Thorn Jack (3 page)

Finn idly turned in a circle. “What do you do for fun around here, besides this?”

“Not much.” Sylvie pried spongy lichen from a tree. “Christie and I planned to leave after high school, but circumstances prevented that—the circumstances being no money and no real ambitions. The only reason we got into a college with a good rep is because locals get a discount. Even Christie's honor roll status didn't help him much.”

“Hey. I have ambitions—I plan to win the lottery.”

They walked Finn to her house. The warmth of the sun still lingered, so they took turns on the derelict swing set that had been there since before her gran had owned the property. Sylvie found the remnants of a croquet game near the shed, and they played until violet shadows and chill slid across the lawns and lights bloomed in the windows of the neighboring houses. Finn tried not to think of Angyll Weaver.

Christie tossed his mallet into a heap of leaves. “ ‘
Now it is the time of night, that the graves, all gaping wide, every one lets forth its sprite
.' Walk you home, Sylv?”

“It's okay.” Sylvie looked at Finn. “He's a liberal arts major. It's normal for him.”

“My da can give you a ride home.”

“I don't live far.” Sylvie lifted her backpack decorated with silver skulls. “See you tomorrow?”

“You did a fine job,” Christie said, walking backward, his finger pointed at Finn, “protecting me from Angle. I'll always feel safe with you near, Finn Sullivan.”

Sylvie glanced over one shoulder. “Come with us to a movie tonight? It's at eight o'clock, at the cinema on Main. We'll meet you there, okay?”

As her father's SUV rounded the corner, Finn murmured distractedly that she would try. She would have to tell him now what she had done, and the worst part would be when he learned why she had done it.

“DID SHE DESERVE IT?” WAS
her father's first question as he leaned forward on the sofa, hands clasped.

Finn, curled in the armchair, nodded once, but she didn't elaborate.

“I see.” He looked down at his hands. “Your first day, and you hit someone hard enough to knock them down. Not a slap—a punch. What if she'd injured her skull? Or bitten through her tongue?
Christ,
Finn.”

“I don't know.” Finn sat stiffly, her throat closed up because there was nothing as devastating as the disappointment in her father's voice at the moment.

“You're not going to do it again, are you?”

“I was invited to a movie tonight, by Christie and his friend, Sylvie.”

“You think I'm going to nix that? I can't ground you now that you're out of high school.” He looked relieved as he sat back. Then he asked the question she'd been dreading, “What did she say?”

There was a dull ache beneath her ribs. She didn't want to lie, and she didn't dare fidget because her da could interpret her every gesture as if he was her opponent in a poker game. She whispered, “She called me a bitch.”

“Did she now? She doesn't know you well then, does she?” He hesitated, obviously conflicted. “Are you going to that movie?”

Ten minutes later, she was dashing out the door before he could reconsider.

FINN WAS STRIDING PAST THE
ancient church on the corner when she heard a clicking sound in the silence, as if something were coming down the deserted street on spindle claws. She halted.

A giant, orange umbrella was tumbling down the road.

She reached out, grabbed the plastic handle, then gasped as the pull of the wind on the vinyl sent her reeling.

“I'll take that, thank you.”

She looked up at a boy in a hoodie and black jeans. His hair, spilling from a black top hat, was orange. He wouldn't have been unusual in San Francisco in the Haight, but he was a strange sight in
this
place. She thought he must be in some sort of theatrical production. Silently, she handed him the umbrella. He snapped it shut. His eyes were the color of marmalade. “You've done me a good turn. I'll remember it.”

Who speaks like that?

He sauntered away, whistling.

Finn continued walking, looking back over her shoulder once. Then she turned a corner and came to Main Street, where sycamores strung with tiny lights lined the road and the shops and cafés were still open. The mountains called the Blackbirds loomed in the distance.

Christie and Sylvie were buying a tub of popcorn in the theater, a majestic building of crimson stone with eight screens and a chandelier in the lobby. Tiny fairies and goblins clambered in gilt splendor around the interior doors. The movie they'd selected was about a scarlet-haired girl on a violent journey in a mythical kingdom. Finn didn't recognize anyone in it, but Christie pointed out the hero as someone who attended HallowHeart. Afterward, as they stepped out of the dark into the chill, Finn blinked in the brilliant lights and thought of fairy-tale love and how messed up it was.

“We'll walk to my place.” Whimsically Gothic in a small raincoat of black vinyl and striped tights, Sylvie took Finn's hand, ending, before it began, Finn's protest that she didn't want to intrude on the rest of their night as friends. Christie pushed a woolen hat onto his curls and whistled the movie theme as he led the way. He said, “I can't believe Gilchriste got the starring role in that . . . his parents are
farmers
. . .”

