The mountains weren't often visible, though. Mostly the path they followed wound through low-hanging trees that grew close together, boughs occasionally intertwining. More than once Emma would catch a glimpse of bright eyes flashing out from between the shadows. When tree branches rustled, she would look up to catch sight of shadows moving quickly above them, laughter trailing behind them like mist.
"These are the places of the wild fey," said Mark, as the road curved around a hill. "The gentry fey stay within the Courts or sometimes town. They like their creature comforts."
Here and there were signs of habitation: crumbled mossy bits of old stone walls, wooden fences cleverly fitted together without the use of nails. They passed through several villages in the hour before dawn: Every one of them was shuttered and dark, windows broken and empty. As they went farther into Faerie they began to see something else, too. The first time they saw it, Emma stopped short and exclaimed--the grass they'd been walking on had suddenly dissolved under her feet, puffing up white and gray like ash around her ankles.
She looked around in astonishment and discovered that the others were staring too. They had wandered into the edge of a ragged circle of diseased-looking land. It reminded Emma of photos she'd seen of crop circles. Everything within the perimeter of the circle was a dull, sickly whitish gray: the grass, the trees, the leaves and plants. The bones of small animals were scattered among the gray vegetation.
"What is this?" Emma demanded. "Some kind of dark faerie magic?"
Mark shook his head. "I have never seen any blight such as this before. I do not like it. Let us make haste away."
No one argued, but as they hurried through the ghost towns and across the hills, they saw several more patches of the ugly blight. At last the sky began to turn light with dawn. All of them were nearly dropping with exhaustion when they left the road behind and found themselves in a place of trees and rolling hills.
"We can rest here," Mark said. He pointed to a rise of ground opposite, whose top was hidden by a number of stone cairns. "Those will give some shelter, and some cover."
Emma frowned. "I hear water," she said. "Is there a stream?"
"You know we can't drink the water here," Julian said, as she picked her way downhill, toward the sound of fluid bubbling over rocks and around tree roots.
"I know, but we could at least wash off in it--" Her voice died. There was a stream, of sorts, bisecting the valley between the two low hills, but the water wasn't water. It was scarlet, and thick. It moved sluggishly, slow and red and dripping, between the black trunks of trees.
" 'All the blood that's shed on earth, runs through the springs of that country,' " said Mark, at her elbow. "You quoted that to me."
Julian moved to the edge of the blood stream and knelt down. With a quick gesture, he dipped his fingers in. They came out scarlet. "It clots," he said, frowning in mixed fascination and disgust, and wiped his hand off on the grass. "Is it really--human blood?"
"That's what they say," said Mark. "Not all the rivers of faerie are like this, but they claim that the blood of the murdered dead of the human world runs through the streams and creeks and springs here in the woods."
"Who is they?" Julian asked, standing up. "Who says that?"
"Kieran," said Mark simply.
"I know the story too," said Cristina. "There are different versions of the legends, but I have heard many and most say that the blood is human, mundane blood." She backed up, took a running jump, and landed on the other side of the bloody stream with some feet to spare.
The rest of them followed her, and trudged up the hill to the flat, grassy top, which commanded a view of the surrounding countryside. Emma suspected the cairns of crumbled stones had once been a watchtower of some sort.
They unrolled the blankets they had and spread out coats, huddling under them for warmth. Mark curled up and immediately fell asleep. Cristina lay down more cautiously, her body wrapped in her dark blue coat, her long hair spilling over the arm on which her head rested.
Emma found a place for herself in the grass, folding her gear jacket up to make a pillow. She had nothing to wrap herself in, and shivered when her skin touched the cold ground as she reached to balance Cortana carefully on a nearby stone.
"Emma." It was Julian, rolling over toward her. He'd been so still she'd thought he was asleep. She didn't even remember lying down this close to him. In the dawn light, his eyes glowed like sea glass. "I've got a spare blanket. Take it."
It was soft and gray, a thin coverlet that used to lie across the foot of his bed. Forcibly, Emma pushed away memories of waking up with it bunched around her feet, yawning and stretching in the sunlight of Julian's room.
