"Julian's the one who said they could go to Blackthorn Hall. And most of us are running missions at fifteen. It's not your fault they disobeyed."
"I didn't tell them not to go to the Shadow Market," he said, shivering a little. He pulled the patchwork blanket up around his shoulders, giving him the look of a sad Harlequin.
"You didn't tell them not to stab each other with knives, either, because they know that," she said tartly. "The Market is off-limits. Forbidden. Although--don't be too hard on Kit. The Shadow Market is the world he knows."
"I don't know how to take care of them," he said. "How do I tell them to obey rules when none of us do? We went to Faerie--a much greater breakage of the Law than a visit to the Shadow Market."
"Maybe you should all try taking care of each other," she said.
He smiled. "You're awfully wise."
"Is Kieran all right?" she said.
"Still awake, I think," he said. "He wanders around the Institute at night. He hasn't rested well since we came here--too much cold iron, I think. Too much city."
The neck of his T-shirt was frayed and loose. She could see where the scars on his back started, the marks of old injuries, the memory of knives. The patchwork blanket had begun slipping down his shoulder. Almost absently, Cristina reached to pull it up.
Her hand brushed along Mark's neck, along the bare skin where his throat met the cotton of his shirt. His skin was hot. He leaned in toward her; she could smell the pine of forests.
His face was close enough to hers that she could make out the changing colors in the irises of his eyes. The rise and fall of her own breath seemed to lift her toward him.
"Can you sleep here tonight?" he said hoarsely. "It will hurt less. For both of us."
His inhuman eyes glittered for a moment, and she thought of what Emma had said to her, that when she looked at him sometimes, she saw wildness and freedom and the unending roads of the sky.
"I can't," she whispered.
"Cristina--" He rose up on his knees. It was too cloudy outside for any moonlight or starlight, but Cristina could still see him, his light hair in tangles, his eyes fixed on her.
He was too close, too tangible. She knew if he touched her, she'd crumble. She wasn't even sure what that would mean, only that the idea of such total dissolution frightened her--and that she could see Kieran when she looked at Mark, like a shadow always beside him.
She slid off the bed. "I'm sorry, Mark," she said, and left the room so quickly she was almost running.
*
"Annabel seems so sad," Emma said. "So very sad."
They were lying in the cottage bed, side by side. It was a lot more comfortable than beds in the Institute, which was a little ironic, considering it was Malcolm's place. Julian guessed even murderers needed regular mattresses and didn't actually sleep on platforms made of skulls.
"She wanted me to leave the Black Volume alone," said Julian. He was lying on his back; they both were. Emma was in a pair of cotton pajamas she'd bought from the village shop, and Julian wore sweats and an old T-shirt. Their shoulders touched, and their feet; the bed wasn't very wide. Not that Julian would have moved away if he could have. "She said it only brings bad things."
"But you don't think we should do that."
"I don't think we have a choice. The book probably really is better off in the Seelie Court than anywhere in our world." He sighed. "She said she's been talking to the piskies in the area. We're going to have to text the others, see if they know any piskie-trapping secrets. Get hold of a piskie and find out what they know."
"Okay." Emma's voice was fading, her eyes closing. Julian felt the same exhaustion tugging at him. It had been an incredibly long day. "You can send the message from my phone if you want."
Julian hadn't been able to plug his phone in due to not having the right adapter. Things Shadowhunters didn't think about.
"I don't think we should tell the others Annabel came," said Julian. "Not yet. They'll freak out, and I want to see what the piskies say first."
"You have to at least tell them the Unseelie King helped Malcolm get the Black Volume," Emma said sleepily.
"I'll tell them he wrote about it in his diaries," said Julian.
He waited to see if Emma would object to the lie, but she was already asleep. And Julian was nearly there. Emma was here, lying beside him, the way things were supposed to be. He realized how badly he'd slept for the past few weeks without her.
He wasn't sure if he'd drifted off, or for how long if he had. When his eyes fluttered open, he could see the dark glow of the fire in the hearth, nearly burned down to embers. And he could feel Emma, beside him, her arm thrown across his chest.
