Lord of Shadows The Dark Artifices 2

22

T

HE

M

OST

U

NHOLY

When Emma woke the next morning, she found she had managed not to tie herself in a knot around Julian while sleeping. Progress. Maybe because she’d spent all night having terrible dreams where she saw her father again, and he peeled off his face to reveal that he was Sebastian Morgenstern underneath.

“Luke, I am your father,” she muttered, and heard Julian laugh softly. She staggered off to find her gear so she wouldn’t have to watch him getting up adorably sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired. She changed in the office while Julian showered and dressed; they met up for a quick breakfast of toast and juice, and were off to find Annabel.

It was nearly noon and the sun was high in the sky by the time they made it to Porthallow Church—apparently what was close for piskies wasn’t what humans would call nearby. Though Emma kept hearing the high voice of the piskie in her head. Killing close, it had said. Whatever that meant, she didn’t like the sound of it.

The church had been built on a cliff over a headland. The sea spread out in the distance, a carpet of matte blue. Clouds brushstroked across the sky, like a ball of cotton someone had picked apart and scattered. The air was full of the hum of bees and the scent of late wildflowers.

The area around the church was overgrown, but the building itself was in decent shape despite having been abandoned. The windows had been carefully boarded up, and a KEEP OUT: PRIVATE PROPERTY: YOU ARE TRESPASSING sign was nailed to the front door. Some small distance from the church was a little graveyard, its gray, rain-washed tombstones barely visible among the long grass. The church’s single square tower was cast in lonely relief against the sky. Emma adjusted Cortana on her back and glanced over at Julian, who was frowning down at her phone.

“What are you looking at?” she asked.

“Wikipedia. ‘Porthallow Church is located above the sea, on the cliff-top at Talland near Polperro in Cornwall. The altar of the church is said to date from the time of King Mark, of Tristan and Isolde fame, and was built at the junction of ley lines.’ ”

“Wikipedia knows about ley lines?” Emma took her phone back.

“Wikipedia knows about everything. It might be run by warlocks.”

“You think that’s what they do all day in the Spiral Labyrinth? Run Wikipedia?”

“I admit it seems like a letdown.”

Tucking the phone in her pocket, Emma indicated the church. “So this is another convergence?”

Julian shook his head. “A convergence is where every ley line in the area links up. This is a junction—two ley lines crossing. Still a powerful place.” In the bright sunshine he drew a seraph blade from his belt, holding it against his side as they approached the church entrance.

“Do you know what you’re going to say to Annabel?” Emma whispered.

“Not a clue,” Julian said. “I guess I’ll—” He broke off. There was something in his eyes: a troubled look.

“Is something wrong?” Emma asked.

They’d reached the church doors. “No,” Julian said, after a long moment, and though Emma could tell he didn’t mean it, she let it slide. She drew Cortana from her back, just in case.

Julian shouldered the doors open. The small lock holding them shut burst apart, and they were inside, Julian a few steps ahead of Emma. It was pitch-black inside the abandoned church. “Arariel,” he murmured, and his seraph blade lit like a small bonfire, illuminating the interior.

A stone arcade ran along one side of the church, the pews nestled between the arches. The stone was carved with delicate designs of leaves. The nave and the transept, where the altar was usually located, were deep in shadow.

Emma heard Julian draw in his breath. “This is where Malcolm raised Annabel,” he said. “I remember it from the scrying glass. This is where Arthur died.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Julian lowered his head. “Ave atque vale, Arthur Blackthorn.” His voice was full of sorrow. “You died bravely and for your family.”

“Jules . . .” She wanted to reach out and touch him, but he had already straightened up, any sorrow he felt cloaked beneath the mantle of being Nephilim.

“I don’t know why Annabel would want to stay here,” he said, sweeping the light of his seraph blade over the church’s interior. It was thick with dust. “It can’t be a spot with good memories for her.”

“But if she’s desperate for a hiding place . . .”

“Look.” Julian indicated the altar, propped on a granite slab a few feet thick. It had a wooden top laid over the stone, and something flashed white against the wood. A folded piece of paper, pinned there by a knife.

Julian’s name was scrawled on it in a feminine dark hand.

Emma ripped the paper away and handed it to Jules, who flicked it open quickly, holding it where they could both read by the light of Julian’s blade.

Julian,

You may consider this in the nature of a test. If you are here, reading this note, you have failed it.

