Thorn Jack (14 page)

The eerie, unformed face beneath the veil turned toward Jack, and Finn shuddered again when she thought she heard the woman sniff.

“
Cro.
” The voice creaked. “You
reek
of it.” She snapped to her feet, hissed. “
How?
How did you manage
that
?”

“Never mind, Colleen. I want to know what Phouka has said to you. About Finn. Why did she want Finn to come here?”

“You will tell me why you are ripe”—the faint voice had a crafty lilt now—“my fine Jack? Tell me how you run red.”

“Jack?” Finn had begun backing away, because the woman's words were crazy. She wanted out of the hot room and its unpleasant odors of burning wood and dead mice.

“Finn.” Jack stretched out a hand. “Don't be afraid.”

She shook her head as the woman voiced a laugh that sounded like the hunting cry of an owl and said, “Does the
luch bheag
want to know what happens to girls who run with Jacks?”

“Jack.” Finn watched the woman begin to lift the veil. “What is she—”

“Finn.” He looked at her, his eyes silvered.

She turned away before she could see what was behind that veil and ran out the door. She clattered down the stairs, out of the house, down the leafy path.

On the street, she halted, and turned to gaze at LeafStruck.

She waited for Jack because she didn't want to walk in the dark alone and because there might be worse things in the night.

JACK KNELT BEFORE THE CAILLEACH
Oidche
, who clutched her veil and murmured to herself, her honey-colored eyes half closed. White-streaked brown hair tumbled around her face, which was still that of a lovely girl.

“I frightened her.” Colleen Olive sighed. Her eyes widened and her sharp teeth bit at her bottom lip. “I did not mean to. Oh, Jack, am I such a monster?”

He gazed at her, at the young woman who had been Nathan Clare's governess, and, once, something much more to Jack. Bitter anger coiled through him. His family twisted everything.

“We are both monsters. And I think Phouka meant for you to frighten her.” He gently folded her gloved hands over the veil. “Did Phouka tell you anything about her?”

“Nothing, Jack. Nothing at all.”

AS FINN SULLENLY WATCHED JACK
stroll toward her from the shadows of LeafStruck, he idly said, “So you've met Colleen Olive.”

“Are they all crazy? Your family?”

“Not all. And she's more of a distant cousin.”

“Well, you succeeded in scaring me, Jack Fata.” She whirled and strode to her bike. She yanked it up and began walking it. “But your other cousin or whatever already did a good job of it.”

He caught up to her, striding beside her. “My cousin . . . ?”

“The one with the pale hair, all
American Psycho
?”

“Caliban.”

“That's his real name?”

“That's his real name. So, you see”—his voice was soft—“what we're like now, don't you?”

“There's eccentric, Jack, and there's crazy.”

“And which do you think we are?”

“Your family?” She turned on him and felt suddenly as if she was losing something she'd never find again. She tried not to sound desperate. “Or us?
Why
did you take me in there?”

“Do you still think I'm a vamp—”

“No, of course not.” She clutched the bike's handlebars. “I was stupid, okay?”

He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, and his rings glinted. He dropped his hand and said, “Would you like to watch some old movies at my place?”

“You mean in the movie theater?” She considered this. “What movies?”

“There used to be a studio here in the 1920s. I've got some reels.”

“Silent films? Like on a projector?”

He turned away, as he said, “My car's parked over here. We'll put your bike in the backseat. Coming?”

She thought she shouldn't. But he was a mystery she desperately wanted to solve, and talking to him was fascinating. She steered the bike toward him and said, “Can we get something to eat first?”

He looked blank for a moment. Then: “Food. Right.”

HE DROVE THEM TO MAX'S
Diner, a streamlined throwback with a '50s theme. She ordered a hamburger, a shake, and fries and watched as he made origami animals out of paper napkins. She frowned. “You sure you're not hungry?”

He flashed a smile. “I'm good.”

“So what are the movies?” There was an unspoken agreement between them not to talk about his family, and she was frustrated by it, but she'd follow his rules.

“They don't really have names. Most were never released; you won't recognize the actors.”

