but you’ll never be the same if you survive. Tonight, you encountered a Grindylow—that’s only a fragment of what waits for you in the Ghostlands.”
Terror clawed Finn’s breath away as she considered what she would really have to do, where she would have to go.
The lights flickered out. For a moment, it became very cold, and Finn was reminded that what sat opposite her was a shadow creature wearing a young woman’s form. Then the warmth and the lamplight stabilized as Fata reality returned and Finn said, steadily, “Do you think I’m the same now as I was before Jack? I can do this.”
Phouka glanced out the window, at the silhouettes of the revelers in the courtyard. Her voice was calm. “And Jack. Let’s discuss the circumstances surrounding Jack’s resurrection. None of us know how he survived the divine fire, how he became temporarily mortal—and, yes, I mean temporary, because he’s already changing back—and that makes him dangerous to us.”
“Changing back?” No, Finn thought, but she had seen him lose his shadow, felt his heart and breath stop.
“If you go into the Ghostlands, you may lose him to what he once was. You might not find your sister, or succeed in rescuing her. You dislike me for saying these things, but I’m warning you—the Madadh aillaid, Seth Lot, was held at bay by Reiko and David Ryder. He’s the thing in the dark, the beast in the forest. He is the Erl King.”
“And Caliban works for him. Caliban came to my house . . . I think. There were animal prints in the snow. And Moth . . . Moth was out there and fought him off.”
“Then Moth is more than he seems. Did you see this happen?”
“No.”
“And Leander Cyrus? Have you had contact with him?”
“A little.”
“I don’t like any of this.” Phouka rose and began to pace. Finn, who had never seen the cool Fata girl nervous, found it alarming.
“Leander bleeds.” Finn stood to face her. “I think he still loves my sister. You know I’ll find a way to get there.”
“For us, there are many ways into the Taibhse na Tir. It’s our element. I’ve shut most of those ways. For your kind, there’s only one entrance now.”
“Okay. A bargain then—”
“No.” Phouka’s eyes darkened and she almost seemed like the girl she might once have been. “You poor mortals, with all your heartweaving and unraveling. There’ll be no bargain. I’ll help you because you already did me a good turn on All Hallows’ Eve.”
PHOUKA WANTED TO SPEAK TO JACK ALONE, so Finn and Moth stepped onto a terrace overlooking the revel in the courtyard, where bonfires roared in stone urns and lanterns of colored glass hung from the trees. A young man in a floor-length dark coat was playing a fiddle while a wiry man with black-and-gold hair beat at drums. Finn recognized the fiddler as Farouche the love-talker, one of Jack’s friends, the one who had lured Sylvie into Reiko’s spell. She still didn’t understand Fata allegiances—they seemed to be loyal to no one but themselves.
Moth frowned down at the revelers, all of whom were either masked, tattooed, or wearing elaborate face paint. Finn, who had finally stopped feeling the effects from the encounter with the Grindylow, suspected the adrenaline spike now keeping her alert would also prevent her from sleeping. “I’m sorry, Moth, for what happened to you.”
He raised his head and looked at her. “Finn—”
A girl in a sleeveless black gown moved up the terrace stairs, her hair the color of the marigolds wreathing it. She smiled. “Serafina Sullivan. Hullo—I’m Aurora Sae, one of Jack’s friends. We haven’t met properly.”
“Hello.” Finn reluctantly clasped the Fata girl’s hand.
“I’m glad”—Aurora Sae smiled—“that you had a better trick than Reiko.”
The fiddler in the long coat was swaggering toward the terrace, blood-red hair sweeping over his face in the snowy wind. He bounded up the stairs, bowed briefly, and said, “No hard feelings, serpent slayer?”
“No hard feelings?” Finn felt snarly. “You terrorized one friend and handed both to the Grindylow.”
“Farouche!” Aurora Sae pushed at him, seeming genuinely angry.
“It was the Teind and Reiko was my queen.” Farouche shook his hair back from a face that would have been beautiful if he wasn’t what he was. “I couldn’t not do what she wanted.” He smiled at Moth. “Who is your sullen friend?”
Moth leaned against a wall painted with a mural of a winged boy burning a butterfly. He didn’t answer. If he didn’t recognize Farouche, he recognized what he was.
“We’re