM THE JOURNAL OF
L
ILY
R
OSE

T
he morning brought common sense and sunlight as Finn wondered how she'd apologize to Jack. She'd let her imagination run wild last night. Jack and Reiko Fata, having lived in Fair Hollow all their lives, of course had ancestors who resembled them. She'd been crazy to think otherwise. And the crazy part was what worried her . . .

As the autumn sun burned away the chill in her room, she tucked Lily Rose's journal and the photocopies of Fair Hollow's past, with its old-fashioned, inky-eyed replicas of Jack and Reiko Fata, into Lily's trunk.

The sun was bright, and Finn savored it as she strode from her house to Christie's Mustang.

Christie was pale and shadowy-eyed behind the wheel. Worried, she halted. “Christie?”

“Angyll's in the hospital.”

“Angyll Weaver?” She slowly slid into the car.

“They found her in Soldiers' Gate yesterday. She fell and hit her head against a stone. Who goes alone to a cemetery, at night?”

As the Mustang creaked forward, Finn murmured, “What was she doing in the cemetery?”

“She won't wake up so no one knows.” He was clutching the wheel, his face bleak.

Finn hugged her backpack to her chest. Her stomach twisted with guilt, because a girl she'd hit in the face now lay broken in the hospital.

AT LUNCH, FINN LISTLESSLY TWIRLED
spaghetti around her fork while gazing out the cafeteria window at Christie, who sat on the steps, his head down. Opposite her, Sylvie was slouched in her chair, gnawing at an apple. She said, “Let's go.”

They dumped their food and went to sit next to him. He had an unlit cigarette between his lips. He said casually, “Kevin Gilchriste told me Angyll had a new fiend—I mean
friend.
Want to know who?”

Finn didn't like the bitter darkness in his voice as he flipped the cigarette in his fingers, pocketed it, and said, “He has pale hair and gray eyes. Sound familiar?”

Finn grimly remembered Angyll flirting with the pale-haired young man at the autumn revel. “The scary one we met at the Voodoo Lounge. The one who went at Sylv at the revel.”

“All the Fatas are scary,” Sylvie said, tugging on her dark braids. “They're like a bunch of mad aristocrats from the turn of the century.”

“
Inbred
aristocrats,” Christie gently corrected.

Finn wanted to tell them about LeafStruck and Colleen Olive, the eccentric and scary cousin Jack had introduced her to. She wanted to tell them about the antique photographs of Jack's and Reiko's ancestors. Instead, she said, “Nathan's not like them. Jack isn't either.”

“Finn”—Christie's voice was quiet—“are you out of your mind?”

“Jack seems okay to me.” Sylvie turned back to Finn, her eyes dark with concern. “And Nathan's adopted.”

“I think Jack is, too. Where do the Fatas live? Don't either of you know?”

Christie opened his hands. “Some big estate out in a scary hollow?”

“Where, exactly? You and Sylvie have lived here all your lives and you don't know where the wealthiest, oddest family lives? Isn't that strange?”

“Yeah.” Christie stared into space as Sylvie looked troubled and whispered, “Where
do
they live, Christie?”

AFTER CLASSES, FINN AND SYLVIE
went to Hecate's Attic to see Angyll's sister.

Anna sat in a rocking chair near a display of painted toys. As Sylvie crouched before her and clasped her hands, Finn stood awkwardly nearby. Sylvie said, “Anna. Where are your parents?”

“The hospital. My aunt Penelope is here.” Anna's hair was in her face. When she looked at Finn, one eye glittered behind the golden strands. “They are at war with us now.”

Finn remembered Anna telling her she was going to die on Halloween and felt a helpless sadness for the younger girl. “I'm sorry about Angyll.”

Anna sighed and shoved her hair from her face. “I didn't mean to tell you about Halloween. It's what the Fates showed me and sometimes they're tricky. I tried to find out more, but they won't show me.”