"Thanks," she whispered, sliding under the blanket. The grass was dampening with dew. Julian was still watching her, his head resting on his curved arm.
"Jules," Emma whispered. "If our witchlight doesn't work here, and seraph blades don't work here, and runes don't work here--what does that mean?"
He sounded weary. "When I looked into an inn, in one of the towns we passed, I saw an angelic rune someone had scrawled on a wall. It was splattered in blood--scratched and defaced. I don't know what's happened here since the Cold Peace, but I know they hate us."
"Do you think Cristina's pendant will still work?" Emma said.
"I think it's just Shadowhunter magic that's blocked here," Julian said. "Cristina's pendant was a faerie gift. It should be all right."
Emma nodded. "Good night, Jules," she whispered.
He smiled faintly. "It's morning, Emma."
She didn't say anything, only closed her eyes--but not all the way, so she could still see him. She hadn't slept near him since that terrible day Jem had told her about parabatai and their curse, and she didn't realize how much she had missed it. She was exhausted, her tiredness seeping out of her bones and into the ground beneath her as her aching body relaxed; she had forgotten what it was like to let consciousness go slowly, as the person she trusted most in the world lay beside her. Even here in Faerie, where Shadowhunters were hated, she felt safer than she had in her own bedroom alone, because Jules was there, so close that if she'd reached out, she could have touched him.
She couldn't reach out, of course. Couldn't touch him. But they were breathing close together, breathing the same breath as consciousness fragmented, as Emma let go of wakefulness and fell, the image of Julian in the dawn light following her down into dreams.
9
THESE LANDS
Kit soon had a new item to add to his list of things he didn't like about Shadowhunters. They wake me up in the middle of the night.
It was Livvy who woke him up specifically, shaking him out of a dream of Mantid demons. He sat up, gasping, a knife in his hand--one of the daggers he'd taken from the weapons room. It had been on his nightstand and he had no recollection of picking it up.
"Not bad," Livvy said. She was hovering over his bed, her hair tied back, her gear half-invisible in the darkness. "Fast reflexes."
The knife was about an inch from her chest, but she didn't move. Kit let it clatter back to the nightstand. "You have got to be kidding me."
"Get up," she said. "Ty just saw Zara sneak out the front door. We're Tracking her."
"You're what?" Kit got yawning out of bed, only to be handed a pile of dark clothes by Livvy. She raised her eyebrows at the sight of his boxers but made no other comment.
"Put your gear on," she said. "We'll explain on the way."
She headed out of the room, leaving Kit to change. He had always wondered what Shadowhunter gear would feel like. The boots, pants, shirt, and jacket of sturdy, dark material and heavy weapons belt looked uncomfortable, but--they weren't. The gear was light and flexible on, despite being so tough that when he took the dagger from his bedside and tried to cut the arm of the jacket, the blade didn't even part the material. The boots seemed to fit immediately, like the ring, and the weapons belt sat light and snug around his hips.
"Do I look all r
ight?" he asked, appearing in the hall. Ty was gazing thoughtfully at his closed right hand, a rune glimmering on the back of it.
Livvy gave Kit a thumbs-up. "You absolutely could have been rejected from the yearly Hot Shadowhunters Calendar."
"Rejected?" Kit demanded as they started downstairs.
Her eyes were dancing. "For being too young, of course."
"There is no Hot Shadowhunters Calendar," said Ty. "Both of you be quiet; we need to get out of the house without being spotted."
They crept out the back way and down the road toward the beach, careful to avoid the night patrol. Livvy whispered to Kit that Ty was holding a hair clip that Zara had left on a table: It worked as a sort of homing beacon, pulling him in her direction. She seemed to have gone down to the beach and then walked along the sand. Livvy pointed to her footprints, in the process of being washed away by the rising tide.
"It could have been a mundane," said Kit, for argument's sake.
"Following this exact path?" Livvy said. "Look, we're even zigging and zagging where she did."
Kit couldn't really argue. He set his mind to keeping up with Ty, who was practically flying over the dunes of sand and the boulders and uneven rocks that dotted the coastline more thickly as they moved north. He scaled an alarmingly tall wall of pitted rock and dropped down on the other side; Kit, following, almost tripped and landed face-first in the sand.