Emma heard Julian draw in his breath. They read on:

I told the piskies that I was living here, in the church. It is not true. I would not remain where so much blood has spilled. But I knew that you could not leave my whereabouts alone, that you would ask the piskies where I was, that you would search me out.

Though I had asked you not to.

Now you are here in this place. I wish you were not, for I was not the only thing that was raised by Malcolm Fade and your uncle’s blood. But you had to see what the Black Volume can do.

—Annabel

Cristina was sitting in the embrasure of the library window, reading, when she glanced out the window and saw a familiar dark figure slipping through the front gates.

She’d been in the library for several hours, dutifully going through the books in the languages she knew best—Spanish, Ancient Greek, Old Castilian, and Aramaic—for mentions of the Black Volume. Not that she could concentrate.

Memories of the night before kept hitting her at odd moments, like when she was passing the sugar to Ty and nearly spilled it in his lap. Had she really kissed Mark? Danced with Kieran? Enjoyed dancing with Kieran?

No, she thought, she’d be truthful with herself: She had enjoyed it. It had been like riding with the Wild Hunt. She’d felt drawn out of her own body, spinning through the stars and clouds. It had been like the stories of revels her mother had told her when she was a child, where mortals had lost themselves in the dances of Faerie-kind, and died for the beautiful joy of it.

Of course, afterward they’d all simply gone back to their separate rooms—Kieran calmly, Mark and Cristina both looking shaken. And Cristina had lain there a long time, not sleeping, looking at the ceiling and wondering what she had gotten herself into.

She set down her book with a sigh. It didn’t help that she was alone in the library—Magnus was in and out of the infirmary, where Mark was helping him set up equipment to mix the binding spell cure, and Dru was helping Alec look after the children in one of the spare rooms. Livvy, Ty, and Kit had gone to pick up the supplies from Hypatia Vex’s shop. Bridget had been in and out with trays of sandwiches and tea, muttering that she was worked off her feet and that the house was more crowded than a train station. Kieran was . . . nowhere.

Cristina had grown used to a certain amount of controlled chaos in Los Angeles, but she found herself longing for the quiet of the Mexico City Institute, the silence of her mother’s rose garden, and even the dreamy afternoons she’d spent with Diego and sometimes Jaime in the Bosque de Chapultepec.

And she missed Emma. Her thoughts were a whirl of confusion—everything was—and she wanted Emma to talk to her, Emma to braid her hair and tell her stupid jokes and make her laugh. Maybe Emma would be able to make some sense out of what had happened the night before.

She reached for her phone, and then drew her hand back. She wasn’t going to start texting Emma all her problems, not when they were in the middle of so much. She glanced resolutely out the window instead—and saw Kieran, crossing the courtyard.

He was all in black. She didn’t know where he’d gotten the clothes, but they made him look like a slender shadow under the gray and rainy sky that had replaced the morning’s blue. His hair was blue-black, his hands hidden by gloves.

There was no rule that Kieran wasn’t supposed to leave the Institute, not really. But he hated the city, Mark had said. Cold iron and steel everywhere. And besides, they were meant to keep him safe with them, not let him slip away before he could testify in front of the Clave. Not let anything happen to him.

And maybe he was upset. Maybe he was angry at Mark, jealous, though he hadn’t shown it the night before. She slid off the windowsill. Kieran was already slipping through the opening of the gate, into the rainy shadows beyond, where he seemed to flicker and vanish, as faeries did.

Cristina dashed out of the library. She thought she heard someone call after her as she ran down the hallway, but she didn’t dare pause. Kieran was fast. She’d lose him.

There was no time to stop to put on a Soundless rune, no time to look for her stele. She hurried down the stairs and grabbed up a jacket hanging on a peg in the entryway. She slid her arms into it and ducked out into the courtyard.

A throb went through her wrist, a warning ache that she was leaving Mark behind. She ignored it, following Kieran through the gate.

Maybe he wasn’t doing anything wrong, she told herself, trying to be fair. He wasn’t a prisoner in the Institute. Maybe Mark knew about this.

Kieran was hurrying down the narrow street, slipping from shadow to shadow. There was something furtive about the way he moved. Cristina was sure of it.

