Briar Queen (4 page)

He'd dodged her question. She didn't know whether to be awed or terrified that there were more Fatas: a reclusive nation here in America, and a court in France—she imagined decadent creatures in powdered wigs and punk-Regency clothing; then she pictured the things of tooth and claw that might hide beneath that glamour. She remembered reading about the eighteenth-century French writer George Sand, who claimed that she'd once glimpsed a gathering of werewolves in Paris. “Okay. A court of beasts.”

“The Fatas of France aren't actually beasts. Quite sophisticated, actually, and frivolous as hell, but it's a name that kept their enemies away.”

“You haven't told me what happened to the boys and gir—”

“I'm getting to that.” The ring she'd given him glinted. He'd once had a black Celtic cross tattooed on the back of that hand, but all those markings had faded when he'd been resurrected. “There is a history, in a certain region of France, of an animal that ravaged the countryside and slaughtered people during the 1700s. The Beast of Gevaudan.”

“
No
.” Finn felt a nightmare world gaping around her—she'd read about Gevaudan in her father's books. “It
ate
people, Jack.
That's
Seth Lot?
That's what's here?
Will he know we were responsible for Reiko—”

“He'll blame Phouka and Absalom, and they can defend themselves.”

“Caliban.” She spat the name and all the hope drained from his eyes. She nodded. “
He'll
tell that monster.”

“We have a small army at our backs.”

“Do you think Phouka and her
family
care? They
used
us to get rid of Reiko and her boyfriend.”

“Reiko was a danger to them with what she was doing.”

Finn studied the pretty view and wished she didn't know what she did. She changed the subject. “Why do you think Absalom is giving Anna presents?”

“Typical. I tell you the Big Bad Wolf might be here and you're thinking of someone else's welfare. I've no idea. Absalom is crazy.”

“You know he's not. He just wants people to
think
he's crazy. And I don't want to talk about your . . . ex-boss anymore.” She paused. “What's it like? To live two hundred years?”

“Appalling. You get schizo after the first sixty.”

She rested her head on his shoulder as he delicately said, “Finn. What do you want to do?”

“Go home and sleep and try not to think about wolves.”

“I mean, what do you want to do with your
life
? After college?”

“So much pressure.” She was glad he was distracting her from thinking about what might be lurking in Fair Hollow, waiting to avenge Reiko. “I don't know. Be a photographer? I want to see the world. And write about it. And find out things.”

He clasped one of her hands, his grip firm and warm. “Then that's what you'll do.”

She noticed that he said
you,
not
we,
and that troubled her.

FINN WOKE IN HER DARK ROOM
—she'd fallen asleep in her T-shirt and jeans, with Jack beside her. He slept with one arm outstretched, moonlight etching his profile, the curve of his throat. She'd never seen him so vulnerable, even when he'd been about to die on Halloween night. She settled closer to his lean body and twined her fingers around one of his wrists.

His skin was icy.

His chest wasn't moving. His eyelashes didn't flutter. His breath didn't warm her skin. She sat up, panic stealing her ability to speak.

His eyes flew open and they were absolute black.

Then his irises returned to blue and gray, and he gazed at her drowsily. “Is it morning?”

She couldn't move, but her heart was trying to jackhammer its way out of her chest.

“No,” she whispered, and she swallowed a sour rush of fear. “It's not morning.”

“I shouldn't be here.” He tugged her down against him. He wasn't cold now, as his arms went around her. She laid her head on his chest and listened to the beat of the heart he'd grown for her.

“Jack,” she whispered, “what do
you
want to do?”

“I've done everything I've wanted to do.” His voice was blurry. “It doesn't matter.”

“It matters to me.”

He didn't answer—sleep had stolen him from her once again.

The Fairies went from the world, dear,

Because men's hearts grew cold:

And only the eyes of children see

What is hidden from the old . . .

                
—
T
HE
L
ITTLE
G
OOD
P
EOPLE
: F
OLK
T
ALES OF
I
RELAND
,
K
ATHLEEN
F
OYLE

T
he blizzard raged through the town as if caught in a snow globe, howling over roofs, banging at windows, hurtling branches and garbage bins through the streets. The holiday lights strung across the main avenue sizzled and went out. Even the raucous warehouse district was silent, its bars closed, its streets deserted.

The decrepit mansion that hid in the mountain forest, snow gusting past its broken windows, over the crumbling and unidentifiable stone animals guarding its cracked stairway, was a fantastic structure of medieval mixed with baroque and was surrounded by briars with hooked thorns. It hunched amid the snowdrifts and black alders in hungry silence.

Its windows suddenly blazed with golden light that spilled over the walls, the stone animals on the stair, across the exquisite carvings of briar roses. An enchantment glazed the mansion, which repaired itself in moments as the illumination from within kissed the snow around it into a dazzling landscape of diamonds.

The doors opened and a shadow emerged.

THE BLIZZARD HAD SWATHED
Fair Hollow in a blanket of velvety cold, so Finn and her father spent the morning unpacking Christmas decorations. In the late afternoon, Sylvie texted her:

Want 2 go sledding?

