Jack, the giant-killer Read Online Free PDF Page B

to make spells with.”
    “I don’t have a secret name—just the one I told you.”
    “Oh? Well, you best keep the rest of your name to yourself in future, Jacky Rowan. You never know who’s listening, if you get my meaning.” He looked up from his work and fixed her with a glare that, she supposed, was meant to convey his seriousness. What it did do was succeed in frightening her.
    “I… I’ll remember that.”
    “Good. Now let’s start again. The cap. Where did you get Tom’s cap?”
    Watching him stitch, Jacky told him all that she’d seen— or thought she’d seen—two nights ago. Finn paused when she was done and shook his head.
    “Oh, that’s bad,” he said. “That’s very bad. Poor Tom. He was a kind old hob and never a moment’s trouble. I didn’t know him well, but my brother used to gad about with him.” He sighed, then looked at her.
    “and it’s bad for you, too, Jacky Rowan. They’ve marked you now.”
    Jacky leaned forward and lost her balance. She would have tumbled to the ground if Finn hadn’t shot out a gnarled hand and plucked her from the air. He set her back down on her branch and gave her a quick grin that was more unhappy than cheerful. It did nothing to set her at ease.
    “Who… who’s marked me?”
    “The Host—the Unseelie Court, who else? Why do you think I’m talking to you, girl? Why do you think I’m helping you? I’d sooner take a crack in the head from a big stick before letting anyone fall into their clutches.”
    “You’ve mentioned them before. Who or what are they?”
    Finn tied off the last stitch on her jacket and passed it over. “Put this on first and give me your shoes.”
    “What did you do to my jacket?” she asked.
    “Stitched a hob spell into it. Now when you’re wearing it, mortals won’t see you at all, day or night, and neither will faerie, not the Laird’s folk, nor the Host.” He took her sneakers as she passed them to him, one by one, and went on. “Now the Laird’s folk—those who follow Kinrowan’s banner here—are sometimes called the Seelie Court. That comes from the old language, you know, and it means happy or blessed. But the Unseelie Court is made up of bogans and the sluagh—the restless dead—and other grim folk.
    “We followed you here, followed your forefathers when they first came to these shores. Then we shared the land with the spirits who were here first, until they withdrew into their Otherworlds and left this world to us. We live in the cities mostly, close to men, for it’s said we depend on their belief to keep us hale. I don’t know how true that tale is, but time has played its mischief on us and we dwindle now—at least the Laird’s folk do—while those of the Unseelie Court—
    oh, there’s scarce a day goes by that doesn’t strengthen them.”
    “But I don’t know anybody who believes in any of you,” Jacky protested.
    “Now, that’s where you’re wrong. There’s few that believe in the Laird’s folk, that’s too true, but the Host… I’ve seen the books you read, the movies you see. They speak of the undead and of every horror that ever served in Gyre the Elder’s Court. Your people might not say they believe when you ask them, but just their reading those books, watching those movies…
    Jacky Rowan, every time they do, they strengthen our enemy and make us weak.
    “We’re few and very few now, while the Host has never been stronger. They’re driving us from the cities and you’ve seen the Big Man yourself, just standing there, waiting for Kinrowan’s Gruagagh to fall, if he hasn’t already sold his soul to them. It’s a bad time for us, Jacky Rowan. And a bad time for you, too, for now they’ve marked you as well.”
    “Marked me as what?” she asked.
    “As one of us.”
    He was stitching designs on the insides of her sneakers now, first one, then the other, reminding her of all the stories that her mother had read to her of fairy tailors and shoemakers.
    “But I’m