Thorn Jack (11 page)

Finn locked up and grinned as music pounded from the nightclub. “You've never gone in there?”

His eyes widened. “I'm afraid to.”

As they left the shop, she noticed that he wore a new wool-knit hat embroidered with Emory. His dark red hair stuck out around his face. She couldn't resist. “Your mom really does make you those hats, doesn't she?”

“Two, every winter. If you come to my house, she'll make you one for Christmas. Sylvie's gotten one with skulls on it, a Laplander hat, and a cherry blossom scarf.”

“I would
love
a hat.” Finn slid into his Mustang, quickly moving a milkshake cup before she sat on it.

Starting the engine, Christie said, “I'm taking a little detour first.”

“Did you forget to get Sylvie a present?”

“I did not.” He was indignant. “She's been hinting at a skateboard—yes, a skateboard—and I got her one, customized. The shop's in the warehouse district.”

“All I got her was a book.”

“Does the book have lots of illustrations?” Finn nodded, and he said, “She'll love it.”

No sooner had they left most of the town lights behind than the Mustang decided to seize up, spit gasoline fumes, and lurch to a halt. Christie attempted several starts, with no results other than a sick-sounding car.

“Are you
kidding
me?” He gripped the wheel. “Finn, lend me your phone.”

She handed the phone over; Christie frowned as he poked at it. He said, “Did you recharge this?”

“Yes. Let me see.” The phone was absolutely dead. “It
can't
be dead. I just charged it.” She sighed. “We'll need to walk somewhere. Wasn't there a 7-Eleven back there?”

They slid from the car, their breath misting. As they trudged up a road lined with trees and brambly bushes, Finn tilted her head back to gaze at the stars. When her gaze returned to earth, she saw a large house looming on a bank of slate knotted with ornamental bushes. The silhouettes of palm trees and Egyptian-looking statues surrounded the house. Finn remarked, “That's kitschy. Like old Hollywood.”

“That's the Sphinx.”

“This house has a name too?”

“Most of them do. Want to see?” He moved toward the steep stairway. “It's kind of interesting—no one's lived in it since the seventies.”

Finn thought,
Another abandoned house
. It was a little disturbing, all the decaying real estate around town. She trudged up the steps after Christie because she was curious, soon discovering that the palm trees were actually made of the same dark marble as the stair's sculptures—female figures with the bodies of lions. The windows were hidden by bamboo shutters, and the landscaping had been ravished by weeds. “It doesn't look bad.”

Christie said, “It belonged to the Lunehts. They came from Egypt, at least their ancestors did. Their son killed himself, so they left Fair Hollow.”

“How do you know all—”

“Sylvie has a crush on dead Thomas Luneht. You never saw that photograph in her room?”

Finn recalled the photo on the pink wall, of the Rackham boy in bell-bottom jeans, black hair framing his face. “What happened to him?”

“He loved a girl. The girl was a bitch. He couldn't live without her.”

“That's a stupid reason to die,” Finn whispered, thinking of Lily.

“So I should tell you . . . the Lunehts supposedly kept a menagerie of strange animals—”

“
Christie
. There's a light on in one of the windows.”

“You think it's a new owner? A real estate agent with a phone? Let's go find out.”

“You want to tell me why so many of these big old houses are abandoned?” Finn asked as they continued up the stairs toward the light glowing in a first-floor window.

“They're old. Expensive to keep up, much less modernize. Or weatherproof. Newcomers have money to build their own McMansions.” He looked thoughtful. “My mom says the old gods, the spirits, have no groves or grottos, caves or shrines. Now they only have cemeteries, wells, bridges. Abandoned buildings.”

“You're trying to freak me out. Stop it.”

A voice said something. They froze. Finn thought she saw a silhouette in the doorway of the house. “Christie . . .”

He looked and grabbed her hand as a boy's voice said, clear as ice, “. . . you they want . . .”

The hair stood up on Finn's neck, but she defiantly took another step up. “Hello?”

“Finn, don't—”

The front doors swung open, revealing a lamp-lit hallway. She heard the Creedence song about a bad moon rising faintly playing within the house, which didn't look abandoned.