He froze. She must have moved in her sleep. She was curled against him. He could feel her eyelashes, her soft breath, against his skin.
She murmured and turned her head against his neck. Before they climbed into bed, he'd been frightened that if he touched her, he'd feel again the same willpower-smashing desire he'd felt in the Seelie Court.
What he felt now was both better and worse. It was an overpowering and terrible tenderness. Though when awake Emma had a presence that made her seem tall and even imposing, she was small curled against him, and delicate enough to make his heart turn over with thoughts of how to keep the world from breaking something so fragile.
He wanted to hold her forever, to protect her and keep her close. He wanted to be able to write as freely about his feelings for her as Malcolm had written about his dawning love for Annabel. You took my life apart and put it back together.
She sighed softly, settling into the mattress. He wanted to trace the outline of her mouth, to draw it--it was always different, its heart shape changing with her expressions, but this expression, between sleeping and waking, half-innocent and half-knowing, caught at his soul in a new way.
Malcolm's words echoed in his head. As if you have discovered a beach you have been visiting all your life is made not of sand but of diamonds, and they blind you with their beauty.
Diamonds might be blinding in their beauty, but they were also the hardest and sharpest gems in the world. They could cut you or grind you down, smash and slice you apart. Malcolm, deranged with love, had not thought of that. But Julian could think of nothing else.
*
Kit was awoken by the bang of Livvy's door. He sat up, aware he was aching all over, as Ty strode out of her bedroom.
"You're on the floor," Ty said, looking at him.
Kit couldn't deny it. He and Alec had come to Livvy's room once they'd finished in the infirmary. Then Alec had gone off to check on the children, and it had just been Magnus, quietly sitting with Livvy, occasionally examining her to see if she was healing. And Ty, leaning against the wall, staring unblinking at his sister. It had felt like a hospital room to which Kit shouldn't have access.
So he'd gone outside, remembering how Ty had slept in front of his own door his first days in Los Angeles, and he'd curled up on the worn carpeted floor, not expecting to get much sleep. He didn't even remember passing out, but he must have.
He struggled up into a sitting position. "Wait--"
But Ty was walking off down the hall, as if he hadn't heard Kit at all. After a moment, Kit scrambled to his feet and followed him.
He wasn't entirely sure why. He barely knew Tiberius Blackthorn, he thought, as Ty turned almost blindly and started up a set of stairs. He barely knew his sister, either. And they were Shadowhunters. And Ty wanted to form some kind of detective team with him, which was a ridiculous idea. Definitely one in which he wasn't interested at all, he told himself, as the staircase ended in a short landing in front of a worn-looking old door.
And it was probably cold outside too, he thought, as Ty pushed the door open and, yes, damp chilly air swirled in. Ty disappeared into the chill and the shadows outside, and Kit followed.
They were back on the roof, though it was no longer night, to Kit's surprise; it was early morning--gray and heavy, with clouds gathering
over the Thames and the dome of St. Paul's. The noise of the city rose up, the pressure of millions of people going about their daily business, unaware of Shadowhunters, unaware of magic and danger. Unaware of Ty, who had gone to the railing surrounding the central part of the roof and was staring out over the city, his hands gripping the iron fleur-de-lis.
"Ty." Kit went toward him, and Tiberius turned around, so his back was against the railing. His shoulders were stiff, and Kit stopped, not wanting to invade his personal space. "Are you all right?"
Ty shook his head. "Cold," he said. His teeth were chattering. "I'm cold."
"Then maybe we should go back downstairs," said Kit. "Inside it's warmer."
"I can't." Ty's voice sounded like it was coming from a long way down deep inside him, an echo half-sunk in water. "Being in that room, I couldn't--it was--"
He shook his head in frustration, as if being unable to find the words was torturing him.
"Livvy's going to be fine," said Kit. "She'll be okay by tomorrow. Magnus said."