“Any westerns?”

“Some.”

She narrowed her eyes, curled one hand into a gun shape, aimed it at him. “None as good as Clint Eastwood's.”

He grinned. “None of the heroes in silent films smacked women around or spit on dogs.”

“But that's what makes spaghetti westerns so awesome.” She twirled her straw in her milkshake. “The antiheroes.”

“Girls these days.” He shook his head. “Being an antihero—would that make
me
awesome?”

“What's attractive in fiction isn't necessarily attractive in real life.”

He nodded. “The Wild West was dirty and brutal.”

“And knights in shining armor were jerks.”

“And pirates were nautical psychopaths.”

Finn liked this truce between them. “Let's go watch some old-timey cinema.”

THE THEATER BELOW HIS APARTMENT
smelled like stone and mold. Two lamps were lit near the doors. The baroque charm had been preserved by Jack, because some of his friends—the vagabond theater majors, no doubt—loved old movies. The plush seats and gilt details were well cared for, and the perennial fairies and gnomes gilded the area where the screen cranked down.

As Finn watched shaky images of raccoon-eyed starlets and actors, Jack occasionally left her to change the reels. When a pretty outlaw in black stalked across the screen, she saw a light flicker in a corner of the theater and thought of the restroom in the Caribbean restaurant and what she'd seen there, that black-furred hand that might not have been her imagination. She ignored the glimmering and wondered if a person could
will
away crazy.

Jack settled beside her. He leaned toward her and began explaining the plots and actors, whom he seemed to know a lot about despite their being unknown. She listened, distracted by his closeness, his voice. She hadn't really told anyone about her friendship with him, although Christie and Sylvie seemed to suspect.

“It was called StarDust Studios,” he said, close to her ear. “It was owned by Malcolm Tirnagoth's wife, a troubled soul.”

“How come none of these actors became famous?”

“A couple of them did—only not in a good way.” He looked back at the screen, where a new melodrama was beginning. She saw an art nouveau room and a young man standing with his back to the camera. He began to turn—

Jack was out of his seat so quickly, she only noticed he was gone when the film cut off. She twisted around to see him fiddling with the projector. “Hey! I was watching that.”

“It's broken.”

She rose and walked to him. He was setting aside the film reel in red casing and choosing another. She picked up the red reel. “Can't you fix it?”

“No.” He didn't look up from fiddling with the projector. His coat was off and his sleeves rolled up. Dark hair swept across his profile and he wouldn't look at her. She realized he didn't
want
her to see what was in the crimson reel. She opened it and examined the strip. “It seems fine.”

He looked at her, and his eyes were very dark. “Finn, I said it's broken.”

She continued to hold it out. “Put it back on.”

“It's 1920s porn.”

“You know how I can tell when you lie? You won't look at me.”

He was tight-lipped and grim—and he wouldn't look at her.

Quietly, she said, “One of your ancestors is in it, right? A look-alike. I want to see the rest.”

He straightened, took the reel from her, and flung it into the shadows.

“Unbelievable.” She turned and stalked toward the exit. “I'll bike home.”

He called after her, “Emotional blackmail won't work!”

She pushed through the doors, back into her world.

WHEN THE YOUNG MAN WITH
the long, platinum hair and the quicksilver eyes had swaggered up to her at the autumn revel, Angyll Weaver had forgotten all about Christie Hart the jerk. She was currently ignoring her scowling little sister.

“He's bad.”

“Yeah, he is—that's why I want him around.” Angyll didn't look up from her iPhone. “He didn't give me a number though, or e-mail. That's weird. But interesting.”

Anna lingered in the bedroom doorway. “Angyll . . .”

“You are
so
annoying.” Angyll flounced up, gently shoved her sister back, and shut the door.

Caliban was a Fata. Angyll had kept a wary distance from Reiko Fata and her sexy brother and the others in that bizarro family she'd scornfully dismissed as wealthy inbreeds. But Caliban had taken an interest in her. He'd told her to meet him in Soldiers' Gate Cemetery, if she dared. She'd hesitated, sensibly, then shrugged and decided to send a text to a few of her friends, letting them know. That would cover the safety issue, and she had the pepper spray Kevin Gilchriste had given her.