She kept to the side of the road as she followed him. The streets were deserted, damp with a sprinkling of rain. Without a glamour rune, Cristina was intensely conscious of not being spotted by a mundane—her runes were very visible, and she couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t react in a way that would tip Kieran off.

She worried that eventually they’d reach a busier street, and she’d be seen. Her arm was more than throbbing now; a sharp pain was lancing through it, as if a steel wire was being tightened around her wrist.

Yet as Kieran moved deeper into the heart of the city, the streets seemed to grow narrower rather than wider. The electric lights dimmed. The small iron fences around the trees vanished, and the branches above her began to reach together across the roads, forming a green canopy.

Kieran walked ahead of her steadily, a shadow among shadows.

Finally they reached a square of brick buildings facing inward, their fronts covered in ivy and green trellises. In the center of the square was a small patch of ordinary city greenery: a few trees, flat, well-cared-for grass, and a stone fountain in the middle. The faint splashing of water was audible as Cristina slipped behind a tree, pressing herself against the bark, and peered around the side at Kieran.

He had paused by the fountain, and a figure in a green cloak was approaching him, leisurely, from the far side of the small park. His face was familiar: He had soft brown skin and eyes that gleamed even in the darkness. His hands were long and slender; under the cloak, he wore a doublet worked with the broken crown of the Unseelie Court. It was Adaon.

“Kieran,” he said wearily. “Why did you summon me?”

Kieran gave a small bow. Cristina could sense that he was nervous. It was surprising, that she knew Kieran enough to know when he was nervous. She would have said he was a near stranger.

“Adaon, my brother,” he said. “I need your help. I need what you know of spells.”

Kieran’s brother arched an eyebrow. “I would not set to casting spells in the mundane world, were I you, little dark one. You are among Nephilim, and they will disapprove, as will the warlocks and witches of this place.”

“I do not want to cast a spell. I want to undo one. A binding spell.”

“Ah,” said Adaon. “Who does it bind?”

“Mark,” said Kieran.

“Mark,” Adaon echoed, a little mockingly. “What is so special about him, that you care if he is bound? Or should he be bound only to you?”

“I would not want that,” Kieran said fiercely. “I would never want that. He should love me freely.”

“Binding is not love, though it can reveal feelings otherwise buried.” Adaon looked thoughtful. “I had not imagined I would hear you speak so, little dark one. When you were a child, you took what you wanted with no thought of the cost.”

“No one in the Wild Hunt remains a child,” said Kieran.

“It is a pity you were sent away,” said Adaon. “You would have made a good King after our father, and the Court loved you.”

Kieran shook his head. “I would not want to be King.”

“Because you would have to give up Mark,” said Adaon. “But every king gives up something. It is the nature of kings.”

“But kings are not in my nature.” Kieran tilted his head back to look up at his taller brother. “I think you are the one who would make a ruler, brother. Someone to bring peace back to the Lands.”

“This is not just about a binding spell, is it?” said Adaon. “There is something else to all of this. Our father believes you have taken refuge with Shadowhunters to escape his wrath; I admit, I assumed the same. Is there more?”

“There might be,” said Kieran. “I know you will not move against our father, but I also know you do not like him, or find his rule fair. If the throne were open, would you take it?”

“Kieran,” said Adaon. “These are not things of which we speak.”

“There has been bloodshed for so long, and no hope,” said Kieran. “This is not about my safety alone. You must believe that.”

“What are you planning, Kieran?” said Adaon. “What trouble have you gotten yourself into now?”

A hand clapped itself across Cristina’s mouth. Another arm whipped around her, securing her. Her body jackknifed in surprise and she felt the grip on her loosen. She jerked her head backward, felt her skull connect with someone’s face, and heard a yowl of pain.

“Who’s there?” Adaon spun, hand on the hilt of his blade. “Show yourself!”

Something dug into Cristina’s throat—something long and sharp. The blade of a knife. She froze.

* * *

“We should go,” Emma whispered. She didn’t ask Julian what Annabel had meant. She suspected they both knew.

Something dark and slippery flashed by across the transept, something that moved with a grotesque fluidity. The room seemed to darken. Emma wrinkled her nose—the rotten smell of demonic presence was suddenly all around, as if she’d opened a box full of a horrible potpourri.

Julian’s face was luminous-pale in the shadows. He crumpled up the letter in his hand and they began to back out of the church, taking careful steps, the seraph blade offering flickering illumination. They were halfway to the exit when there was an enormous crash—the two big front doors of the church had slammed shut.

