"Ah, yes, I've got me 'the shining.' I'm not the only one who noticed your tribe . . . Clive Redhawk had an idea the Fata family was otherworldly. I heard him muttering 'goddamn skinwalkers' one night when we were in BrambleBerry Books and you lot got out of a Mercedes. Skinwalkers, Jack. How unpleasant is that?"

"Redhawk-Christie's neighbor?"

"God rest his soul." Murray looked at his hands as if missing that bottle of Killian's. "He was full-blood Iroquois. This whole town is haunted, isn't it?"

"Somewhat. Murray, don't tell anyone about them."

"Do I seem eager to spend time in the cuckoo's nest? Or, if they find out, twisted up like a pretzel? Now, tell me"-Murray leaned forward-"are they a danger to us?"

"Like fire. Like wind or earth or water, if it turns against you."

"How absolutely terrifying. I've already got horseshoes hung all over my doors and iron nails in the window frames."

"A wise precaution, if a bit dated. Electricity and goodwill usually keep the Unseelie at bay. Or silver. Elder wood. Not steel though. Only pure iron."

"I've got friends here, Jack."

"And family in Scotland? You should worry more about them. The Scottish court is a bit hostile toward mortals."

"What a bloody comfort you are. And what about the little girl you're running around with?"

"Finn?" Jack felt wary. "I won't let anything happen to her."

"And Clive Redhawk? Was that a natural death?"

"As far as I know."

"Jack, if we've noticed, don't think there aren't others who haven't also clued in on what's going on. And don't think that tribe doesn't have mortal enemies who could be just as dangerous. Look at how hard-core the Puritans were about the supernatural-"

"Are you trying to tell me something in a roundabout sort of way? Because I get enough of that from my 'family.'"

"I'm just saying . . . be careful. Now, have you come to talk to that redheaded devil playing Zombie House and pretending to be a boy?"

THE DEVIL PRETENDING TO BE A BOY didn't look up from shooting zombies on the screen as Jack approached. Jack leaned against the game console and said, "You forgot to change out of that nice suit."

Absalom shrugged and grinned. "I thought I'd start a decent fashion trend."

Jack glanced around at the other teenagers in the arcade. He shouldn't be here, pretending to be one of them. Casually, he said, "You recognized Moth."

Absalom shot an on-screen ghoul, point-blank. "You and I have known each other too long, if you can read me like that."

"Who is Moth?"

Absalom slammed his hand on a button to begin another game. "He was an actor in one of Shakespeare's companies. I was a girl at the time."

"Of course you were." Jack folded his arms, still leaning against the console. "Go on."

"He betrayed me. I cursed him-damn, I did not see that zombie coming. Did you see it?"

"How," Jack spoke slowly, "did you curse him? In what way, exactly?"

"I've done it to so many people, I've kind of forgotten. I suppose that's how Lot found Moth in his travels-sensed a bit of magic, undid it, and had a pretty soldier for his army. I imagine Moth was grateful enough, in the beginning."

"What was Moth's name before you wrecked his life?"

Absalom set the plastic gun down. "I don't recall. The curse I set on Moth won't fade. Lot probably fractured it, a little. But it's still there. I can smell it, like gunpowder and molten metal."

"I wonder how Moth ended up in a dead man's attic?"

"Oh. Well, do you remember that key that helped Finn last month? Got her into all sorts of Fata things?"

"The one," Jack said softly, dangerously, "shaped like a moth?"

"I didn't turn Moth into a bloody key, but, because of my curse, whatever it was, Moth became transmutable, changeable. Someone else turned him into a handy-dandy gadget and left him for our fearless Finn."

Jack didn't flinch. "Who did it then?"

"Who seems to have an affinity for keys and insects?"

"The Black Scissors. But he's not Fata. He can't-"

"The ability to change mortals' shapes is a sin. It's what Reiko did because she was an awful person. It was her talent. The Black Scissors, being a twisted-up mortal, should not be able to mutate people."

"But you think he did."

"He was Reiko's crush, for a time. She taught him all sorts of forbidden knowledge."

Jack remembered something Moth had said: The sharp, dark man. "Of bloody course."

A teenage boy and girl passing by looked in their direction and Jack smiled at them. The girl blushed. So did the boy. Jack turned back to Absalom. "You're the one who changed Moth in the first place."

"What can I say? I'm a sinner. And I was quite awful, once."

