Thorn Jack (6 page)

She kicked up leaves as she walked. The street wasn't well lit, but the reflection of the traffic lights on chrome was dazzling. “No wonder my da got into folklore, growing up here.”

“Mr. Redhawk, my neighbor, thinks a ghost lives in his attic.” Christie had decided to wander away from the topic. “He says it followed him home after he took some roses from the garden of an abandoned house. I mow his lawn, and once, I thought I saw something up there when he wasn't home. My brother Liam said a big black dog followed him around the cemetery—he works there. And a friend of mine who lives near the woods says she can hear a violin playing at night. The Fatas give me the same spooked feeling as everything I've just told you. Why're you asking about Jack Fata?”

“Why're you telling me about spooky things that obviously aren't true?”

He grinned. “Superstitions are useless and fairy tales are lies.”

Finn sighed as he quoted her words back at her. Then she said, “Mr. Redhawk sounds like Beauty when she took roses from the Beast's garden; the black dog belongs in Ireland; and ghostly violins or fiddles in the woods are a common element in stories about the devil.”

“You're a peculiar girl.” He pushed the toe of his work boot against a drift of leaves. “Fair Hollow has a creepy past, and the Fatas have always lived here.”

Finn glanced at Christie and thought,
Lived in Fair Hollow, or the past?
“Can we get into the Dead Kings?”

His eyes widened. “You are out of control. I'm getting you home.”

“Why do you think Reiko Fata would get her poor and crazy relatives to threaten you? Why not just
give
us invitations?”

“They don't think like us, Finn. They're different. They're rich.”

As they continued walking, Christie asked why she didn't have a car. She'd almost had a car—Lily's snub-nosed and gunmetal gray Hyundai, the recipient of three speeding tickets. But her da had sold it because he didn't want her driving. She looked away from Christie. It was awful how such an innocent memory could rip open a half-healed wound. It had just been a stupid car. “I can't drive. I fall asleep when I'm not supposed to.”

He didn't say anything more and she liked him for that.

SITTING ON THE HOOD OF
a car outside of the Dead Kings, a lean, silver-eyed young man watched the girl and the boy walk away. His angel face and the pale freckles dusting the bridge of his nose didn't disguise an air of wickedness. He slid lazily off the hood to his feet and followed them. He wore a long soldier's coat, and his boots had spurs.

A girl in a chauffeur's uniform stepped in his path. “What are you doing, Caliban?”

“Don't say my name unless you mean it, Phouka.” The young man smiled, vicious.

“You're a guest. Don't abuse the privilege.”

His perfect face was a mask over something hungry and feral as he said, “I won't.” Then, “Say, how did David Ryder like his present? The lovely dead girl?”

The girl chauffeur didn't move. She said coolly, “He would have preferred her not dead.”

“Well, Lot stitched her up nice and new and filled her with daffodils. And she wanted it.”

“Get out of my sight.”

Caliban bowed like an actor in a play, and swaggered away.

THE AROMA OF BREAKFAST ALWAYS
reminded Finn of nights with her mom and Lily Rose. Whenever her da worked late, they'd make omelets or pancakes and watch
Breakfast at Tiffany's
or
Gigi
or something classy and fall asleep on the sofa until he returned. After they'd moved to San Francisco, whenever their da worked past six, Finn and Lily would order delivery—dim sum and cherry Cokes from the Purple Peony or veggie quesadillas and mango smoothies from the Green Knot on Divisadero. They'd watch one of da's westerns because Lily couldn't look at their mom's favorite classics anymore.

Determined to establish another tradition for herself and her da, Finn had chosen home-cooked meals and was attempting a casserole from scratch, trying to decide whether to watch old TV shows or history specials, when her father walked in. She smiled and gestured like a game show hostess. “Look. I made a casserole.”

He considered the gummy results on the counter and pushed a hand through his hair. “We've been ordering dinner for a while now. Why mess with tradition?”

She sighed with relief. “I agree.”

He picked up his phone. “What d'you want on your pizza?”

“How about Chinese from Fox Lane?”