Faintly, Emma heard the giggle of a piskie.

They spun around as the altar overturned. It hit the ground with a shattering thud.

“You go left,” Emma whispered. “I’ll go right.”

Julian slipped away noiselessly. Emma could still sense him there, his presence nearby. They had paused to rune each other halfway from the town to the church, looking out over Talland Bay and the blue ocean. Her runes prickled alive now as she slipped down the row of a pew and made her way along the inside wall of the church.

She had reached the nave. Shadows gathered thickly here, but her Night Vision rune was sparking and she was finding it easier to see in the dark. She could see the overturned altar, the huge blot of dried blood that stained the stone floor. There was a bloody handprint on one of the nearby pillars. It looked wrong and horrible, inside a church like this; it made Emma think of an Institute defiled.

Of Sebastian, spilling blood at the threshold of the Los Angeles stronghold of the Shadowhunters.

She flinched, and for just that moment of memory, her focus was diverted. Something flickered at the edge of her vision, just as Julian’s voice exploded in her ears: “Emma, look out!”

Emma flung herself sideways, away from the flickering shadow. She landed on the overturned altar and spun around to see a rippling horror rising in front of her. It was scarlet-black, the color of blood—it was blood, formed of clotted, sludgy scarlet, with two burning white eyes. Its hands ended in flat points like the tip of a shovel, each with a single black, curved talon protruding from it. The talons dripped with a thin, lucent slime.

It spoke. Blood poured from its mouth, a black slash in its scarlet face. “I am Sabnock of Thule. How dare you stand before me, ugly human?”

Emma was surprised not to be called Shadowhunter—most demons knew the Nephilim. But she didn’t show it. “How personal,” she said. “I’m hurt.”

“I do not understand your words.” Sabnock slipped toward her. Emma edged backward on the altar. She could feel Julian somewhere behind her; she knew he was there, without looking.

“Most don’t,” she said. “It’s a burden, being sarcastic.”

“Blood drew me here,” it said. “Blood is what I am. Blood spilled in hate and anger. Blood spilled in frustrated love. Blood spilled in despair.”

“You’re a demon,” Emma said, holding Cortana out, straight and level. “I don’t really need to know why or how. I just need you to go back where you came from.”

“I came from blood, and to blood I will return,” said the demon, and leaped, talons and teeth bared. Emma hadn’t even realized it had teeth, but there they were, like shards of red glass.

She flipped backward, somersaulting away from the creature. It hit the altar with the sound of fluid smacking against something solid. The world spun around Emma as she turned. She felt utterly cold down to her bones, the freezing calm of battle that slowed everything in the world around her.

She landed, straightening. The demon was crouched at the edge of the altar, snarling. It leaped again, and this time she slashed at it, a swift upward thrust.

Cortana met no resistance. It slid through the creature’s shoulder; blood splashed onto Emma’s wrist and forearm. Slimy, clotted, foul blood. She gagged as the thing spun like a tornado, whipping out at her with its glassine claw. They twirled across the floor of the church in a sort of dance, Cortana flashing and gleaming. It was impossible to wound the thing—hacking and slashing at it only opened up a temporary gap, like a dent in water, that closed up immediately.

She didn’t dare take her eyes off the demon long enough to look around for Julian. She knew he was there, but he felt farther away, as if he’d gone to the other side of the church. She couldn’t see the distant, flashing star of his seraph blade, either. Jules, she thought. A little help now would be good.

With a frustrated growl, the demon charged again. Emma swung, an overhead two-fisted slash, and the demon howled; she’d smashed a few of its teeth in. A sharp pain lanced up her arm. She twisted the sword, grinding it into the demon’s head, breathing in the pleasure of its screams.

Light exploded into the world. She staggered back, her eyes burning. A square was opening in the roof above, like the sunroof of a car peeling back. She saw a shadow against the sun; Julian, perched on one of the church’s highest rafters, and then the sunlight speared down through the gap and the demon began to burn.

It shrieked as it burned. Its edges blackening, it staggered back. The room stank of boiling blood. Julian dropped from the rafters, landing on the altar: His stele was in one hand, his seraph blade in the other.

She held out her free hand, the one that wasn’t clasping Cortana, toward him. He knew what she wanted, without asking. The seraph blade arced through the air toward her like a firework. Emma caught it, spun, and drove the blade into the weakened, burning demon.

