was blurry. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
He didn’t answer—sleep had stolen him from her once again.
CHAPTER 2
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 . . .
—THE LITTLE GOOD PEOPLE: FOLK TALES OF IRELAND, KATHLEEN FOYLE
The 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