“Don't be a hater, Christie.” Sylvie nudged Finn and told her, “There are theater people and actors on nearly every street here. Some of those mansions on the river were owned by Hollywood stars. It's like a trend for New York City and L.A. people to have a vacation home in Fair Hollow. They think it's
quaint
.”

Finn thought of the boy in the top hat. “I can see that.”

“It's especially quaint when a blizzard takes out the power for the whole town or a summer thunderstorm knocks out everybody's digital. It's like the goddamn Stone Age here sometimes.” Christie walked very fast, and Finn and Sylvie had to hurry to keep up with him.

SYLVIE'S PARENTS' APARTMENT WAS LOCATED
above a shop on Main Street. As Sylvie gave Finn the tour, Christie wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge. No one was home, but the widescreen TV was on and murmuring with CNN. The apartment was bigger than it had seemed on the outside, and very bohemian, the walls decorated with masks from Venice and Africa, fake animal skins draping chairs carved into bears and goddesses. The air smelled like patchouli, basil, fresh laundry. The hallway was hung with photographs, mostly featuring Sylvie at various ages and two people Finn assumed to be Sylvie's parents, a serious-eyed man with brown hair and a young blond woman.

“That's the laundry room. Here's Kim's exercise room—she's my stepmom. This is the
posh
guest room. Mine's up here.” Sylvie's room, in the attic, was a den of candles and books, the dresser scattered with seashells and the skulls of small animals, the huge bed covered by a quilt patterned with peacocks and Emory. Finn touched the gorgeous kimono hung on the back of the door, then peered at a framed cinema poster with Japanese lettering featuring a beautiful woman who resembled a 1940s starlet. “Is that your mom?”

“Yeah.” Sylvie was folding a sweater. “Sorry about the mess.”

Finn looked around—aside from one or two articles of clothing, the room was as neat as a British butler. She admired a wall displaying a collection of ornate swords and daggers and a bleached stag's skull. A curved bow and a quiver of arrows leaned in one corner.

“Renaissance fair stuff,” Sylvie said when she saw Finn looking. “Decorative, but made by real blacksmiths. The bow and arrows are real—Archery Mustang. I don't hunt, though . . . I just do competitions.”

“She can't kill things, not even spiders.” This came from Christie as he dropped down and sprawled in a chair and then began rummaging through a pile of CDs. Finn crouched to read the titles of books piled on shelves beneath the window. She picked out an Arthur Rackham storybook. “So what's with all the little pixies everywhere? Carved into HallowHeart, the theater . . .”

“They were worshipped here.” Sylvie snatched a black bra away from Christie, who had bemusedly lifted it from his chair.

“Pixies?”

“Fairy folk. Some of the immigrants from Ireland followed the fairy faith. And the Irish had badass fairies.” She shoved the bra into a drawer.

Finn looked down at her T-shirt, decaled with a bombshell image of Tinker Bell.

Sylvie sat on the bed. “You ever read the original play? Tinker Bell was a killer who pined after a boy who could never die.”

“
And
she was hot.” Christie didn't look up from poking through the CDs. “You've
got
to get a new iPod, Sylv.”

“I got one . . . I just like the CDs.”

Finn's mouth quirked as she pictured
their
version of
Peter Pan.
“I know about the fairy faith. It's dark. Honor is the ultimate truth, but the divine elements of nature are tricky—so my da says.” Her father
hadn't
told her about any of his hometown's spooky legends.

“Kids've seen things in the woods—carvings of antlered men on the trees, little dolls hung in the branches. Ruth Aspen said an owl followed her for seven nights after she lit a candle and read a poem to
them
. The Iroquois wouldn't come near this land because they thought the dead walked here.”

Finn glanced at an old photograph on the wall—a black-and-white image of a boy with long dark hair. He wore a T-shirt and jeans from the '70s. His eyes were dark and tilty.

“That's Thomas Luneht.” Sylvie followed her gaze.

“
Don't
tell her the Thomas Luneht story.” Christie looked at Finn. “Sylv has this hobby of collecting old photos and making up stories about them.” He shoved a CD into the stereo, and an eerie violin solo swirled through the room. “D'you want to come to a party Friday night?”

“It's a concert at the lake. It's an annual thing,” Sylvie said as she stretched out on the bed, propping herself on her elbows. “So tell us about yourself.”

“What?” Finn was startled by this turn in the conversation.