With a last shriek, it vanished.

The silence that came after was stunning. Emma gasped, her ears ringing, and turned to Jules. “That was awesome—”

Jules flung himself down from the altar, grabbing the ichor-smeared seraph blade out of her hand. It was already starting to warp out of shape, choked with demon blood. He hurled it aside and grabbed Emma’s hand, flipping it over so he could see the long scratch that ran from the back of her palm up her forearm.

He was stark white. “What happened? Did it bite you?”

“Not exactly. I sliced myself on its teeth.”

He ran his fingers up her arm. She winced. It was a long and narrow cut, but not shallow. “It doesn’t burn? Or sting?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Jules. I’m fine.”

He stared at her for a moment. His eyes were fierce and tearless in the harsh light from above. He turned away without another word and stalked down the aisle of the church, toward the doors.

Emma looked down at her hand. Her wound was quite ordinary, she thought; it would need to be cleaned, but it wasn’t anything out of the usual in terms of injuries sustained in battle. She slid Cortana back into its sheath and followed Julian out of the church.

For a moment, she didn’t see him at all. It was as if he’d vanished, and all that was left was the view from the church. Green fields fading away into a wash of blue: blue sea, blue sky, the blue haze of distant hills.

She heard a cry, thin and faint, and ran toward it, toward the graveyard where headstones thinned and faded by time tilted back and forth like a pack of scattered playing cards.

There was a loud squeak. “Let me go! Let me go!” Emma spun around and saw the grass moving; the smallest piskie was wriggling madly, pinned to the ground by Jules, whose bleakly cold expression sent a shiver through Emma.

“You locked us in with that thing,” Julian said, his arm across the piskie’s throat. “Didn’t you?”

“Didn’t know it was there! Didn’t know!” squeaked the piskie, twisting under Julian’s hold.

“What’s the difference?” Emma protested. “Julian. Don’t—”

“Necromancy happened in that church. It tore open a hole between dimensions that let a demon through. It could have ripped us to shreds.”

“Didn’t know!” the piskie whined.

“Who didn’t know?” Julian demanded. “Because I’ll bet anything you did.”

The piskie went limp, boneless. Julian pinned it with a knee. “The lady said to tell you to go there. She said you were dangerous. Would kill faeries.”

“I might now,” said Julian.

“It’s all right, Jules,” Emma said. She knew the piskie wasn’t the innocent, childlike creature it appeared to be. But something about seeing it twist and whimper made her feel sick.

“It’s not all right. You were hurt,” Julian said, and the cold tone in his voice made her remember the look on his face when Anselm Nightshade was led away. Julian, you scared me a little, she’d said at the time.

But then, Nightshade had been guilty. Clary had said so.

“Leave him alone!” It was another one of the piskies, wavering palely in the grass. A female piskie, judging from clothes and hair length. She waved her hands ineffectually at Julian. “He doesn’t know anything!”

Julian didn’t move. He stared icily down at the faerie. He looked like a statue of an avenging angel, something blank and pitiless.

“Don’t come near us again,” he said. “Speak of this to no one. Or we will find you, and I will make you pay.”

The piskie nodded jerkily. Julian stood up, and the piskies vanished as if the ground had swallowed them up.

“Did you have to scare them so much?” Emma said, a little hesitantly. Julian still had that frighteningly blank expression on his face, as if his body was here but his mind was a million miles away.

“Better scared than making trouble.” Julian turned to her. A little of the color was coming back to his skin. “You need an iratze.”

“It’s all right. It doesn’t hurt that much, and besides, I want to clean it first.” Iratzes could heal skin over any wound, but sometimes that meant sealing in infection or dirt.

Concern flickered in his eyes. “Then we should go back to the cottage. But first, I need your help with something.”

Emma thought of the broken altar, the spilled blood, and groaned. “Don’t say cleaning up.”

“We’re not going to clean the church up,” said Julian. “We’re going to burn it down.”

* * *

Whoever was holding Cristina was strong, stronger than a mundane human.

“Now step forward, and do as I say,” said the voice behind her, breathless but low and confident. She found herself shoved ahead into the center of the park. She was hauled toward the fountain, and the two faeries standing there. Both of them stared—Kieran at her, his brother a little above her head.