"Maybe that gave Seth Lot and the Scissors a way to shape Moth, the poor bastard. Moth didn't seem to recognize you."

"His memories are in pieces. Curses-and life with us-do that."

"He's to be our guide in Lot's house. I need to know I can trust him, Absalom."

"Oh, you can't trust him. I'm on your side, Jack. You helped me with my snake problem, and you and Finn, I've no doubt, will cause all sorts of delightful trouble for the Wolf. Wreaking havoc on Fata rulers seems to be Finn Sullivan's calling. I'm half in love with her already."

"You want Lot dead, but you won't come with us. Like Phouka, you don't want to get your hands dirty."

"Fatas can't kill each other, you know that. We use mortals or sluagh or Grindylow. That's why Phouka won't involve herself. As for me, when I go to the Ghostlands . . . I become a terror. I'm better here. Better for all of us."

Jack mightily wished he could unhear that last part.

"You know"-Absalom's innocent mask cracked, just a little-"you'll have to slay the Wolf."

Jack turned and walked away. "I'd no intention of letting him live."

AS JACK CLIMBED OVER THE WINDOWSILL and into his apartment, he was so distracted by what he'd learned that he didn't sense he had a visitor until the coldness of the otherworld struck him like a glacier. He went still, aware of Ambrose Cassandro's misericorde in his left boot, of the Indonesian kris dagger sheathed in one sleeve.

A lamp blinked on.

Sprawled in one of his chairs was a young man who resembled an angel statue, his silver gaze all malice, his scars testimony to a violent life. His fur-lined coat was a gray pelt that brushed the floor.

"Jack." Caliban Ariel'Pan tilted his head. "How you've changed. What's it like, being a lump of blood and tears?"

"Let's skip the courtship." Jack sat on the windowsill, which brought one hand closer to the misericorde in his boot. "You here to threaten or kill?"

"I'm not here to kill you, Jack. He wants you and the schoolgirl in the Ghostlands. You're curiosities to him. Aren't you lucky-don't." Caliban leaned forward, his gaze fastened on Jack's left hand, which was sliding toward the boot and the weapon. "Right now, boy, I'm better and faster than you."

Jack straightened. In a casual tone, he asked, "What did you do to Nathan?"

"We did to him what we do to all traitors." Caliban stood. "Are you going to let me out of that window, now that I've threatened you?"

"Is that all then? Empty threats? Like visiting Finn's house the other night and getting kicked in the teeth by an aisling boy?"

Caliban sauntered toward him. "You might want to be careful of that pretty boy with the moth wings-he's insane. And he's more than an aisling."

Jack rose and stepped aside. As the crom cu swept past, Jack said, "It doesn't matter what I am. I'll find a way to end you."

Caliban smiled and the beast crept through his voice. "I expected you to say that."

His fist slammed so brutally into Jack's chest, Jack almost went out the window. He caught himself against the frame, coughed as agony shot through him. He dodged the second blow and kicked out. Caliban glided back, laughed, and lunged. Jack twisted away. He was smashed against the wall, not the window, but his head struck plaster and he nearly fell to the floor as dizziness overwhelmed him. He retched, struggled as Caliban's hands folded almost gently around his throat.

Caliban released him and rose. "It's no fun hurting you when you're breakable-well, it is, but not as much fun as it'll be taking you apart when you come to the Ghostlands. See you, Jack, you and your girl."

Caliban vanished over the sill. Jack sagged down against the wall.

The apartment was freezing-one of the mirrors in the parlor had cracked. As Jack staggered up, he glimpsed a small, dark form on his bed. His heart constricting, he strode over to find BlackJack Slade, curled and stiff, his eyes glazed with frost; the loyal cat had frozen to death from the supernatural cold Caliban had brought with him.

Jack gently wrapped the cat's body in a quilt and bent his head until his brow touched the fabric.

IT WAS EIGHT IN THE EVENING when Christie and Sylvie picked Finn up at her house, to take her to Hester Kierney's skating party. She hadn't wanted to go, but they had guilted her into it.

As Christie drove, he said, "How exactly are you going to get your sister away from a werewolf?"

"I don't know. And Seth Lot isn't a werewolf."

"Does Jack know how to find your sister?"

Finn frowned at Christie. "We've been given some things to help us locate the Wolf's house."