Christie looked up. “You're new and intriguing. We'll tell you some of our secrets if you tell us some of yours. Here's one: Sylvie went out with the captain of the high school football team. Well, he's varsity now . . .”

“Our
own
secrets.” Sylvie smiled at Finn. “Christie has a new girlfriend every two months.
Literally,
every two months. Like a ritual.”

“Sylvie owns every season of
The Gilmore Girls
.”

“Christie's easily confused by Sudoku.”

“In my defense, it doesn't make any
sense.
All those numbers . . . you only like it because you're obsessive-compulsive.”

“At least I've got a sense of purpose.”

“Okay. Stop.” Finn realized she would have to tell them some things and almost panicked, because she couldn't think of anything as whimsical as what they'd told her about each other. Hesitantly, she said, “Sometimes, I eat frosting out of the can.”

Christie looked grim. “My respect for you just took a nosedive.”

She breathed out a laugh. “I watch reality shows late at night. I only buy ginger-and-honey body wash. I pay for my own subscription to
National Geographic
. I've got a quilt, with pink and green butterflies, that I can't sleep without.”

“Like Linus from
Peanuts
?”

“Well, I don't carry it around with me.”

“That would actually be rather disturbing. Like Sylv's fascination with dead people.”

“Like your fascination with Angyll Weaver?”

Christie bowed his head. “That was a very dark period in my life.”

Finn, who had been about to suggest she return home, settled back into her chair with a smile and listened to them talk.

 

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

When he had told her his fair tales,

To love him she began,

Because he was in human shape,

Much like unto a man.

—
T
HE
D
EM
ON
L
OVER

Ivory Mask had been born without a face, child of a union between the spirit of a birch tree and the ghost of a highwayman. She was not welcome in the world, but the forest loved her. The birches twined into a house for her, and she rules there now, in the silver shadows. She will trick you to your death.

—
F
ROM THE
JOURNAL OF
L
ILY
R
OSE

S
ean Sullivan, scholar of mythology, woke to an overcast morning and found his daughter outside crouched near a ring of vicious-red toadstools that had bloomed beneath her window. Her head was tilted, and she was frowning as if puzzling something out. He squatted beside her. “Have the fairies been here then?”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

Toadstools were a sign of decay and death, but he wasn't about to remind his daughter of this. Death was an enemy he refused to let strike again. After Lily . . . any artifact he'd owned that had represented a spirit of annihilation, he'd given away to friends and associates.

“Fairies,” he told her, with an Irish emphasis on the word. “Toadstools were known as the third kingdom, living things that were neither vegetable nor mineral.”

“Huh. They're very pretty.”

“They're very poisonous, so I'll be digging them up when I get home.”

She looked disappointed.

“Then again, if the sun gets to them, they'll wither and—” He caught himself as his daughter looked at him. She knew the word he'd avoided, and the grief that had once crippled him snatched at his breath.

“Da.” She touched his hand. “I tried to make waffles. I think I've ruined that shopping-network grill.”

“I was wondering what that burning smell was. I'll make omelets.” He smiled and rose.

“MAKE MINE WITH MUSHROOMS!” AS
her father walked away, Finn looked down at what she'd found in the toadstool ring . . . a box of beaten tin. Carefully, she opened it to reveal a key of blackened silver shaped like a moth. She lifted it out, admiring the art nouveau detail, the wistful shape of a face engraved in the moth's head. When the key quivered in her hand, she almost dropped it. She murmured, “Where did
you
come from?”

AFTER CLASSES, FINN SAT IN
the courtyard between Origen Hall and Hudson, waiting for Christie and Sylvie. Christie had told her that HallowHeart had been shipped over, piece by piece, from somewhere in Germany, near the Black Forest. It could be true, or just another freaky rumor. It was certainly believable.

The sun had almost set when Christie, wearing an anorak over his rumpled clothes, trudged toward her from McKinley. She stood and opened her mouth to say hi when three figures stepped from the shadows to surround him. The three strangers had streaky hair and piercings. One of them taunted, “Your mom make you that hat?”

“Yeah. She did. Jealous?”

A boy with long dark hair and a pale face smiled sharply. “Not really. You just bother me with your existence. Is this the asshole, Hip Hop?”

A girl with black-and-blond hair reached out and flicked Christie's coat collar. Her boots had platform heels. “That's him.”

Christie smiled. “The sight of you three pigeons has me shaking in my boots.”

Sensing impending violence, Finn strode to Christie and grasped his hand. “Hey, Christie. Come on.”

