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 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 the street.

At the entrance to the Dead Kings, Mr. Wyatt, HallowHeart's metalworking instructor and the Dead Kings' bouncer, politely stepped in her way. His dreadlocks glittered with snow. "No."

"Mr. Wyatt, someone I know is in there. Please-"

"Perhaps, Miss Sullivan"-his voice was gentle-"you were mistaken."

"I wasn't mistaken." Her voice shook. "I'll wait outside all night if you don't let me in."

He raised a charcoal-colored cell phone. "I have your father's number. From Professor Avaline. Shall I call him?"

Defeated, she stepped away. She trudged back toward the bookshop, where a concerned Micah stood in the doorway. He said quietly, "You just told me not to go in there."

"I know." Inside the shop, she dug her cell phone from her backpack and pushed Jack's number. He answered. She said, "Could you come to the bookstore?"

Jack arrived shortly, sweeping into the shop with snow flecking his navy greatcoat. He shook Micah's hand when Finn introduced him, before turning to her, his eyes dark, and asking, "What happened?"

She pointed to the Dead Kings. "I need to get in there."

"Why?"

"Can I tell you later?"

He frowned at her. Then he headed for the door. "I'll ask again as soon as we're in."

Finn grabbed her coat. "I'm sorry, Micah. I've got to leave an hour early-Mrs. Browning'll be back soon."

"Go on." He accompanied them to the door. "Good luck with whatever you're doing, because I'm not going to ask."

She hurried after Jack, across the street, and caught up to him in front of the Dead Kings, where Mr. Wyatt eyed them with a wry cynicism that told her he'd expected this.

"Wyatt." Jack inclined his head. The metalsmith did the same-they were like two samurai about to unsheathe their swords. Jack continued, "A wrong was done to Finn Sullivan on Halloween night. Phouka says she is to be given what she wants."

"Well, if the Banrion says . . ." Mr. Wyatt pushed open the door and mockingly ushered them through.

As they strode down the crimson hall toward the inner doors painted with an image of a fairy knight, Jack, without looking at Finn, said, "I'm asking now."

"I saw my sister's boyfriend come in here with a Fata girl."

"Leander Cyrus." His mouth a grim line, Jack shoved open the doors.

"Yeah. You remembered his name."

Dub music with a Celtic influence pulsed around them as they stepped into the crowded club, where blue-green light smeared the faces of dancers and the skin of those lingering at the glass bar. Lining a wall painted with a mural of an art nouveau king and queen were shelves of exotic liqueurs in fantastically shaped bottles. Finn kept close to Jack, her face shadowed by the cowl of her Renaissance-styled hoodie. She said in his ear, "You don't know what Leander looks like."

"I've seen photos of him, in your room." He scanned the crowd. "There are some bad people here tonight."

Finn ducked her head as a young man in black moved past them. His eyes glinted white, not silver. A girl with blue hair and a blue band painted around the bottom half of her face glided past Jack, her lips parting as she looked him over. On the stage set up for live music, a bare-chested youth with cropped hair and spirals painted beneath his eyes grabbed the microphone. Accompanied by drums and an electric guitar, his voice was a howl that sent splinters into Finn's already raw nerves.

"The Unseelie," Jack said. "No wonder Wyatt didn't want us in here."

"Leander is here. There!" She'd caught sight of a flash of golden hair in the eerie light near the stage. She grabbed Jack's hand and pulled him with her.

One of the dancers jostled her and she lost her grip on Jack, then turned to see him gazing after a female figure in a hooded coat of crimson velvet. Finn remembered the girl Leander had come with and pushed toward her, glimpsing the girl's face, strangely familiar- Someone seized Finn's other hand. She whirled to face a grinning young man with bleached hair and ram horns strapped to his head. His bare chest glistened with green spirals. "Well, hello, pretty pretty. However did a thing like you get past the guard dog?"

"Let go of me." She tugged, but his grip was like steel. His nails, painted green, were sharp. She looked up into silver eyes with rectangular pupils and began to feel that strange buzzing in her ears . . .

Then Jack was between them like a slice of dark murder and the Fata had let go of her hand and was backing away, saying, "Sorry. I didn't know . . ."

Finn had spotted the golden-haired figure in the pale suit moving up a flight of stairs. She broke free from Jack and wove through the Fatas, heard Jack swear violently as he plunged after her. She ran up the stairs and he followed. Pushing through a stained-glass door, she stepped onto the roof.

The figure in the pale suit stood with his back to them, his head bowed. Hoarsely, he said, "Why are you following me?"

"Leander." Finn moved forward. "It's me . . . Finn."

Jack stood in the doorway. In a voice like a knife, he said, "Cyrus. Turn around, face her, and tell her what you are."

Leander Cyrus shuddered and turned, shoving his hands through his hair. When Finn saw all the rings he wore, a slow horror crawled through her. She walked across the rooftop and reached out to touch his wrist, carefully wrapping her fingers around it. She breathed out in relief when she felt his pulse. "Leander-"

"Why," he whispered, lifting a dark gaze to hers, "why are you here? With him?"

Jack. He meant Jack. As if he knew what Jack had been. She said, "My da and I moved here a few months ago. Why are you here?"

His hand in hers was cold and his fingernails were dirty. His hair didn't look too clean either. His suit was expensive, but threadbare. He whispered, "I came here to kill a wolf."

He raised his head, and she stepped back with a small cry-his eyes glinted the mercury silver of a Fata's and the scent of oceans and flowers came so strongly from him, it made her choke. She recognized the flower smell, spicy and delicate-morning glories, which had once grown outside of her window in San Francisco.

"Finn." Jack's voice was soft. "I hoped I would never have to tell you."

"You knew? You knew what happened to him? Jack."

"I recognized the name when you first spoke it."

"Recognized the . . ."

She looked back at Leander, the kind, familiar young man who had been an older brother to her younger self, the one who'd taught her how to use a camera, who had taken her to old movies, and who'd comforted her whenever she'd cried over a cruel remark from Lily.

Leander Cyrus was a Jack. He had always been a Jack.

"You never saw him in the day, Finn. You never noticed because you were a child, and to a child, a Jack's habits would not seem so odd."

Leander stepped back. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Finn."

She flew at him, pummeling him, and he didn't try to defend himself as she shouted, "What did you do to my sister! What did you do?"

Then Jack's arms were around her, pulling her away.

"Finn," Jack said calmly, "he's bleeding."

She saw the blood on Leander's mouth where one of her flailing fists had struck. Her eyes wide, she whispered, "Leander . . ."

He backed away.

"Why are you bleeding if you're a Jack?" She reached out, gripping his hand- -and was knocked out of herself . . . as if someone had snatched her soul from her body and flung it above a winter forest from which rose a mansion of leprous marble, with stone wolves on the cloven stairway and shadows moving behind windows that were nothing more than shards of glass. It was a phantom house and, as the sun set, it glowed with light, transforming . . .

Then she was inside the house and knew she could never leave it as she walked its corridors, a gown of smoke and belladonna petals billowing around her legs. When she halted before a colossal mirror of tarnished glass, she saw a ghost, its dark hair snarled with lilies, its face in shadow. Soon, he would come, to lay his fine, jeweled hands upon her- She was jarred back to herself, on her knees, with Jack crouched before her, gripping her shoulders, speaking her name over and over again. She retched, gasped, "I'm okay."

"You didn't tell her?" Leander's voice was wild.

"Tell her what?" Jack snarled.

Leander shook his head. "Just keep her away from them . . ."

He turned and stepped up onto the low wall of the roof. Finn screamed, "Leander!"

He jumped.