“Anna . . . what happened to Angyll?” Finn chose to ignore Anna's schizy revelation about war and the Fates and her death on Halloween. She didn't believe it anyway. She didn't want to believe it.

Anna looked at the table, where three illustrated cards had been turned faceup.

“The laughing moon got her.”

“Anna—”

“You want to know where they live.” Anna was gazing down at her hands. “That man, the rich one, gave his hotel to them in exchange for the dead bird bringing his children back.”

“Malcolm Tirnagoth,” Sylvie whispered. “The Tirnagoth Hotel.”

“But you said it's a
ruin
.” Finn didn't care to ask about the dead bird. “They
can't
live there.”

“Only sometimes.” Anna clenched her hands, fierce. “I hate them.”

Finn scrutinized Anna's Tarot cards and saw the images of a curved moon dripping blood, a pale figure with a sword in its back, a black-haired female hooded in scarlet, holding a snake. The images made her skin crawl. She said with quiet determination, “Tirnagoth.”

Sylvie groaned. “Oh no.”

“Should we ask Christie to come with us?”

Sylvie sat back on her heels. “I wish you wouldn't—but he'll do it.” She met Finn's puzzled look with a dark gaze. “For you. So, Anna, will the Fates let you come with us and get hot fudge sundaes at Max's?”

IN THE LATE AFTERNOON, CHRISTIE
drove Finn and Sylvie to the warehouse district, into the parking lot of a grubby apartment building that vented loud music and the pungent aroma of something that probably wasn't incense.

“It's safe here.” He tapped the rusty hood of his Mustang. “My friend Micah lives in the building—that's his Chevy. Tirnagoth is over there.”

As he pointed to a woodsy road across the street, Finn strode forward, palming the flashlight she'd brought. They each had one. “Let's go.”

“Obsessed, Finn?” Sylvie followed with a swagger.

“Curious.”

“Is that why you brought the camera?”

Finn said defensively, “I need interesting photos for Basic Photography. It's just reconnaissance.”

“This is about Jack,” Christie informed Sylvie, “the Byronic and fashionable loner who's probably secretly wed to his sister.”

Finn flashed her light on him. “Reiko's not his real sister.”

“My bad.” Christie's smile was wolfish. “Can you put a good word in for me with Reiko? Like give her my phone number—ow! Sylv, hands aren't for
hitting
.”

They trudged through bushes and weeds until a pair of swirling metal gates loomed before them, beneath massive trees. The peaked roof of the hotel rose above the branches of a small forest.

“The gates are locked.” Sylvie turned to Finn.

Finn gazed at the art nouveau metal swirled into the form of a moth . . .

She reached into her pocket for the moth key she'd found in a toadstool ring beneath her window. She scarcely believed it when it fit into the lock and there was a click. The gates opened with only a faint rustling of disturbed shrubbery.

“Where did you get that?” Christie stared at the key.

Finn shrugged. “It was a gift.”

“From him?”

“Maybe.” Finn moved forward.

Christie looked at Sylvie. “She's so enigmatic. Like Batman.”

“More like Catwoman.”

“Is Catwoman really enigmatic? I think she's pretty straightforward.”

As they approached the hotel, it loomed before them, its trinity of briar-tangled buildings surrounding a courtyard fronted with more gates of wrought metal. The rooftops had greened with lichen. Gargoyles with the upper bodies of beautiful women crouched on the stairs leading to the entrance. The first- and second-floor windows were covered with plywood. It must have been gorgeous at one time, an architectural masterpiece of organic art nouveau and Gothic spikiness.

Sylvie whistled softly. Christie looked at Finn. “No one lives here. Unless the Fatas are ghosts.”

Finn thought of ghostly girls, of the Fatas' pale skin, of Jack's abandoned movie theater. She had
tried
rational explanations . . .

“I want to see.” She moved forward, ignoring the sudden tilt of vertigo.

Christie murmured, “Of course you do.”

As they pushed through the thick undergrowth, Finn flinched as a pale face emerged from the wall of leaves, then sighed when she saw that it was only the statue of an armless girl. Beneath its eyes were water stains like black tears.