FINN HADN'T PLAYED IN THE SNOW
since she was a kid. Christie and Sylvie had each brought a sled—Sylvie, an old-fashioned one from her dad's salvage shop and Christie, a modern piece of plastic. On the hills behind the park, as Christie and Sylvie, yelling and laughing, swerved down the snowy slopes, Finn pulled out her cell phone and checked for messages. Nothing from Jack.

As Christie and Sylvie trekked back up the hill, Christie, his cheeks flushed, called to Finn, “I'll race you.”

Finn accepted the challenge along with Sylvie's sled and pushed off.

As the wooden sled veered down the slope, she gained a dizzying speed. She heard Christie whoop in the distance. Glancing over one shoulder, she realized she'd gone off in an entirely different direction. She turned her head back—

—and saw the horizontal slab of rock rising out of the snow before her.

Crack!
The sled struck the rock and the impact knocked Finn, tumbling, into prickly blackberry bushes. Laughing, spitting snow from her mouth, she climbed to her feet and stared at the slab.

It was an
altar
. A pair of stag's antlers rose from a nest of ivy and pretty stones. Blue and green eggshells from wild birds were scattered around old beer bottles draped with cheap jewelry. Between a snake's skeleton and the skull of a small animal was a fan of black feathers. A stone head, androgynous and arrogant, had been crowned with red berries and leaves. The stag antlers and the snake vertebrae were a dead giveaway; this altar was a dedication to David Ryder and Reiko Fata, the Stag Knight—
Damh Ridire
—and the white serpent—
ban nathair
—who had died on Halloween night.

Finn scrutinized the shadows as fear whispered through her. It was early evening and the sun was already sinking, leaving only a cold gloom. She couldn't hear Christie and Sylvie. It was as if she'd been lured out of the world . . .

Fatas,
she thought, and all she had for protection was a silver clover charm and Christie's iron bracelet.

She blinked and
they
were suddenly standing before the altar, three silhouettes scrawled like ink against the snow. She didn't want to run or call out or do anything that might instigate violence. So she calmly spoke the true names of her visitors, to at least bring them out of the dark: “Victor. Emily. Eammon.”

The Rooks' eyes glinted silver as the darkness fell away from them. Their coats fluttered with ribbons, feathers, and talismans made from bits of old toys. Their skin matched the snow in color. Caught between life and death, as were all changelings taken by the Fatas, their appearance was horror movie disturbing.

“You think speaking our names gives you power over us?” The tall, dark-haired boy tilted his head to one side.

“No.” She didn't move because that would suggest fear. “I'm just reminding you who you really are.”

The girl sneered. Her plaited hair, black and blond, glittered with cheap barrettes. “We are the Rooks. That is who we really are.”

“And those aren't our names.” The youngest, a blond who looked as if he'd just stepped from a church window, gazed coldly at Finn. “I'm Bottle. My sister is Hip Hop. My brother is Trip. Don't use those other names again.”

“Why not?” She needed to stall them until her friends found her. “They took you away from your mother and father and put dead things in your place—”

“Shut up!” Teeth bared, Hip Hop stepped toward Finn. Bottle caught her wrist, said, “No.
He'll
know.”

Hip Hop smiled. “So? She deserves it, for what she did to our lady.”

“I didn't do anything to Reiko.” Finn's voice cracked.

“You did.” Trip put his hands in his pockets. “You killed Reiko. Our queen. And you will pay for that, Serafina Sullivan. Someone's going to make you pay. He's been waiting. Watching. He'll get you.”

Satisfied with his threat, Trip sauntered away, followed by his siblings, their boots soundless on the snow. The shadows beneath the trees swallowed their wicked, fairy-tale figures.

“Finn!”

Finn turned. Christie and Sylvie were running toward her. When Sylvie saw her face, she halted and said, “Someone else was here.”

“The Rooks.” Finn pointed to the altar. “This is their place.”

Christie stared at the Rooks' footprints in the snow.

“They're not happy.” Finn trudged toward the antique sled, which had splintered against the altar. “I owe you a sled, Sylv. Let's go home.”

“What did they say?” Sylvie helped Finn untangle the sled. “Did they threaten you?”

“Of course they threatened her.” Christie took the sled from Finn, watching her with concern. “It's what they do. It's their sole purpose. It's like they're
haunting
her.”

“They're not dead.” Finn didn't want to tell them about the Wolf. Not yet. The Rooks might have been lying.
He's been waiting. Watching
. “They're only frozen and changed—like they're becoming Fatas.”

THE HARTS' BIG VICTORIAN
was warm and cluttered, the family room's autumn-red walls hung with vintage sports posters and framed photographs of the Harts and their friends. The threadbare sectional was scattered with chew toys from the two wolfhounds and various portable electronica from Christie's six brothers, who ranged in ages from nineteen to twenty-four. Though the three oldest brothers had moved out, they visited often. The giant plasma TV was always tuned to a football game or a nature show. Heavy metal music thumped from the second floor. Two brothers were arguing amiably in the kitchen. Finn thought she heard one of them say: “ . . . no such things as mermaids.”