FORTY MINUTES LATER, THEY SAT
on the porch, cartons from Lulu's Emporium on the table between them as Led Zeppelin's “Immigrant Song” thrummed through the house. Her da, sprawled in the wicker rocking chair, watched her eat. “Finn . . . do you think this was a good idea?”

She looked up, wide-eyed. “I like Chinese.”

“Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about.” He pointed his chopsticks at her.

“What're we gonna do? Move back? Live with Grandad and his wife?” She didn't taste the next mouthful of noodles. She didn't want to go back now. Her strongest memory of San Francisco was of sitting on an ugly sofa, in her cashmere coat, listening to the quiet murmur of conversation around her. It had been an hour after Lily's funeral, at her grandfather's house, and she hadn't moved the entire time, sitting with her hands clenched together, her gaze fastened on a bowl of green-and-pink ribbon candy. The car ride back, in the dark and the rain, was only memorable because Guns N' Roses's “November Rain” had been playing on the radio. Her da had quickly switched the station. She'd never been able to listen to that song again.

“Finn . . . we haven't talked about . . .” He frowned down at his carton, and the pleasant world was suddenly replaced by one of harsh absolutes and bitter ends.

“There's nothing to talk about.”

“Serafina.” He never called her that.
Serafina
was what her mom had named her because it sounded like seraphim, angel. He'd shortened it to
Finn
for a mythical Irish hero known for his wisdom and bravery, Fionn mac Cumhaill. It was a lot to live up to.

“I don't see anything to talk about, Da. Lily's gone. And I'm growing up, so I like things in order now.”

He drew back, hurt, but she wasn't going to fall apart pointlessly discussing the details of her sister's stupid decision.

Any death of a loved one was a betrayal. But a deliberate death was worse . . . it was murder, selfish and monstrous. And Finn would never forgive her sister for what she had done, no matter how much Lily haunted her dreams.

“Okay, Finn. Change the subject.”

She inhaled the perfume of rain and smoke and apples. “Has it always been like this here?”

“Quiet, laid-back, uneventful? Yeah. That's why I left.”

“No. I mean
weird
. Has it always been weird?”

He peered at her with a touch of hilarity she was glad to see. “If you mean by ‘weird,' is it eccentric, yeah. But I never really noticed, growing up.” He leaned forward. “Now, I'm noticing.”

“You left to travel with Mom. Did
she
like it here, when she came to go to college?”

“No, she didn't really like it here. She was adventurous, and it was a big world. And I was seventeen and I wanted to leave.”

Finn pictured her parents, long-haired and reckless, journeying to all the exotic places in those photo albums she'd unpacked onto a shelf in the parlor. It wasn't hard to imagine the couple in the photographs as two young students in love, but it was difficult to see them as her parents.

“I think,” she said shyly, “I think
I'll
like it here.”

FINN'S ORGANIZATIONAL SKILLS WERE HAPHAZARD
at best and resulted in piles of things with uncertain destinations. Lily had hated what she'd called Finn's “lolling around”—slouching in chairs, sprawling on sofas, and generally being messy. A ballerina to the bone, Lily had had lessons on posture, had always been graceful despite her tomboyish swagger, and had also been almost obsessively neat. She could look perfect with only cherry lip-stain and Pixi eyeliner and her hair sleeked down her back.

Content and settled for the first time since the move, Finn sat on the floor of her room, unpacking. She lifted up a velvet Mad Hatter hat and set it on top of boxes containing acrylic paints and brushes. She found her favorite sweater wrapped around the funky old Leica camera she'd bought last year.

When she plucked a Nancy Drew novel from a box, she sat down on the bed. It was one of the old hardcovers that had belonged to her mom. The one she held,
The Scarlet Slipper Mystery,
had been Lily's favorite and still had a wilted bookmark in it.

All Finn's happiness drained away. The book in her arms, she curled on the bed and closed her eyes.

SHE JERKED AWAKE IN THE
dark, cold to the bone.

The terrace doors were open. That scared her, because she thought she'd locked them. For a moment, she couldn't move. Above her bed, the Leonor Fini print of the red-haired girl in her garden of goblets was crooked. Leaves had blown across the floor.

