Sylvie that she herself was partly to blame for Jack’s reluctance, because she was still afraid of what he’d been.
“Maybe he’s really, really Catholic.”
“It’s like prom night all over again.” Finn clenched the straw between her teeth, remembering her first boyfriend, Daniel Osborne, blond and shy. “My sister followed me and knocked on the window of my boyfriend’s car when things were getting interesting . . . he ended up sneaking into my room one summer afternoon. Afterwards, we had Popsicles.”
“He climbed into your room? Is that a thing with you?”
“Obviously.”
“Aubrey was my first. In his family’s beach cottage. There’s something sexy about summer, isn’t there? I felt like a real grown-up. Then I screwed things up when I kissed his brother, who’s two years younger than me.”
“You cougar, you.”
“Speaking of wild animals . . .” Sylvie’s voice hushed. “Do you really think that was Caliban last night? And you find this naked and stunned Moth person in Mr. Redhawk’s house, and it doesn’t occur to you that he might be a double agent or something?”
That morning, on the walk to HallowHeart, Finn had told Christie and Sylvie about Caliban’s visit and Moth’s true nature. They were quiet afterward, which meant they were upset. And I haven’t even told them about Seth Lot.
“I don’t know, Sylv. I hope not. On both counts.”
ON THE STAIRWAY of Armitrage Hall later that afternoon, Christie proved he still hadn’t grown as a person as he, Finn, and Sylvie watched Jack striding toward them. “Here comes the prince of darkness.”
“Will you stop calling him that?”
“I still say you’re a lucky bastard.” Sylvie ignored Christie’s narrow-eyed glance in her direction.
Jack looked as fine as ever in his greatcoat and windswept regality, and, as usual, the sight of him made Finn feel as if her world had righted itself. He nodded to Sylvie and Christie before saying, to Finn, “I’m going to Tirnagoth tonight.”
She heard her named called and turned. Hester Kierney, stylish in a cashmere coat of electric blue, was walking in their direction. She extended a glittering, white envelope toward Finn. “For you and your friends. An invite to my winter party.”
“Hester.” Jack nodded once.
“Jack.”
“Don’t take it,” Christie warned Finn. “You never know what happens at those things . . . human sacrifices and so on.”
“You’ll notice”—Hester didn’t look at Christie and her smile didn’t falter—“I didn’t give the invitation to you, Christie Hart. Hello, Sylvie.”
“Hey, Hester.”
“Thank you.” Finn considered the envelope.
“It’ll be fun. I promise. An oasis amid the stress of midterm exams.”
“And will any Fatas be attending this oasis, Hester?” Christie smiled.
“Yes, Christie, they will.” Hester strode away. Then she paused, and turned, and walking backward, said, “Bring your skates, if you’ve got any. And Christie . . . try to be fun again.”
“Smackdown.” Sylvie looked at Christie, who ruefully murmured, “She’s never forgiven me for breaking up with her when we were seven. So. Jack. Who’s going to take Caliban down? I don’t really care about Moth. I mean, he only tried to kill you, so . . .”
“Christie.” Finn cast a stern glance at him. “When Moth tried to kill Jack, he said a dark-haired girl had sent him.”
Christie went pale. “Reiko?”
“No.” Sylvie frowned. “Reiko’s dead. She burned.”
Christie glanced at Jack. “You said there are no human ghosts. What about Fata ones?”
“It’s not Reiko. There might be more than one dark-haired girl who wants me dead. And Fatas don’t become ghosts. Finn, I’ll walk you home after I’ve spoke to Cruithnear and you’re done with class?”
“You can walk me to work.” Finn tried not to let the idea of a ghost Reiko trouble her—she had enough to worry about.
“MISTLETOE.” PROFESSOR JANE EMORY MOVED among the lab tables. Every student had in front of him or her some sort of winter plant with a little card describing it: poinsettias, holly, ivy, miniature fir trees, and the mistletoe. Finn had gotten black hellebore.
“Each plant symbolizes life in winter, breath beneath the snow, existence continuing in a hostile environment. The mistletoe. Viscum album. Family: Loranthaceae.” Miss Emory lifted Christie’s plant and smiled as a few students whistled. Christie sprawled back in his chair. He’d dropped one of his courses for botany because he claimed it seemed more exciting. Finn suspected he just had a crush on golden Jane Emory.
Professor Emory waved a chiding forefinger at them. “The mistletoe is a vampire, feeding on the life of its host—a tree—making the tree’s vital energy its own. How does it do this? It grows on old