Free Thorn Jack by Katherine Harbour Page A

“You’re early.”
    He shrugged. “I wanted to look around. Do you get a discount?”
    â€œFifty percent. Mrs. Browning is very generous.”
    ABOUT A HALF HOUR LATER, Finn said good-bye to Mrs. Browning, and she and Christie stepped into the night rumbling with music from the gargoyle building. As they walked past cars jammed in tight rows along the curbs, she looked back at the building. “What is that place?”
    â€œIt’s a nightclub. It’s called the Dead Kings. Let’s go; I’m hungry.”
    Finn, whose small, gypsy world had included few boys, wondered why Christie was always hungry. She thought of Jack Fata again and pushed her hands into her coat pockets. “So . . . what do you know about Jack Fata?”
    He gave her a careful look. “Well, he’s Reiko Fata’s. And she’s the great-granddaughter of Malcolm Tirnagoth—the devil worshipper? The one who tried to bring back his kids, they were the walking dead, et cetera?”
    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.”
    â€œMr. 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?”
    â€œWhy’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.”
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œWhy do you think Reiko Fata would get her poor and crazy relatives to threaten you? Why not just give us invitations?”
    â€œThey 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?”
    â€œDon’t say my name unless you mean it, Phouka.” The young man smiled,