The third member of the trio, a boy with bottle-blond hair and the look of a Victorian orphan, scowled after them as Finn continued to pull Christie away. She said, “Remember what Dean Cruithnear said . . . no ‘fisticuffs.'
Who
were they?”

“What were those? They're Rooks. They live in that trailer park in—wait for it—BlackBird Lane. Their whole family's crazy. Anyway, I forgot something in fencing class—I'll meet you and Sylv at Armitrage.”

“You're not going back . . . ?” She felt a spark of alarm at the possibility of the Rooks ambushing him again.

“I'll circle around them—they're not too bright.” As he gave her a wave and jogged off, Finn looked around at the deserted campus. Then she murmured, “Fencing class?”

“ ‘WANTON EYES, AN ABSINTHE
soul. Hands as fine as sainted sin. Black ink for blood beneath your
skin
.'
Christie
wrote this?” Finn squinted at the text.

Sylvie, walking beside her, swung her satchel. “He appears untroubled on the outside, but I think his soul yearns for the Gothic.”

“Huh.” Finn handed the cell phone back to Sylvie. “Interesting.”

“No, really, it's odd.” Sylvie slid the phone into her rubber backpack. “I mean, he doesn't just write it to get laid, either.”

Finn's mouth curled. Christie, she'd noticed, was certainly popular with the ladies. This was only her second day and she'd seen him flirting, successfully, with several girls and one leggy teacher's assistant.

As Sylvie and Finn crossed the campus in front of Armitrage Hall, they passed a group of girls singing softly beneath one of the oaks. The girls, HallowHeart students, wore flower wreaths on their heads. Sylvie began humming the tune as she and Finn leaned against the stair railing to wait for Christie. Then Finn told her about Christie's encounter with the Rooks and Sylvie looked fierce.

“Here he is.” Finn smiled with relief when she saw Christie walking across the lawn. As he drew closer, her smile faded when she noticed that his wool hat was gone and a bruise was forming red on his jaw. She wanted to hit someone again.

“Those bastards.” Sylvie straightened his coat and brushed leaves from his shirt. “It was the Rooks?”

“It's just a hat.” He shrugged. “You know, the amount of violence at this ‘institution' is appalling.”

“Your mom made you that hat. You should never have spoken to their sister.” Sylvie glanced at Finn. “He smiled at her, at the drive-in theater, and I guess, in her mind, that meant they were officially married.”

Christie shrugged again, his mouth twisted. Beyond him, on Armitrage's lawn, the flower-crowned girls were standing in a circle, heads bowed.

Finn reached out, hesitantly, because she wasn't one for touching people, and tweaked a leaf from his hair. “Three against one. That's nothing to be embarrassed about.”

The shame in his eyes vanished as he grinned. “You weren't there to protect me.”

Sylvie threw a comradely arm around his shoulders. “We'll walk you to your job, won't we, Finn?”

“Of course.” As Sylvie and Christie moved down the path, Finn glanced over her shoulder at the girls beneath the tree. One of them had her hands over her face, and shadows seemed to flutter around her like bats.

Finn hurried after Christie and Sylvie.

“So, Finn,” Christie said, rubbing a hand through his hair, “what was
your
high school like? As you've been able to see, ours was populated with Mean Girls and crazy white trash with an unusual fashion sense.”

“It was an all-girls school.”

He nodded. “Nice.” Sylvie's response, “Ugh.”

“It
was
nice, even thought it was run by Irish nuns. The Classic Film Club was fun, and I liked Photo Club.” Finn shrugged. “It was just a school.”

She told them about San Francisco: her favorite pizza place that was open until midnight; evenings spent discussing the movies her mom had loved with the girls from Film Club; being picked up by her da and going for soft-serve ice cream down the block; the general chaos of a big city of hills and culture near the water. She didn't mention Lily Rose. She didn't want to complicate things, and she was awkwardly aware of the fact that they might know what had happened, if what the dean had said was true.

Soon they arrived at Christie's workplace, an electronic games store on Main Street called Parrot Games, which had an inexplicable Caribbean theme, complete with walls painted lime-green and plastic palm trees looming in the corners. As he pulled a green T-shirt over his rumpled shirt, he said, “Remember, my shift ends at nine. Be here or you lose your ride to the lake.”

“First, we've got to change out of
these
.” Sylvie tugged at her school clothes. “We're going to Hecate's Attic now.” She led Finn out the door. “I need stuff.”

Christie called after her, “If you see Angyll, ask her ‘How's the eye?' ”

Outside, as they walked down the street, Finn said, “Why'd he say that?”

