dead things in your placeââ
âShut up!â Teeth bared, Hip Hop stepped toward Finn. Bottle caught her wrist, said, âNo. Heâll know.â
Hip Hop smiled. âSo? She deserves it, for what she did to our lady.â
âI didnât do anything to Reiko.â Finnâs voice cracked.
âYou did.â Trip put his hands in his pockets. âYou killed Reiko. Our queen. And you will pay for that, Serafina Sullivan. Someoneâs going to make you pay. Heâs been waiting. Watching. Heâll get you.â
Satisfied with his threat, Trip sauntered away, followed by his siblings, their boots soundless on the snow. The shadows beneath the trees swallowed their wicked, fairy-tale figures.
âFinn!â
Finn turned. Christie and Sylvie were running toward her. When Sylvie saw her face, she halted and said, âSomeone else was here.â
âThe Rooks.â Finn pointed to the altar. âThis is their place.â
Christie stared at the Rooksâ footprints in the snow.
âTheyâre not happy.â Finn trudged toward the antique sled, which had splintered against the altar. âI owe you a sled, Sylv. Letâs go home.â
âWhat did they say?â Sylvie helped Finn untangle the sled. âDid they threaten you?â
âOf course they threatened her.â Christie took the sled from Finn, watching her with concern. âItâs what they do. Itâs their sole purpose. Itâs like theyâre haunting her.â
âTheyâre not dead.â Finn didnât want to tell them about the Wolf. Not yet. The Rooks might have been lying. Heâs been waiting. Watching . âTheyâre only frozen and changedâlike theyâre becoming Fatas.â
THE HARTSâ BIG VICTORIAN was warm and cluttered, the family roomâs autumn-red walls hung with vintage sports posters and framed photographs of the Harts and their friends. The threadbare sectional was scattered with chew toys from the two wolfhounds and various portable electronica from Christieâs six brothers, who ranged in ages from nineteen to twenty-four. Though the three oldest brothers had moved out, they visited often. The giant plasma TV was always tuned to a football game or a nature show. Heavy metal music thumped from the second floor. Two brothers were arguing amiably in the kitchen. Finn thought she heard one of them say: â . . . no such things as mermaids.â
As Finn admired the seven-foot Christmas tree blazing with colored lights and boyish ornaments, Christie plucked a rubber squirrel and three remotes off the sectional sofa. âSit. Sylvieâs bringing food from the café near her apartment, because my momâs out and my brothers ate everything. There is nothing left but condiments.â
Finn sprawled on the sectional. When the doorbell rang, Christie left to answer it. He returned with Sylvie, who sported a wool hat shaped like a foxâs head, its tasseled flaps concealing her ears. Christie held two carry-out bags labeled CROOKED TREE CAFÃ . As Sylvie unpacked the lidded paper cups and the blintzes wrapped in wax paper, she said, âThese are my treat. Whereâs Jack?â
There was a knock on the front door and Finn said, âThatâs him.â She bouncedup to answer it. Jack didnât like doorbells or bells of any kind; they were something heâd once avoided, like iron, salt, and blessed objects.
She stepped over a pile of boots in the hall and opened the door to reveal Jack, in a dark coat lined with fake fur, standing there, seeming distracted and tired. She looked at the basket he carried and her mouth quirked. âHave you just come from grandmotherâs house?â
âPhouka attempted to make cookies. Real ones. In an oven at the hotel. I think she magicked the oven. Not the gingerbread, which are burned on the bottom.â He entered the hall and surveyed with amusement