"But it's my fault." Ty was pressing his back harder against the railing, but it wasn't holding him up. He slid down it until he was sitting on the ground, his knees pulled up to his chest. He was breathing hard and rocking back and forth, his hands up by his face as if to brush away cobwebs or annoying gnats. "If I was her parabatai--I wanted to go to the Scholomance, but that doesn't matter; Livvy matters--"
"It's not your fault," Kit said. Ty just shook his head, hard. Kit tried frantically to remember what he'd read online about meltdowns, because he was pretty sure Ty was on his way to having one. He dropped to his knees on the damp roof--was he supposed to touch Ty, or not touch him?
He could only imagine what it was like for Ty all the time: all the world rushing at him at once, blaring sounds and stabbing lights and nobody remembering to modulate their voices. And to have all the ways you usually managed that ripped away by grief or fear, leaving you exposed as a Shadowhunter going into battle without their gear.
He remembered something about darkness, about pressure and weighted blankets and silence. Though he had no idea how he was going to get hold of any of those things up on top of a building.
"Tell me," Kit said. Tell me what you need.
"Put your arms around me," said Ty. His hands were pale blurs in the air, as if Kit were looking at a time-lapse photo. "Hold on to me."
He was still rocking. After a moment, Kit put his arms around Ty, not quite knowing what else to do.
It was like holding a loosed arrow: Ty felt hot and sharp in his arms, and he was vibrating with some strange emotion. After what felt like a long time he relaxed slightly. His hands touched Kit, their motion slowing, his fingers winding themselves into Kit's sweater.
"Tighter," Ty said. He was hanging on to Kit as if he were a life raft, his forehead digging painfully into Kit's shoulder. He sounded desperate. "I need to feel it."
Kit had never been a casual hugger, and no one had ever, that he could remember, come to him for comforting. He wasn't a comforting sort of person. He'd always assumed that. And he barely knew Ty.
But then, Ty didn't do things for no reason, even if people whose brains were differently wired couldn't see his reasons immediately. Kit remembered the way Livvy rubbed Ty's hands tightly when he was stressed and thought: The pressure is a sensation; the sensation must be grounding. Calming. That made sense. So Kit found himself holding Ty harder, until Ty relaxed under the tight grip of his hands; held him more tightly than he'd ever held anyone, held him as if they'd been lost in the sea of the sky, and only holding on to each other could keep them afloat above the wreckage of London.
20
EVERMORE
Diana sat in her small room above the weapons shop and flipped through the file Jia had given her.
She hadn't been in this room since the end of the Dark War, but it felt comfortable and familiar--the blanket her grandmother had made folded at the foot of the bed, the first blunt wooden daggers her father had given her to practice with on the wall, her mother's shawl across the back of a chair. She wore a pair of bright red satin pajamas she'd found in an old trunk and felt amusingly dressed up.
Her amusement faded quickly, though, as she examined the pages inside the cream-colored file. First was Zara's story about how she'd killed Malcolm, which had been signed off on by Samantha and Dane as witnesses. Not that Diana would have believed Samantha or her brother if they'd said the sky was blue.
Zara was claiming that the Centurions had chased Malcolm away the first time he'd attacked, and that the next night she'd fearlessly patrolled the borders of the Institute until she'd found him lurking in the shadows and bested him in a one-on-one swordfight. She claimed his body had then disappeared.
Malcolm was hardly a lurk-in-the-shadows type, and from what Diana had seen on the night he'd returned, his magic was still working. He'd never fight Zara with a blade when he could blast her with fire.
But none of that was hard evidence that she was lying. Diana frowned, turning the pages, and then sat up straight. There was more here than just the report on Malcolm's death. There were pages and pages about Zara. Dozens of reports of her achievements. All together like this, it was an impressive package. And yet . . .
As Diana read through, taking careful notes, a pattern started to emerge. Every success of Zara's, every triumph, took place when no one was around to witness it except those in her inner circle--Samantha, Dane, or Manuel. Often others would arrive in time to see the empty demon nest, or the evidence of a battle, but that was all.
There were no reports of Zara ever being wounded or hurt in any battle. Diana thought of the scars she'd gotten through her life as a Shadowhunter and frowned more deeply. And more deeply yet when she reached Marisol Garza Solcedo's year-old report--Marisol claimed to have saved a group of mundanes from an attacking Druj demon in Portugal. She was knocked unconscious. When she awoke, she said, Zara's destruction of the Druj was being celebrated.