“Hecate's is owned by Angyll's parents—don't worry, they're never there.”

“I don't think—”

“I won't lead you into danger, Finn. Promise.” And Sylvie led her to a storefront painted an alarming black and pink. The display window was decorated with Buddhas, dancing Shivas, expensive candles and chimes, and books about fairies, souls, and Middle Eastern religions. “We're doing
Macbeth
and I said I'd pick up some witchy props.”

“There are a million of these places in San Francisco.” Finn felt the pang of homesickness ease as they stepped into a luxurious atmosphere of harp music and patchouli incense. A stag's head cast from bronze hung behind the counter, which held an old-fashioned register. Miniature fairies swayed from a crystal chandelier, and there was an entire wall display of scented candles. Everything looked expensive.

A young girl sat at a table, a centerpiece of glassy branches casting shadows across her face and bright hair. She wore jeans and a pink T-shirt with an image on it of a white rabbit checking a timepiece.

“Anna”—Sylvie began selecting black candles—“this is Finn. She just moved here.”

The girl couldn't have been more than fourteen, but her serious gaze and voice seemed much older. “I know.”

“Hello, Anna,” Finn said, then clumsily added, “I'm sorry I hit your sister.”

“My sister isn't nice.” Anna touched a deck of cards on the table and flipped one over. They were Tarot cards, gorgeously illustrated. The first picture was of a naked girl holding a giant sunflower.

“The Day Girl.” Anna tilted her head.

“Let her read your fortune.” Sylvie picked up a doll of black cotton. She murmured to herself, “Maybe we can do an exotic version of
Macbeth,
like, set in New Orleans. With voodoo.”

Finn was watching the girl named Anna place a pattern of cards on the table. The next card she turned up was illustrated with a slinky, black beast.

“The Beast. Occult things. The Empress of Air and Darkness. These things will seek to harm you.” Anna flipped up several more cards. “The Hawthorn. The protector.” Her brow wrinkled. She set down a card painted with the image of a pretty boy holding a heart. “Page of Hearts. And the Flower Dagger. There will be a sacrifice.”

Anna looked up, troubled. “Betwixt and between. They live in the abandoned places. They are shadow and light. They are the children of nothing and night.”

Finn stared at the girl, unnerved by her strange words.

Anna bowed her head and whispered, “Serafina Sullivan, you will die on All Hallows' Eve.”

“IT DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING, FINN.
It's just a
game
. Finn, stop walking so fast.”

“Telling someone they're going to die isn't a
game,
Sylvie. And how'd she know my full name?” Rotting leaves swept across the pavement as the sun faded behind the clouds. It had become bitterly cold. Finn, very aware of the shadows clinging to houses and trees, felt sick.

“She's autistic, Finn. That Tarot is her way of dealing with the world.”

Finn sank down onto a bench, rubbed her hands over her face, and drew in a breath. “My sister killed herself last year.”

Sylvie sat beside her, hands curled in her lap. She whispered, “That's why you cracked Angyll . . .”

Finn was done with crying. But anger remained coiled in her; a tender, secret hurt.

“What was her name?” Sylvie asked.

“Lily Rose.” Finn stared at the trees before her, the lavender sky beyond. She could smell rain and gasoline. Then the world suddenly vanished in a haze and she couldn't breathe.

“
Finn
.” Sylvie squeezed her hands. “My mom isn't even dead and when she left my dad and me, I cried for a week.”

“Is she really a narcissistic jerk?”

“Not really.” Sylvie sighed. She stood, tugging Finn to her feet. “Come on. I'll walk you home.”

Finn tucked her hair behind her ears. “Won't it be out of your way?”

“We'll take a shortcut.”

Sylvie led her on a clambering journey through the woods near the park. As they pushed through a scrim of bushes, berries burst and smeared their legs and thorns scratched their skin. When they reached a derelict wooden bridge arcing over a pond scummed with leaves, Finn said, “Can we go around it?”

“This way.” Sylvie looked at her sidelong. “Water phobia? Or bridge phobia?”

“Both. I was stupid when I was a kid.” They stepped from the trees and stood on the slope sweeping down to the abandoned house called SunStone in its veil of autumn-rusted creepers. The windows glinted with reflected light. The garden statue, a beautiful youth crowned with a sun, could have been the Greek god Apollo. “It's so lovely. How could anyone not want it?”

Sylvie, undeterred by Finn's observation, said, “Well? What happened when you were a kid?”

“I fell in a pond and couldn't swim. Someone pulled me out. How do we get back? I'm totally lost.”