He managed to regain his footing and was relieved. He wasn't sure who he least wanted to look like a fool in front of, Livvy or Ty. Maybe it was an equal split.
"There," Ty said in a whisper, pointing to where a dark hole opened up in the rocky wall of the bluff that rose to divide the beach from the highway. Tumbled piles of rock jutted out into the ocean, where waves broke around them, casting silvery-white spray high into the air.
The sand had given way to rocky reef. They picked their way carefully across it, even Ty, who bent to examine something in a tide pool. He straightened with a smile and a starfish in his hand.
"Ty," said Livvy. "Put it back, unless you're planning on throwing it at Zara."
"Waste of a perfectly good starfish," muttered Kit, and Ty laughed. The salt air had tangled his arrow-straight black hair, and his eyes glowed like the moonlight on the water. Kit just stared, unable to think of anything else clever to say, as Ty gently placed the starfish back in its tide pool.
They made it to the cave opening without any other stops for wildlife. Livvy went in first, with Ty and Kit following. Kit paused as the darkness of the cave enveloped him.
"I can't see," he said, trying to fight his rising panic. He hated the pitch dark, but then who didn't?
Light burst around him like the sudden appearance of a falling star. It was witchlight; Ty was holding it. "Do you want a Night Vision rune?" Livvy asked, her hand on her stele.
Kit shook his head. "No runes," he said. He wasn't sure why he was insisting. It wasn't as if the iratze had hurt. It just seemed like the final hurdle, the last admission that he was a Shadowhunter, not just a boy with Shadowhunter blood who had decided to make the Institute a way station while he figured out a better plan.
Whatever that plan might be. Kit tried not to brood on it as they advanced deeper into the tunnels.
"Do you think this is part of the convergence?" he heard Livvy whisper.
Ty shook his head. "No. The bluffs of the coast are riddled with caves, always have been. I mean, anything could be down here--nests of demons, vampires--but I don't think this has anything to do with Malcolm. And the ley lines are nowhere near here."
"I really wish you hadn't said 'nests of demons,' " said Kit. "It makes them sound like spiders."
"Some demons are spiders," said Ty. "The biggest one ever reported was twenty feet tall and had yard-long mandibles."
Kit thought of the giant praying mantis demons that had ripped his father apart. It was hard to think of anything witty to say about a giant spider when you'd seen the white of your father's rib cage.
"Shh." Livvy held up a hand. "I hear voices."
Kit strained his ears, but heard nothing. He suspected there was another rune he was lacking, something that would give him Superman hearing. He could see lights moving up ahead, though, around the curve of the tunnel.
They moved ahead, Kit staying to the rear of Ty and Livvy. The tunnel opened out into a massive chamber, a room with cracked granite walls, a packed-earth floor, and a smell of mold and decay. The ceiling rose into blackness.
There was a wooden table and two chairs in the middle of the room. The only light came from rune-stones placed on the table; one chair was occupied by Zara. Kit pressed himself instinctively back against the wall; on the other side of the tunnel, Livvy and Ty did the same.
Zara was examining some papers she'd spread on the table. There was a bottle of wine and a glass at her elbow. She wasn't dressed in gear, but in a plain dark suit, her hair drawn back into an impossibly tight bun.
Kit strained to see what she was studying, but he was too far away. He could read some words etched into the table, though: FIRE WANTS TO BURN. He had no idea what they meant. Zara didn't seem to be doing anything interesting, either; maybe she just came here to have privacy for her reading. Maybe she was secretly tired of Perfect Diego and was hiding. Who could blame her?
Zara looked up, her eyebrows creasing. Someone was coming--Kit heard the quick tread of feet, and a tousle-haired figure in jeans appeared at the far end of the room.
"It's Manuel," Livvy whispered. "Maybe they're having an affair?"
"Manu," Zara said, frowning. She didn't sound lovelorn. "You're late."