As Finn admired the seven-foot Christmas tree blazing with colored lights and boyish ornaments, Christie plucked a rubber squirrel and three remotes off the sectional sofa. “Sit. Sylvie's bringing food from the café near her apartment, because my mom's out and my brothers ate everything. There is
nothing
left but condiments.”

Finn sprawled on the sectional. When the doorbell rang, Christie left to answer it. He returned with Sylvie, who sported a wool hat shaped like a fox's head, its tasseled flaps concealing her ears. Christie held two carry-out bags labeled
CROOKED TREE CAFÉ
. As Sylvie unpacked the lidded paper cups and the blintzes wrapped in wax paper, she said, “These are my treat. Where's Jack?”

There was a knock on the front door and Finn said, “That's him.” She bounced
up to answer it. Jack didn't like doorbells or bells of any kind; they were something he'd once avoided, like iron, salt, and blessed objects.

She stepped over a pile of boots in the hall and opened the door to reveal Jack, in a dark coat lined with fake fur, standing there, seeming distracted and tired. She looked at the basket he carried and her mouth quirked. “Have you just come from grandmother's house?”

“Phouka attempted to make cookies. Real ones. In an oven at the hotel. I think she magicked the oven. Not the gingerbread, which are burned on the bottom.” He entered the hall and surveyed with amusement the mounds of coats and boots and backpacks. “I think she did it to unnerve all of us.”

As they walked into the family room, Jack set down the basket. “Phouka sent some treats.”

Christie walked over, peered into the basket, and drew out a deranged-looking gingerbread man, which he examined doubtfully.

From outside came the sound of glass breaking. They all glanced at the window. Past the blinds, Finn could see the empty house—now for sale—that neighbored Christie's.

“Maybe it's Mr. Redhawk's ghost,” Christie suggested. “Not the ghost of Mr. Redhawk—I mean, the ghost he told me lived in his attic.”

“There are no such things as ghosts,” Jack said reasonably. “There are only the dead, who linger for all sorts of reasons.”

Finn thought about Jack sleeping like the dead last night, and the cozy room suddenly didn't seem warm enough.

“Well, someone's been
lingering
in my neighbor's house for a while. I swear I heard someone moving stuff around in there when I was walking past, two nights ago.”

Jack's eyelashes flickered, which meant he was interested in what Christie was telling him. “I'll have to investigate.”

“Maybe it's one of your friends.”

“Maybe it's a vagrant who used to be a liberal arts major.”

Christie bit the head off one of Phouka's gingerbread men and went mutinously silent.

When they were ready to leave for the Lotus and Luna hangout, Christie and
Sylvie took Christie's Mustang, and Finn accompanied Jack in his sedan. The two cars began the half-hour drive into the mountains, along plowed roads that shimmered as if covered with white sequins.

It was Friday night, and Lotus and Luna, a restaurant that resembled a Buddhist-temple-turned-saloon, was packed. Seated at the corner table Jack had reserved were Hester Kierney and Ijio Valentine, two descendants of the families who had made a pact with Reiko and her tribe of immortal outlaws. Although referred to as the blessed, Finn saw no otherworldliness in Hester or in Ijio, only a secular glamour. Hester dressed like a 1920s starlet and wore expensive ornaments in her short, dark hair. Ijio was always in suits that seemed a bit stylish for a twenty-one-year-old. He was a philosophy major. Hester was deciding between physics and chemistry.

“You'd better get to the stage, Jack.” Ijio checked his watch. “Now. Your lead singer is very tempestuous.”

Jack bent and murmured into Finn's ear, “The
others
are here. Be careful.”

And he was gone. Finn surveyed the crowd. She could tell who the “others” were. The regular people wore stylish winter gear, but the
others
wore fur and feathers and modern incarnations of Renaissance and Victorian clothing, what Sylvie called “neo-antique.”
They
were as brightly marked as venomous snakes.

“Don't worry, Finn.” Hester was watching her. “Phouka rules them now.”

“It won't last.” Ijio drank from a silver flask. “Not with that lot.”

“What are you saying?” Finn folded her arms on the table. “Some new badass is going to come along and try to take over? Like what usually happens when a sheriff in a western dies? Anarchy?”

Christie leaned toward them with his own question. “You were both there on Halloween, to watch Finn burn. Let's not pretend you're actually friends, 'cause you're not.”

“Christie, stop.” Finn knew Hester had tried to call the police on Halloween.

“We didn't know it was going to be a
real
sacrifice,” Ijio said, genuinely upset. “We thought it was just, I don't know, a dramatization. That bitch on wheels, Reiko, said nothing about fire and death.”

“How does it work, exactly?” Christie pretended to be curious. “You clean up after the Fatas, keep their nasty secrets, ease their way into the world, and, when
you're not interesting to them anymore—when you're official grown-ups—they make you forget they exist?”