. . .
don't come around tonight, for it's bound to take your life . . .

A figure moved at the end of the hall with its abstract paintings and chic lighting. It was only a silhouette, but it seemed . . .
wrong
. Finn took a step forward. “We need help—”

She felt nausea roil through her and stumbled back. The air began to buzz, further disconcerting her. “Christie . . .”

He tugged at her, and they fled back down the stairs. He cried out and she twisted around, reaching for him.

“Something hit my leg,” he whispered. “Finn . . .”

She looked back at the house—the doors were closed, but there was something else out here with them . . . she heard it breathing.

Someone laughed like a mutilated lunatic.

They ran toward the road and didn't stop until they reached Christie's Mustang. They were breathing like dragons by the time they slumped inside the car.

“Someone threw a
rock
at me. Christ, I'm bleeding . . .”

Finn gazed warily at the Sphinx in its shadows. “Whoever was in the house . . . they were warning us.”

“By throwing
rocks
?” Christie turned the key in the ignition. “Come on, baby, work for me.”

The engine roared to life. They looked at each other.

As they drove away, Finn glanced over her shoulder at the black bulk of the house called the Sphinx and thought of the boy who had killed himself, the one in the photo on Sylvie's wall, the one whose dark eyes had had the same haunted look as Lily's.

“WHAT IS IT?”

“That's a
kitsune,
a Japanese fox spirit.”

Finn sighed when she overheard the conversation between Christie and her da as she was coming down the stairs. Her father continued, “Your father works at the metalworking plant. In Japan, a fox divinity rules metalsmithing. It was always a sacred craft. Ironworkers were said to have connections to the otherworld— Oh, hi, Finn.”

In the hall, Christie was holding a fox mask. With its slanting eyes and mahogany spikiness, that particular mask had always unsettled Finn. As she sat on the bottom stair and laced up the black boots she'd selected to wear with her white linen dress, she said, “Put it back, Christie.”

Christie set the fox mask back on the wall. “D'you believe in spirits, Mr. Sullivan?”

Her da smiled. “No. Do you?”

“I do now—” Christie grimaced suddenly and gripped the table. “Ouch.”

“Are you okay?” Finn rose. “Let me see.”

“It's just—”

“Let me
see
.”

He pulled up the leg of his jeans and revealed a bloody hole in his ankle.

Finn and her da winced. Her father crouched down to examine the puncture. “Something's in there.”

Christie was now very pale. “Like a bullet?”

“More like a splinter. Finn, get the alcohol and that medicinal gauze—and the tweezers.”

Christie said faintly, “Does she have to get the tweezers?”

She hurried to the bathroom. When she returned with the items, her da probed the wound as Christie gripped the hall table. While she'd been gone, Christie must have told her father about the Sphinx, because her da said, “There'll be no more wandering around condemned places.”

Something popped out of the bloody, darkened skin, and Christie went absolutely white. Her da reached down, picked up the object. “I'll be damned. It's a human tooth.”

Christie swallowed. “How did it get in my goddamn ankle?”

“No idea—unless someone shot it from an air rifle. Creative, that. Finn, please don't go near that place again.”

“That is
so
wrong.” Christie's voice shook.

“We'll patch it up.” Her da rose. “You watch it for infection.”

“I'll be sure to do that, Mr. S.” Christie nodded solemnly, but his eyes were dark with panic. “Finn, did your dad tell you that our little town is filled with weirdos?”

“Like people who use human teeth as ammunition?” She nodded. “I kinda noticed the weirdo factor
long
before this, what with, you know, girls in gowns running around in the woods and theater majors holding bonfire chats.”

“What?” Christie and her father spoke at the same time and looked at her. Her father was frowning. He said, “What the hell have you been doing?”

“Getting to know your hometown.” Despite her bland tone, Finn felt a creeping uneasiness as she gazed at the gruesome projectile in her father's hand.

CHRISTIE'S FRIENDS WERE MOSTLY GIRLS
whom he had dated or an eccentric ensemble of would-be poets and athletes who were into either hockey or football. He had a wide social circle, which, like most popular beings, he seemed to take for granted.