"Sorry." Manuel grinned a disarming grin and grabbed for the free chair, swinging it around so he could seat himself with his arms folded over the back. "Don't be cross, Zara. I had to wait until Rayan and Jon fell asleep--they were in a chatty mood, and I didn't want to chance anyone seeing me leave the Institute." He indicated the papers. "What have you got there?"
"Updates from my father," Zara said. "He was disappointed about the outcome of the last Council, obviously. The decision to let that half-breed Mark Blackthorn remain among decent Nephilim would offend anyone."
Manuel picked up her glass of wine. Red lights glinted in its depths. "Still, we must look to the future," he said. "Getting rid of Mark wasn't the point of our journey here, after all. He's a minor annoyance, like his siblings."
Ty, Kit, and Livvy exchanged confused looks. Livvy's face was tight with anger. Ty's was expressionless, but his hands moved restlessly at his sides.
"True. The first step is the Registry," Zara said. She patted the papers, making them rustle. "My father says the Cohort is strong in Idris, and they believe the Los Angeles Institute is ripe for the plucking. The incident with Malcolm sowed considerable doubt in the West Coast's ability to make judgments. And the fact that the High Warlock of Los Angeles and the head of the local vampire clan both turned out to be enmeshed in dark magic--"
"That wasn't our fault," Livvy whispered. "There was no way to possibly know--"
Ty shushed her, but Kit had missed the last of what Zara was saying. He was only conscious of her grin like a dark red slash across her face.
"Confidence isn't very high," she finished.
"And Arthur?" said Manuel. "The putative head of the place? Not that I've laid eyes on him once."
"A lunatic," said Zara. "My father told me he suspected as much. He knew him at the Academy. I talked to Arthur myself. He thought I was someone named Amatis."
Kit glanced at Livvy, who gave a puzzled shrug.
"It will be easy enough to put him up in front of the Council and prove he's a madman," said Zara. "I can't say who's been running the Institute in his stead--Diana, I imagine--but if she'd wanted the head position, she'd have taken it already."
"So your father steps in, the Cohort makes sure he carries the vote, and the Institute is his," said Manuel.
"Ours," Zara corrected. "I will run the Institute by his side. He trusts me. We'll
be a team."
Manuel didn't seem impressed. He'd probably heard it before. "And then, the Registry."
"Absolutely. We'll be able to propose it as Law immediately, and once it passes, we can begin the identifications." Zara's eyes glittered. "Every Downworlder will wear the sign."
Kit's stomach lurched. This was close enough to mundane history to make him taste bile in the back of his throat.
"We can start at the Shadow Market," said Zara. "The creatures congregate there. If we take enough of them into custody, we should be able to seize the rest for registration soon enough."
"And if they're not inclined to be registered, then they can be convinced easily enough with a little pain," said Manuel.
Zara frowned. "I think you enjoy the torture, Manu."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his face open and handsome and charming. "I think you do too, Zara. I've seen you admiring my work." He flexed his fingers. "You just don't want to admit it in front of Perfect Diego."
"Seriously? They call him that too?" Kit muttered under his breath.
Zara tossed her head, but Manuel was grinning.
"You're going to have to tell him eventually, about the Cohort's full plans," he said. "You know he won't approve. He's a Downworlder-lover if there ever was one."
Zara made a disgusted noise. "Nonsense. He's nothing like that disgusting Alec Lightwood and his stupid Alliance and his repulsive demon-spawn boyfriend. The Blackthorns may be faerie-loving morons, but Diego's just . . . confused."
"What about Emma Carstairs?"
Zara began gathering up the pages of her father's letter. She didn't look at Manuel. "What about her?"
"Everyone says she's the best Shadowhunter since Jace Herondale," said Manuel. "A title I know you've long coveted for yourself."
"Vanessa Ashdown says she's a boy-crazy slut," said Zara, and the ugly words seemed to echo off the rock walls. Kit thought of Emma with her sword, Emma saving his life, Emma hugging Cristina and looking at Julian like he hung the moon, and he wondered if he could get away with stomping on Zara's foot the next time he saw her. "And I haven't been particularly impressed by her in person. She's quite, quite ordinary."
"I'm sure she is," said Manuel as Zara rose to her feet, papers in hand. "I still don't understand what you see in Diego."