“Erec,” Adaon said, sounding weary. “What are you doing here?”

“I followed you.” Erec’s voice echoed behind Cristina. She remembered him with a flare of hate, remembered him in Faerie, Julian’s knife against his throat as his was against her own now. “I was curious as to your purpose here. And I wanted to see our little brother, too.”

“Let her go,” Kieran said, with a gesture toward Cristina. He didn’t meet her eyes. “She’s nothing to do with this. Just a Shadowhunter spying without my knowledge.”

“You said she’s nothing to do with you,” Erec sneered. “Not that you don’t care.” Hot silver pain flashed at Cristina’s throat. She felt the warmth of blood. She stiffened her spine, refusing to flinch.

“Leave her be.” Kieran’s face was a pale mask of rage. “Do you want the Nephilim after you, Erec? Are you a fool? I know you’re a torturer—you used to torture me.” He took a step toward Cristina and Erec. “Do you remember? You made these.” He shoved his loose black sleeves up, and Cristina saw the long scars on his arms. “And the ones on my back.”

“You were a soft child,” said Erec. “Too soft to be the son of a King. Kindness has no place in the court of a broken crown.” He chuckled. “Besides, I come with news. Father has sent the Seven.”

Kieran paled even further. “Mannan’s Seven? Sent them where?”

“Here. To the mundane world. They are tasked to retrieve the Black Volume, now that the death of Malcolm Fade is known. They will find it, and before you do.”

“The Black Volume is nothing to do with me,” said Kieran.

“But it is to do with our father,” said Adaon. “He has wanted it since the First Heir was stolen.”

“Longer than he has hated the Nephilim?” Kieran said.

Erec spat. “Those Nephilim you love so. They are a doomed race. You are wasting yourself, Kieran, when you could be much more.”

“Let him be, Erec,” Adaon said. “What do you imagine Father would do if Kieran came home, besides kill him?”

“If Father was still alive to kill anyone.”

“Enough scheming!” roared Adaon. “Enough, Erec!”

“Then let him prove he’s loyal!” Erec removed the knife from Cristina’s throat with a sudden gesture; she spluttered and coughed. Her wrist was searing pain and Erec’s hands were iron bands around her upper arms. He shoved her forward, toward his brothers, without releasing his grip. “Kill the Shadowhunter,” he shouted at Kieran. “Adaon, give him your blade. Run it through her heart, Kieran. Show you are loyal and I will intercede for you with Father. You can be welcomed back at Court instead of killed or exiled to the Hunt.”

Adaon put his hand to his side, to sieze his sword, but Kieran had already seized it. Cristina struggled, kicking out, but she couldn’t dislodge Erec’s grip. Terror rose up in her as Kieran came toward them both, the faerie sword glimmering in his hand, his eyes flat as mirrors.

Cristina began to pray. Angel, keep me safe. Raziel, help me. She kept her eyes open. She wouldn’t close them. That was a coward’s way to die. If the Angel wanted her to die now, she’d die on her feet with her eyes open like Jonathan Shadowhunter. She would—

Kieran’s eyes flickered, minutely, his head tilting. She followed the movement, suddenly understanding, as he lifted the sword in his hand. He swung it forward—and she ducked her head.

The sword sliced through the air cleanly above her. Something hot and wet and copper-smelling spilled across her back. She cried out, pivoting away as Erec’s arms released her, his throat severed to the spine, his body crumpling to the pebbled path.

“Kieran,” Adaon breathed in horror. Kieran stood over Erec’s body, the blood-smeared sword in his hand. “What have you done?”

“He would have killed her,” Kieran said. “And she is my—and Mark—”

Cristina caught at the fountain to hold herself up. Her legs felt numb. The pain in her arm was fire.

Adaon strode forward and snatched the sword from Kieran’s hand. “Iarlath was not your blood,” he said. His skin looked tight with shock. “But Erec was. You will be denounced a kin-slayer if anyone discovers what you have done.”

Kieran raised his head. His eyes burned into his brother’s. “Will you tell them?”

Adaon jerked the hood up over his face. Wind had begun to blow through the square—a cold, sharp squall of it. Adaon’s cloak flapped like wings. “Go, Kieran. Seek the safety of the Institute.”

Adaon bent over Erec’s body. It was twisted at a violent angle, blood running among the pebbles and grass. As he knelt, Kieran started to walk out of the park—and stopped.