The parents of one of his friends, Aubrey Drake, owned the Voodoo Lounge, a hangout for HallowHeart and St. John's U. students. Lime-green lamps lit murals from Caribbean folklore, and the tables and chairs were painted with images of cockatoos, palm trees, and panthers. The Drakes also owned the game store where Christie worked.

As they sat, it was Christie who brought up the Sphinx and the tooth incident, then displayed the bandaged ankle. Sylvie said it was revoltingly fascinating, then added, “You didn't tell Finn about . . .”

“He did.” Finn caught on to exactly what Sylvie was trying not to say. “The boy who killed himself at the Sphinx? I doubt he's the one who shot Christie with a bullet made from a human molar.”

“Probably some idiot kid,” Christie said, passing out the menus, “experimenting with different ways to mutilate people, living his dream.”

Sylvie looked at her. “You thought you saw Thomas Luneht's ghost?”

Finn uneasily remembered the boyish, doll-like figure in the hallway. “You saw it, Christie, didn't you?”

Christie looked down at his menu. “I saw the light on.”

“You didn't . . .” Finn couldn't understand how he'd
not
seen it.

“I believe you, Finn.”

Sylvie said, “It's weird that your car stalled out, at just that spot . . .”

“Let's talk about something else, okay?” Christie glanced up and around. “It's dead in here tonight.”

“Well, they're having an all-you-can-eat shrimp fest at the MooseJaw Restaurant.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

Finn decided to pursue the subject she wanted to discuss and attempted a casual tone. “Hey, what do you two know about the Fatas?”

Sylvie and Christie both lowered their menus to exchange a look. Christie said, “I know Jack Fata's been in prison.”

“Christie, you
don't
know that.” Sylvie swatted him with her menu.

“Maybe it was a mental institution? Drug rehabilitation? Anyway, he was away for a long time, a couple years ago.”

“It was a year he was away, and Reiko went with him. They probably went on some amazing trip to Paris or something.”

“I don't like them.” Christie frowned down at his menu.

“You like Reiko.” Finn's mouth curved. “You did a fabulous imitation of a stunned deer when she was talking to you.”

Christie narrowed his eyes at her as Sylvie asked mischievously, “Is that true, Christie?”

“Yes. It's true. She's a supermodel. I looked like an idiot. And yet Reiko gave us all invitations to her autumn fling. That was probably because of me and my effect on her.”

Sylvie rolled her eyes and set down her menu. She slid up from her chair. “I know what I want. I'm going to put on some good music.”

“Oh
no
.” Christie scraped back his chair as Sylvie walked toward a retro jukebox in the corner. “I'll have to go with her, Finn, or we'll be listening to golden oldies all night. I mean, I don't mind Guns N' Roses and Nirvana, but the one-hit wonders—”

“Stop her,” Finn said solemnly, “for all of our sakes.”

As Christie and Sylvie wandered to the jukebox, Finn, seated beneath the huge painting of a hooded figure holding a rose in its hands, read the menu and tried to decide which item would be new and delicious.

Someone sat beside her. “Finn Sullivan.”

She lowered the menu.

The platinum-haired young man from the autumn revel gazed at her. He wore a black, pin-striped suit and his eyes were colder than moonlight on a knife.

“Serafina Sullivan.” There was a faint twist of Irish to his words. “I'd like to talk to you about Nathan Clare.”

She glanced frantically at Christie and Sylvie, who were arguing over a song selection at the jukebox and hadn't noticed the new arrival. Fear prevented her from speaking.

“Look at me,” he said, and she did. There were pale freckles across his nose. His eyes were so gray they seemed silver, and his gaze held hers as he said, “Stay away from Nathan Clare or you'll see things you'll wish you hadn't. And don't think that Jack will help you—he's a wicked bastard—”

“Finn.” Christie's voice broke the platinum-haired young man's spell.

The stranger rose and faced Christie, and Sylvie, who seemed fragile in her black shift and purple Converses, her eyes large beneath her bangs. Christie, lean and sweet-faced, didn't seem any less vulnerable.