The report had been submitted, along with a signed statement by Zara, Jessica, Samantha, Dane, and Manuel, stating that Marisol was imagining things. Zara, they said, had killed the Druj after a fierce fight; again, Zara had no wounds.
She takes credit for what other people do, Diana thought. Her window rattled, wind probably. I ought to go to bed, she thought. The clock in the Gard, new since the Dark War, had rung the early hours of dawn some time ago. But she kept reading, fascinated. Zara would hang back, wait for the battle to be over, and announce the victory as her own. With her group backing her up, the Clave accepted her claims at face value.
But if it could be proved that she hadn't killed Malcolm--in some way that kept Julian and the others protected--then perhaps the Cohort would be disgraced. Certainly the Dearborns' bid to seize the Los Angeles Institute would fail--
Her window rattled again. She looked up and saw Gwyn on the other side of the glass.
She stood up with a yelp of surprise, sending her papers flying. Get a grip, she told herself. There was no way that the leader of the Wild Hunt was actually outside her window.
She blinked, and looked again. He was still there, and as she moved toward the window, she saw that he was hovering in the air just below her sill, on the back of a massive gray horse. He wore dark brown leather, and his antlered helmet was nowhere to be seen. His expression was grave and curious.
He gestured for her to open the window. Diana hesitated, then reached to undo the latch and fling up the sash. She didn't have to let him in, she reasoned. They could just talk through the window.
Cool air rushed into her room, and the smell of pine and morning air. His bicolored eyes fixed on her. "My lady," he said. "I had hoped you would accompany me on a ride."
Diana tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Why?"
"For the pleasure of your company," Gwyn said. He peered at her. "I see you are richly attired in silk. Are you expecting another guest?"
She shook her head, amused. Well, the pajamas were nice.
br /> "You look beautiful," he said. "I am fortunate."
She supposed he wasn't lying. He couldn't lie.
"You couldn't have arranged this meeting in advance?" she asked. "Sent me a message, maybe?"
He looked puzzled. He had long eyelashes and a square chin--a pleasant face. A handsome face. Diana often tried not to think about those things, as they only caused trouble, but now she couldn't help it. "I only discovered you were here in Idris this dawn," he said.
"But you're not allowed to be here!" She looked nervously up and down empty Flintlock Street. If anyone saw him . . .
He grinned at that. "As long as my horse's hooves do not touch Alicante ground the alarm will not be raised."
Still, she felt a bubble of tension in her chest. He was asking her on a date--she couldn't pretend otherwise. And though she wanted to go, the fear--that old fear that walked hand in hand with distrust and grief--held her back.
He reached out a hand. "Come with me. The sky awaits."
She looked at him. He wasn't young, but he didn't look old, either. He seemed ageless, as faeries did sometimes, and though he seemed solid and thoughtful in himself, he carried with him the promise of the air and the sky. When else will you ever have a chance to ride a faerie horse? Diana asked herself. When else will you ever fly?
"You're going to be in so much trouble," she whispered, "if they find out you're here."
He shrugged, hand still outstretched. "Then you had better come quickly," he said.
She began to climb out the window.
*
Breakfast was late; Kit managed to snag a few hours of sleep and a shower before wandering into the dining room to find everyone else already sitting down.
Well, everyone but Evelyn. Bridget was serving tea, pinched-faced as always. Alec and Magnus each had a child on their lap, and introduced them to Kit: Max was the small, blue warlock who was spilling brown sauce down the front of Magnus's designer shirt, and Rafe was the brown-eyed child who was tearing his toast into pieces.
Kieran was nowhere to be seen, which wasn't unusual at meals. Mark was seated beside Cristina, who was quietly drinking coffee. She looked neat and self-contained as always, despite the red mark on her wrist. She was an interesting mystery, Kit thought, a non-Blackthorn like himself, but inextricably tied to the Blackthorns nevertheless.