Christie met Finn's gaze in the rearview mirror. Finn had dressed for Hester's party in a red Renaissance-style hoodie, jeans, and a white wool hat and scarf that had been Lily's.

"You look like mistletoe: white, red, and poisonous."

"Mistletoe isn't a threat to anything supernatural, is it? Turn here, Christie." Sylvie pointed.

"Only a Nordic god named Baldur," Finn said as the Mustang curved up the drive toward an art deco house, its run-down state and age becoming apparent the closer they got-the windows, decorated with languid, stained-glass women, were grimy. The circular front stair had cracked in half. A tree was growing through one wall, but the grounds were lit up like the holidays, with colored lights spattering the snow and music pulsing. There were cars parked everywhere on the front lawn.

"Is that another one of their houses?" Finn leaned forward, intrigued. She wished she had her Leica camera.

"It was called MoonGlass by the former owners, the Kierneys, Hester's great-grandparents." Sylvie hauled her skates from the car floor.

"They just gave it up? A house like that?" The Fatas' temporal power always amazed Finn.

"They probably don't even remember why. I bet the Fatas haunted the hell out of it until nobody wanted it anymore. Like paranormal termites."

"Remember what you told me? What your mom said, Christie?" Finn studied the forlorn mansion. "The spirits used to have places in the world, caves and wells and forest groves . . ."

"Now they've got real estate." Christie parked between a Prius and a Lexus on the snowy lawn. Grimly, he said, "Let's go have fun."

They followed a plowed, lantern-lined path to the back, where a maze of tall hedges held a galaxy of tiny lights. Christie, his skates slung over one shoulder, said, "The party's on the other side."

Music and laughter threaded from beyond the hedges, so they wove through the maze, which ended at an iced-over pond glimmering with the blades of skaters and the reflections of a bonfire around which HallowHeart's elite lounged-Aubrey Drake was sprawled in a deck chair and talking to the exquisitely dressed Ijio Valentine. In a sky-blue pavilion, guests clustered around tables of treats. A generator provided power to heaters and two giant speakers. Christie indicated the DJ, a tall boy in a Dr. Seuss hat. "Is that Ricky O'Dell? You'd think, with her connections, Hester could've gotten a professional DJ."

The last time Finn had gone skating had been with her mom and Lily, on the pond near their house in Vermont. Lily had accidentally spun Finn into a tree. Finn smiled and hope roared through her. Lily was alive.

"Skate first. Food later." Sylvie sat on a bench to wrestle with her devil-red skates. She looked fashionably punk in plaid trousers and a black turtleneck. She'd streaked her hair with red. Christie, dropping down beside her, said, "Is that Victoria Tudor over there?"

Sylvie glanced at Finn. "I've counted four of Christie's exes so far. Vic Tudor is one of them. Sit, Finn, put on your skates."

"You go ahead. I'll come after."

Hester Kierney, pretty and sleek in ice blue, crossed to them from the bonfire. "I'm glad you came, Finn. Sylvie. Christie."

Christie smiled at her. "For you, Hester, I'll try to be fun again. Maybe you and I-"

"It'll never happen," Hester said, before slipping an arm through Finn's. "Let me introduce you to the rest of us."

Christie and Sylvie were already trudging toward the pond. Traitors, Finn thought, before the heat of the bonfire blasted her and she reeled back- "Finn?" Hester's eyes went wide with horror and regret. "I'm sorry."

"Nice, Hester." A curvy blonde in pink rolled her eyes and gently guided Finn to a deck chair. "Did you forget about her nearly getting barbecued on Halloween night?"

"We, uh, promised not to talk about that." A boy with brown hair swept over one eye looked over his shoulder. "Vic, get her a cocoa. You like marshmallows, Finn?"

Finn felt prickly, surrounded by the blessed, the ones even Reiko Fata hadn't dared touch. She straightened in her chair and tried to ignore the bonfire and the unpleasant memories that surfaced. "I like marshmallows."

A willowy girl who resembled the brown-haired boy handed Finn a paper cup of marshmallow-frothed chocolate. "I'm Victoria. That's Nick, my brother."

"She's met everyone else." Ijio Valentine's eyes glittered in the firelight.

"Not me." The curvy blonde sat next to Finn. "I'm Claudette Tredescant. And we want you to know, we are beyond sorry about that night."

Her stomach suddenly sour, Finn set down the untouched cocoa. "Aubrey already apologized. No hard feelings."