trees, apples and hawthorns mostly. When a threadlike root pierces the bark, it feeds off the tree’s juices. The wood of the mistletoe has been found to have twice as much potash and phosphoric acid as the host tree.”
She set the mistletoe back down in front of Christie, who widened his eyes at Finn across the aisle. He said, “Maybe the tree thinks it’s romantic . . . the brooding sexy mistletoe sucking at its energy.”
Jane Emory leaned against her desk. “Maybe that’s the nature of parasites—to be appealing until it’s too late for the host. Now, to the black hellebore. Helleborus niger. Family: Ranunculaceae . . .”
As the class ended, Miss Emory called out, “There’ll be an exam tomorrow, on the differences between plant families, tribes, and species. And it’ll be based on the genus of each example given.”
Oh hell. Finn glumly knew she couldn’t pack that much detail into her brain.
Christie moved to Finn. “Not subtle. Comparing you to a tree and the prince of darkness to mistletoe—”
“Who said she was doing that?” Finn felt defensive; she suspected that was exactly what Jane Emory had been doing.
“I say she was doing that.” Christie saluted Miss Emory as he strode out the door.
“Finn,” Jane Emory called before Finn could slip out. She was seated on her desk, looking casually angelic. “Could I speak to you?”
“Sure.”
“I wasn’t alluding to you and Jack just now.”
“But you were alluding to something.”
“Well. Yes. I suppose I was. Not deliberately.”
“The Fatas.”
“Finn, at some point, we need to talk . . .”
Finn thought about the HallowHeart teachers who had attended the Fatas’ sacrifice, the ones who called themselves guardians, protectors of Fair Hollow’s residents. Jane Emory, who was one of those guardians, had not been there. But she had known about the Teind.
“We do need to talk,” Finn said quietly, “but not now.”
“Finn—”
“Later, Jane. Maybe.” Finn turned and walked out.
FINN STILL WORKED EVENINGS at BrambleBerry Books, but not alone. As she watched the new hire skillfully park his Chevy between a Honda and a florist’s delivery van, the sun began to set behind a bank of clouds and snow was already beginning to drift past the silent, gargoyle-decorated nightclub across the street.
As he entered, Micah Govannon—a true native of Fair Hollow with that name—shook snow from the long, tawny hair that fell over his face and smiled shyly at Finn. Slender in a dark blue sweater and tartan trousers, he wore black-rimmed glasses. There was a thin scar on his nose, and one on his neck, more on his hands, but Finn didn’t dare ask about them. He was Christie’s friend and Christie had told her Micah had been in a terrible car accident. He also played the cello, attended Saint John’s U., not HallowHeart, and was addicted to coffee.
“Is there coffee?” He unwound his scarf, which she recognized as one of Charisma Hart’s creations—Christie’s mom was a serial knitter. “Because I really need coffee.”
“In the back, but it’s instant. Mrs. Browning didn’t get to the Crooked Tree this morning.”
“It’ll do.” He strode toward the back, followed by the shop’s two resident cats. “I just finished playing a bar mitzvah.”
He returned a few seconds later, coffee in hand, to lean against the counter and look down at the book of poetry Finn was reading. “Is that interesting?”
“It’s by Augusta Danegeld.” She showed him the cover with its illustration of a black wolf tangled in briars. “Christie’s great-grandmother. Anyway, she wrote really sexy poems about mysterious, otherworldly men in Victorian times.”
“Are the poems scandalous?”
“Like Fifty Shades with button-up boots and high collars.”
A flash of reflected light made her glance out the window. A silver Rolls-Royce had pulled up in front of the Dead Kings nightclub. As music and lights glowed from beneath the building’s black shutters, the Dead Kings’ patrons, some of whom seemed to be nothing more in the dark than a drifting hand, silver eyes, luminous skin, a flicker of old jewelry, began to appear.
Micah had followed her gaze. “That’s a popular place.”
“Don’t ever go there.”
“Christie said the same thing.”
They watched as a taxi double-parked to release a young man in a pale suit and a girl in a coat of crimson velvet, her face shadowed by its wide hood. As they glided toward the Dead Kings, the young man in the white suit glanced over his shoulder.
Finn gasped, so sharply it made Micah look at her.
“Micah, I’ll be right back.” Before he could say anything, she pushed out the door and ran across