Finn smiled, started to reach for my hand, then pulled back and rested his hand in his lap instead. “You always said you wanted to ride the ghost train.”
I studied his expression and frowned at what I found there. He was covered in illusion. It was a vast net that blanketed him. I couldn’t find the end or the beginning of the rope, or even a place to unravel the knots. There were thousands of them, all strung together in a strange, jumbled macramé mess. I didn’t understand it, but I had the impression he was the illusion. That if I unwound him, he’d cease to exist.
Every hair on my body stood on end, and a shiver worked its way over me.
I looked down at myself, but there were no knots on me. I couldn’t see my face to know if any were wrapped around my mind.
“Are you real?” I whispered, my voice raw.
Finn laughed and finally grabbed my hand. I let him. Jagger’s will was a distant thing, a low hum compared to its usual forceful shout. I still couldn’t let a conjurer know I cared, but I wasn’t certain this Finn was a conjurer. He was likely illusion. Or figment. Or spirit. Or . . .
“I’m real.” He leaned back in the wicker seat and then tilted his face to breathe in the night air. The wind rippled through the car, ruffling his black hair. “Do you remember when you told me your dream was to buy a ticket, hop on a train, and just . . . go?”
He glanced at me out of the corner of his eyes, his head still tilted back, the wind still working over him.
“I remember.”
His lips curved, and he seemed satisfied with that small confession. He squeezed my hand. I let him. The weight of his palm felt as if it were anchoring me to the seat.
The lights of Manhattan drew closer, growing from winking fireflies to bright, burning stars. The train dipped and swayed, running over Wards Island.
“Where are we going?”
I’d unravel this illusion if I had to. Kill it. It would take a moment, but if I were subtle about it, he wouldn’t even notice. I began to work at the edges of his knots. There were so many of them. Reef knots. Square knots. Figure eights. Angler’s knots. Lark’s heads. Prusik knots. Chain splices and eye splices. It were as if every family had contributed to the mess. I took the marlin spike in my mind and began to pry it loose.
Finn made a rumbling noise in his throat—the one that meant he didn’t know. “Not sure. We ride until it stops, and then we get off.”
He was being awfully nice. Awfully calm. Awfully like himself.
“And then what?”
He’d threaded his fingers with mine and was running his thumb in a circle around the center of my palm. “I don’t know.”
His touch sent a butterfly-wing sensation throbbing through me, but instead of pleasure, it brought pain. Every wingbeat, every pulse, sent a thrum of agony. It was no longer an anchor; it was a barbed hook. I tugged my hand free.
“Mari?” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, smoothing the flyaways the wind had tousled. “All right?”
His fingers glided over my skin, kissing my jaw and the sensitive arch of my ear. I shivered at the sensation. It raced through me—a violent, consuming fire.
“Don’t touch me.” My voice was as cold as my blood was hot.
His touch hurt. His illusion hurt.
He pulled his hand away and then moved to the side so an inch of air was keeping us apart. The pain in my blood vanished. I won’t say I was entirely glad.
The train was slowing. We’d dipped underground into the tunnels, and ahead was a bustling ghost station overlying the modern-day abandoned and graffitied one. We were deep under the city, and the cool tunnel air flowed through the car.
As the train jerked to a stop, I took in the resplendent ghost mosaics on the walls and the overlay of grime and graffiti. There were figments on the platform: people waiting for the train, a police officer, a shoeshine station, a concession stand. On top of the ghost station was the reality of rubble, dirt, and grime.
The doors creaked open, blasting the car with a wave of tunnel air.
“This is us,” Finn said. Standing, he reached out to hold my hand, then he pulled back and instead gestured for me to walk ahead of him.
Right.
I narrowed my eyes, not trusting anything about him. Wasn’t he the one who always told me to trust no one? To trust nothing?
The ghost train’s lights flickered off, and the ceiling fans stopped whirring. I jumped onto the platform and stepped past figments and over rubble. The station had an odd feel. It smelled musty and closed-up, like wet concrete and mildew. The figments were loud, chatting, laughing; broken records repeating the same phrases.