Slowly, he turned back and looked at Cristina. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Yes.” She was surprised at the steadiness of her own voice, but her body betrayed her—when she stood upright, agony shot through her arm, down into her side, and she doubled over, gasping.

A moment later there were hands on her, none too gentle, and she felt herself lifted off the ground. She started in surprise—Kieran had picked her up and was carrying her from the park.

She let her arms dangle, not knowing what else to do. She was speechless. Despite the dancing the night before, it was bizarre to be held by Kieran like this. Mark had been there, then—and now they were alone.

“Do not be foolish,” said Kieran. “Put your arms around me. I do not want to drop you and then have to explain matters to Mark.”

He would have killed her. And she is my—and Mark—

She wondered what he’d meant to say. Mark would have been angry? Mark would have been disappointed? She is my friend?

No, he couldn’t have meant that. Kieran didn’t like her. She was sure of it. And maybe that hadn’t been what he’d said at all. Her memories were becoming blurred with pain.

They were passing down a street whose lights seemed to change from gas to electric as they went. Illumination blinked on in windows overhead. Cristina raised her arms and put them around Kieran’s neck. She laced her fingers together, biting her lip against the pain of the binding spell.

Kieran’s hair tickled her fingers. It was soft, surprisingly so. His skin was incredibly fine-grained, more so than any human’s, like the surface of polished porcelain. She remembered Mark kissing Kieran against a tree in the desert, hands on his hair, pushing the neck of his sweater down to get at his skin, his bones, his body. She blushed.

“Why did you follow me?” Kieran said stiffly.

“I saw you through the library window,” said Cristina. “I thought you were running away.”

“I went to see Adaon, as I promised I would, that is all. Besides”— he laughed shortly—“where have I to go?”

“People often run even when they have nowhere to go,” said Cristina. “It is all about what you can bear in the place where you are.”

There was a long silence, long enough that Cristina assumed Kieran wasn’t planning to answer. Then he spoke. “I have the sense,” he said, “that I have done Mark some kind of wrong. I do not know what it was. But I see it in his eyes when he looks at me. He thinks he is hiding it, but he is not. Though he can lie with his mouth, he has never learned to conceal the truth in his eyes.”

“You’ll have to ask Mark,” said Cristina. They had reached the street that led to the Institute. Cristina could see the spire of it rising in the distance. “When Adaon said that if you became King, you’d have to give up Mark, what did he mean?”

“A King of Faerie can have no human consort.” He looked down at her with his eyes like stars. “Mark lies about you. But I have seen the way he looks at you. Last night, when we danced. He more than desires you.”

“Do—do you mind?” Cristina said.

“I do not mind you,” said Kieran. “I thought I would, but I do not. It is something about you. You are beautiful, and you are kind, and you are—good. I do not know why that should make a difference. But it does.”

He sounded almost surprised. Cristina said nothing. Her blood was getting on Kieran’s shirt. It was a surreal sight. His body was warm, not cold as marble as she’d always imagined. He smelled faintly of night and woods, a clean smell untouched by the city.

“Mark needs kindness,” Kieran said, after a long pause. “And so do I.”

They’d reached the Institute, and Kieran went quickly up the stairs—and paused at the top. His arms tautened around her.

Cristina looked at him, puzzled. Then the light dawned. “You can’t open the door,” she said. “You’re not a Shadowhunter.”

“That is the case.” Kieran blinked at the doors as if they’d surprised him.

“What if you’d come back without me?” Cristina had the most bizarre urge to laugh, though nothing that had happened had been funny, and Erec’s blood still stiffened the back of her clothes. She wondered how many times she’d have to shower before she felt even a little clean. “I really would have imagined you’d thought further ahead.”

“I seem to have absorbed some of your human impulsiveness,” Kieran said.

He sounded shocked at himself. Taking pity on him, Cristina began to unknot her fingers from around his neck.

She reached for the door, but it swung inward. Light blazed out of the entryway, and on the threshold stood Mark, staring from one of them to the other in astonishment.

“Where were you?” he demanded. “By the Angel—Kieran, Cristina—” He reached out as if to take her from Kieran’s arms.

“It’s all right,” Cristina said. “I can stand.”

Kieran gently lowered her to the ground. The pain in her arm was already beginning to fade, though looking at Mark’s wrist—red, puffy, ringed with blood—filled her with guilt. It was so hard to believe, even now, that the pain she felt was his pain too; her bleeding, his bleeding.