Finn really didn't want to get up; she wanted to pull the quilt over her head.

She slid to her feet and crossed the room to gaze out at the little woods behind her house. The sound of creaking metal drew her gaze down to the swing set.

Her heart jumped. A slender figure stood on one of the seats, swaying back and forth.

You can ignore him and be safe,
she told herself,
or you can live a little.

Trashing common sense, she stalked down the terrace stairs, across the lawn.

Jack Fata didn't look at her, but she thought he was smiling. His black coat billowed around him.

“You'll wake the neighbors,” she said, and wondered if he was crazy. But he wasn't the one who'd left the safety of his house to speak with a stranger.

He bestowed that dark, lavish gaze upon her, his cheek against his wrist. He said, “Do you remember my name?”

“Jack Fata. Do you know mine?”

He smiled and said, “Serafina. Finn Sullivan. A proper Irish name.”

“Don't make fun of me.”

Rose petals drifted from his hair. “Look.” He caught one in the palm of his hand. “I'm bleeding.”

She breathed carefully. “I've got coffee.”

He stopped swinging and looked at her. “Are you inviting me in?”

She thought of those stories of wicked things that couldn't cross thresholds unless invited.“Well, it's cold out here. And my da's asleep.”

He laughed, and the drowsy, dangerous look went from his eyes.

JACK FATA DIDN'T BELONG IN
her yellow kitchen. He sat on the counter, gazing warily at the rooster clock on the wall. He had refused the coffee, claiming he only wanted to get warm. His fragrance of burning things and wild roses confused her. His fine-boned hands were decorated with tarnished rings. Dark, red-tipped hair brushed against his neck as he lifted a pewter goddess she'd placed on the windowsill.

“You live here with your father?” He peered at the goddess. “Is this Isis?”

“Yes, I told you he's asleep. And, yes, that's Isis. And where are
your
parents?”

“No father. No mother.” His mournful look seemed mocking.

“Oh.” She thought he looked like someone who'd been raised by wolves or ravens. She was startled by a wistful desire to touch his wrist, where skin curved over bone. She knotted her fingers together. She was still doubtful about having him in her kitchen. “Where do you live?”

“I've a place.” He slid from the counter. He was so lithe, he made her feel clunky. His gaze scanned the things around him as if he were memorizing them. He was pale, and she wondered if he was sick, but he didn't seem so, with his curvy smile and long muscles. Finn studied different parts of him: the drowsy eyes, one of which seemed lighter than the other; the graceful throat; the curve of dark hair against his cheekbone. He had little scars, she noticed, on his hands.

“You've got a lot of books,” he suddenly said, looking at her.

“That's my da's fault. He got me addicted.”

Jack tilted his head. “I've got a fair amount of books.”

“Who are your favorites?” She watched him secretively, still wondering why someone like him was interested in someone like her.

“Arthur Machen. Angela Carter. James Branch Cabell. Kipling.”

“I like all of those. Why are you
here
?”

“I wanted to show you something.” He took a pewter locket on a chain from around his neck and handed it to her. “Open it.”

She thumbed up the lid of the locket and saw an old painting of a pretty, thin-faced Renaissance youth with long brown hair, his eyes large and soulful, his sleeves decorated with green ribbons.

“It's why I noticed you.” Jack watched her. “Because you look like him.”

“You think he's an ancestor of mine? What are the odds?” But she was pleased . . . She didn't think the young man in the painting looked like her at all. He was gorgeous.

“Actually, he was a friend.”

She gazed doubtfully down at the locket. “This looks old. He liked to play dress-up?”

“Most of my friends do.”

She said mischievously, “So d'you have a thing for him or something?”

His smile was breathtaking as he leaned toward her and whispered, “Not for
him
.”

“You don't even know me,” she whispered back.

“Why did you invite me in, Finn Sullivan?”

“Because . . . you know things.” She took a step back—being so close to him made her brain stop working. “You're different.”

“That's a terrible reason.” He smiled again.