crocodiles.
THE PAST
Nikolai Hawthorn’s visitor kept to the shadows the entire time she spoke with Jack’s father. Jack, listening to his father and the creature out of the darkest fairy tales exchange words, had kept silent.
He now stood in an expensive drawing room, his hands clenched around a Celtic cross made of stone as Nikolai Hawthorn circled a young woman tied to a chair. Even for autumn, the air in the drawing room was tomb cold. The hands of the clock on the mantelpiece were slowly winding backward. Jack’s ears buzzed. Blood had already begun to thread from his left nostril.
The girl, blond and pretty, was as white as the inside of an apple, her lips too red. She smelled of Cuticura soap and Essence of Violets. The thing that had come to their inn room, the thing disguised as a woman with auburn hair, had called this girl one of the blessed, and she was under the shadow woman’s protection. She was infected, the shadow/fairy woman had claimed, by a malevolent spirit that needed to be driven out.
After the fairy creature had left their room, Jack had asked his father: Are there good ones among them?
No, his father had grimly replied. Only those less likely to cause harm.
Tonight, his father didn’t use prayers or chants for his work. Tonight, he held silver bells in one hand and an open poetry book in the other.
The girl’s eyes flew open. Her face took on a ghastly expression, as if something savage peered from behind her skin. Her eyes . . . Jack couldn’t look awayfrom them . . . those eyes were a laughing, alien silver. The voice that emerged from her was low, prowling: “She’s seen you, pretty boy.”
Nikolai Hawthorn turned to Jack. “Get out.”
“Da . . .” Jack rose. “You can’t do this alone—”
“ Jack, ” the demon continued slyly. “That’s your name, isn’t it?” A smile, all teeth, distorted the lower half of the girl’s face. “How ironic. Considering her plans for you. Jack. ”
Jack slid a glance toward the window. Night slanted against the glass. He’d had a nightmare just the evening before, of a figure in a gown that dripped red.
The malevolence inhabiting the girl began to growl, “Jack be nimble. Jack be quick. No matter how far you run, you’ll become her loveliest trick . . .”
“Go!” his father yelled.
Jack stumbled backward and out the door.
THE PRESENT
The crimson, crocodile hall of the New Orleans mansion led to a baroque salon where fleur-du-mal lamps and ebony masses of furniture were arranged before an obsidian mirror hanging on the wall. The black mirror reflected only darkness and seemed to have rotted the emerald-green wallpaper around it. Elaborately costumed skeletons in saintly poses guarded the room’s four points: East, West, North, and South. Jack narrowed his eyes at a life-size wax mannequin seated in a chair. The doll, its face unformed, wore an old-fashioned suit.
“Don’t look into the mirror.” Mr. Bones moved from the shadows of an archway and leaned against a glass cabinet filled with fossils: trilobites, mollusks, and nightmarish fish. There were those who didn’t bother concealing their strangeness, and Mr. Bones was one of them. Golden hair spilled from his black top hat, its band decorated with the skulls of small lizards and tiny doll heads. His black suit was expensive and modern. He’d painted his face to resemble a glittery Day of the Dead skull. He tipped his hat. “So you’re the ban nathair ’s newest ones? I’m Mr. Bones. You may call me Lacroix.”
“Phouka. Jack.” Phouka didn’t waste words. “And I believe you know what the ban nathair wants.”
“It’s a very expensive order.” Lacroix didn’t move from his slouch. “There arephysical materials. And then there are the ethereal bits. I’ve already completed one. Come see it?”
Jack and Phouka followed him through a wooden door carved with screaming faces, into a courtyard of exotic plants glittering with dew and spiderwebs. At a
THE PAST
Nikolai Hawthorn’s visitor kept to the shadows the entire time she spoke with Jack’s father. Jack, listening to his father and the creature out of the darkest fairy tales exchange words, had kept silent.
He now stood in an expensive drawing room, his hands clenched around a Celtic cross made of stone as Nikolai Hawthorn circled a young woman tied to a chair. Even for autumn, the air in the drawing room was tomb cold. The hands of the clock on the mantelpiece were slowly winding backward. Jack’s ears buzzed. Blood had already begun to thread from his left nostril.
The girl, blond and pretty, was as white as the inside of an apple, her lips too red. She smelled of Cuticura soap and Essence of Violets. The thing that had come to their inn room, the thing disguised as a woman with auburn hair, had called this girl one of the blessed, and she was under the shadow woman’s protection. She was infected, the shadow/fairy woman had claimed, by a malevolent spirit that needed to be driven out.
After the fairy creature had left their room, Jack had asked his father: Are there good ones among them?
No, his father had grimly replied. Only those less likely to cause harm.
Tonight, his father didn’t use prayers or chants for his work. Tonight, he held silver bells in one hand and an open poetry book in the other.
The girl’s eyes flew open. Her face took on a ghastly expression, as if something savage peered from behind her skin. Her eyes . . . Jack couldn’t look awayfrom them . . . those eyes were a laughing, alien silver. The voice that emerged from her was low, prowling: “She’s seen you, pretty boy.”
Nikolai Hawthorn turned to Jack. “Get out.”
“Da . . .” Jack rose. “You can’t do this alone—”
“ Jack, ” the demon continued slyly. “That’s your name, isn’t it?” A smile, all teeth, distorted the lower half of the girl’s face. “How ironic. Considering her plans for you. Jack. ”
Jack slid a glance toward the window. Night slanted against the glass. He’d had a nightmare just the evening before, of a figure in a gown that dripped red.
The malevolence inhabiting the girl began to growl, “Jack be nimble. Jack be quick. No matter how far you run, you’ll become her loveliest trick . . .”
“Go!” his father yelled.
Jack stumbled backward and out the door.
THE PRESENT
The crimson, crocodile hall of the New Orleans mansion led to a baroque salon where fleur-du-mal lamps and ebony masses of furniture were arranged before an obsidian mirror hanging on the wall. The black mirror reflected only darkness and seemed to have rotted the emerald-green wallpaper around it. Elaborately costumed skeletons in saintly poses guarded the room’s four points: East, West, North, and South. Jack narrowed his eyes at a life-size wax mannequin seated in a chair. The doll, its face unformed, wore an old-fashioned suit.
“Don’t look into the mirror.” Mr. Bones moved from the shadows of an archway and leaned against a glass cabinet filled with fossils: trilobites, mollusks, and nightmarish fish. There were those who didn’t bother concealing their strangeness, and Mr. Bones was one of them. Golden hair spilled from his black top hat, its band decorated with the skulls of small lizards and tiny doll heads. His black suit was expensive and modern. He’d painted his face to resemble a glittery Day of the Dead skull. He tipped his hat. “So you’re the ban nathair ’s newest ones? I’m Mr. Bones. You may call me Lacroix.”
“Phouka. Jack.” Phouka didn’t waste words. “And I believe you know what the ban nathair wants.”
“It’s a very expensive order.” Lacroix didn’t move from his slouch. “There arephysical materials. And then there are the ethereal bits. I’ve already completed one. Come see it?”
Jack and Phouka followed him through a wooden door carved with screaming faces, into a courtyard of exotic plants glittering with dew and spiderwebs. At a
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