She selected a coat, a silky silver dress, and heels that would match.

AT DUSK, ANGYLL WEAVER SLID
through the iron bars and into Soldiers' Gate Cemetery. The thrill of doing something reckless made her feel brave as she threaded through the tombstones. A chilly wind sliced across her skin as she called his name.

“Here.” Caliban Fata sat on the base of a headless statue. He leaped down and approached her. Angyll shivered as he clasped her hands in his. He wore a ring on every finger, and they looked like they'd belonged to kings.

“Look at you, all shiny and glittery.” His smile was ferocious.

“You said you'd show me something amazing . . . and it better not be a sex thing.”

He raised a finger to his lips. He turned and, still holding one of her hands, led her through the tombstones. She felt a little shiver of fear, but he looked back at her like some gorgeous, evil angel, and she decided they'd be perfect together.

He stopped in front of a mausoleum with a female sphinx on its roof and a stone door with the word
Luneht
carved on it.

“Luneht.” Angyll moved up the steps, then twirled to face him. “You trying to scare me? I know the story—their son was led away into the woods and he came back different. He hung himself from an oak tree.”

“Actually, it was an elder tree. Witches like elder trees.”

“This isn't the amazing thing, is it?” She idly kicked the door.

“That's not it.” He moved up the steps toward her. His voice was husky. “Brave girl.”

She laughed, giddy.

Then he kissed her. His mouth was cold. His fingers were brutal as they twisted in her hair. She shuddered against him. He nipped at her ear and whispered something so low she couldn't understand. She said, “What?”

He leaned closer and spoke clearly, “You are such a boring, hollow, selfish thing.”

She flinched. “What are you talking about?”

He spat in the grass. “I'll have to wash my hair now that you've had your fingers in it, and drink wine to get the taste of you out of my mouth.”

She couldn't believe this was happening, couldn't imagine a more horrifying humiliation.

“You made me come here . . . for
this
?” She backed away. “They set me up, didn't they? Christie and his two
bitches . . .”

“That's not why I brought you here.” He walked to the door of the tomb and traced the name. “Thomas Luneht wasn't a witch. He was a fighter. He fought me when I strung him up. I didn't even have to lure him—he came right at me.”

Angyll went very still.

Caliban turned and smiled at her. “He was one of my favorites—pretty and young and he thought he was clever.”

Her eyes fixed on his face, Angyll backed down one step. “Stop it.”

Caliban raised one hand, indicating the ring on his middle finger. “That was his.” He lowered the hand and looked admiringly down at it. “I've got a ring for each of my favorite ones . . . if they didn't have rings, I had one made from something on their body. This was from a Greek shepherdess. This was from an Iroquois brave. I made him drink his own blood. This is my best—this girl loved me. For a whole year. I think I ate her. And this ruby is from a boy who thought I would save him from another of my kind. He was wrong.”

Angyll shook her head and took another step down. “Stop.
Stop it
.”

“You want to see something amazing now?” He grinned.

She saw his shadow twisting and bleeding into a doglike form over the grass. She didn't look at him because she sensed what had happened—the lovely statue of Cal Fata had broken open to reveal something else.

She turned and ran for her life. As she hurtled among the tombstones, she felt something silvery and cold chasing her, becoming solid, massive, hungry. She didn't look back. She didn't dare.

She fumbled for the pepper spray in her purse, twisted around to use it—

A stone tilted beneath her foot. She screamed as she fell.

Her head struck granite, and blood splashed the face of a marble cherub perched on a grave.

THE DECAYING WEST WALL OF
the Tirnagoth Hotel's ballroom was painted with a mural depicting a crowned man in armor holding a staff topped with a human skull. Wolves surrounded him, and in the shadows of a nearby forest, a woman in red watched, black hair veiling her face. Her bare arms were painted with inky spirals. In the mural's center was a boy in a green tunic and a wreath of flowers. He was crouched in the branches of a tree, his hair citrus-bright.