Christie peered up at the nearest window, a Gothic arch framed by a riot of briars. “It smells like a graveyard.”

“That's just wet stone.” Sylvie gripped the gate as she peered into the cave of the courtyard. The pool in the center was a pit of exotic plants twisting around rusty garden furniture and broken statues. “It smells green.”

Finn raised her Nikon and took a picture. “We're going in.”

They pulled open the courtyard gates, which produced a wince-inducing shrill. Insects fluttered as vines slid away to reveal the entrance, a swirling art nouveau staircase guarded by stone sphinxes with the heads of angelic boys. Bits of glass, leaves, and feathers littered the threshold. A padlock chain was looped through the door handles, and rust had bled in spatters over the wood. Finn again took out the moth key someone (Jack?) had left beneath her window and looked at the arch above the door, at the words of another language carved into the stone. “What do you think it says?”

“ ‘
Abandon all hope, ye who—
' ”

“Never mind.” Finn slid the key into the padlock. The mechanism clicked, fell away. As the door creaked open, Sylvie looked concerned.

“Finn, seriously, where did you get that key?”

“Someone left it under my window.”

“
Hell
.” Christie stared at her.

A moaning wind, accompanied by the tomb chill of solitary places, drifted outward. They lingered on the threshold.

Finn stepped forward and flicked the beam of her flashlight at a giant chandelier of red and green crystal, aiming it at the massive stairway branching before them, its posts two mahogany statues of gowned nymphs holding shattered lamps. The furniture was patched with mold and verdigris, the chessboard-marble floor littered with dead insects and leaves. A tree had clawed through the window and, like a grotesque concierge, now draped the lobby desk.

Finn moved farther inward, gripping her Nikon.

“This,” Sylvie whispered, turning in a circle, “is
amazing
.”

“So I guess Anna was wrong.” Christie directed his light over the mural of a stylized forest, where white hounds raced before a black horse and its rider, a knight in green armor. The knight's face was wrong—slanted, wild-eyed, inhuman. “No one's moved in. No Fatas.”

Something stirred the leaves piled in a dark corner. Finn spun, flicking a beam of light at it. A tattered, old-fashioned baby carriage creaked in the drafts that had entered with them, swirling leaves up the stair.

“That's
classic
.” Christie moved toward the carriage draped in charcoal shadow. “I wonder if there's a dead baby in it. Nope. Not even a doll head.
That's
disappointing.”

Sylvie was standing before a stained-glass window. Sunlight pushed through the plywood outside, illuminating the image of a youth in green armor, his red curls wreathed with roses. “This place must have been spectacular, once.”

“Have you noticed something?” Finn murmured, stabbing her light all over the walls. “No graffiti. And there was none outside either.”

“I heard music.” Christie aimed his flashlight at the second-floor landing as Sylvie moved past him. Her purple Converses stirred dust and leaves as she loped up the stairs.

“Sylvie!” As Sylvie disappeared from view, Finn rushed up the stairs after, Christie beside her. Finn found the serpentine curl of the mahogany banister beneath her hand unsettling. Above them, lamps like flowers blossomed from pewter tendrils.

The second floor was eerily tangled with thick vines twining through the broken windows. Most of the doors, ornately carved with malevolent-looking plant life, were closed. Searching for Sylvie, Finn stepped into the first room. Its walls were stained, but a large bed and a divan of red velvet remained. Fading twilight slid through the window and glistened on dust, but it didn't touch the sepia shadows that stained the corner where the divan sat, facing the wall.

“I think she's down this way.” Christie's voice sounded distant.

Finn turned to find herself alone. “Christie! Syl—”

The door slammed shut.

She ran to it, grabbed the knob. It was stuck. She couldn't even hear her friends on the other side.
It was just the wind. Just the—

Something moved in the shadows near the divan—she saw it out of the corner of one eye. Reluctantly, she turned, gripping her flashlight.