Mark drew his hand down her sleeve, already hardening as Erec’s blood dried. “All this blood—it’s not just your wrist—and why would you go out, either of you—?”

“It is not her blood,” said Kieran. “It is my brother’s.”

They were all in the entryway now. Kieran reached behind him and deliberately shut the massive front doors with a loud clang. Above them, Cristina could hear footsteps, someone hurrying downstairs.

“Your brother’s?” Mark echoed. Against Kieran’s dark clothes the blood hadn’t been very visible, but Mark seemed to look more closely now and see the thin spatters of scarlet against Kieran’s neck and cheek. “You mean—Adaon?”

Kieran looked dazed. “I went to meet him, to speak of the binding spell and of his possible accession to the throne.”

“And blood was spilled? But why?” Mark touched Kieran’s cheek gently. “If we had known there might be a fight, we never would have suggested you talk to him on our behalf. And why did you go alone? Why did you not tell me, or bring me with you?”

Kieran closed his eyes for just a moment, turning his cheek into the cup of Mark’s palm. “I did not want to risk you,” he said in a low voice.

Mark met Cristina’s eyes, over Kieran’s shoulder. “It wasn’t Adaon who wanted a fight,” she said, rubbing her wrist. “It was Erec.”

Kieran opened his eyes, gently drawing Mark’s hand away from his face, lacing his fingers through Mark’s as he did. “He must have followed Adaon to our meeting place,” he said. “I never even had the chance to tell Adaon of our plans for him, and the throne.” His eyes darkened. “Mark, there is something you must know—”

Magnus burst into the vestibule, Alec behind him. They were both out of breath. “What’s going on?” Alec asked.

“Where are the children?” Kieran said. “The little ones, and the blue child with the small horns?”

Alec blinked. “Bridget’s watching them,” he said. “Why?”

“I will explain in more detail when I can,” said Kieran. “For now, you must know this. The King my father has sent the Seven Riders to find the Black Volume, and they are here in London. I imagine he believes the location of the Black Volume is known by those in this Institute. The danger is great. We are safe within these walls for now, but—”

Mark had gone white. “But Livvy and Ty aren’t within these walls,” he said. “They went with Kit to get the ingredients for the binding spell. They’re somewhere in the city.”

There was a babble of voices, Alec snapping out a question, Magnus gesturing. But the pain and shock—not just hers, but Mark’s—was graying out Cristina’s vision, however much she tried to cling onto consciousness. She tried to say something but the words disappeared, everything sliding up and away from her as she tumbled into the shadows.

She wasn’t sure whether it was Mark or Kieran who caught her as she fell.

* * *

Rain clouds had replaced blue sky over London. Ty, Kit, and Livvy had decided to walk back from Hypatia’s after picking up Magnus’s ingredients, rather than wait in the fussy, damp line for the riverboat.

Kit was enjoying himself kicking his way through puddles on the Thames Path, which wound like a granite snake along the side of the river. They’d passed the Tower of London again, and Ty had pointed out Traitor’s Gate, where condemned criminals had once entered the tower to have their heads chopped off.

Livvy had sighed. “I wish Dru was with us. She would have liked that. She’s hardly come out of her room lately.”

“I think she’s afraid someone will make her babysit if she does,” said Kit. He wasn’t sure he had a clear impression of Dru yet—more a blurred sense of a round face, flushed cheeks, and a lot of black clothes. She had the Blackthorn eyes, but they were usually focused on something else.

“I think she’s keeping a secret,” Livvy said. They’d passed Millennium Bridge, a long iron line stretching across the river, and were nearing an older-looking bridge, painted a dented red and gray.

Ty was humming to himself, lost in thought. The river was the same color as his eyes today, a sort of steely-gray, touched with bits of silver. The white band of his headphones was around his neck, trapping his unruly black hair under it. He looked puzzled. “Why would she do that?”

“It’s just a feeling I have,” said Livvy. “I can’t prove it . . . .” Her voice trailed off. She was squinting into the distance, her hand up to shield her face from the gray afternoon light. “What’s that?”

Kit followed her glance and felt a coldness pass through him. Shapes were moving through the sky, a line of racing figures, silhouetted against the clouds. Three horses, clear as paper outlines, with three riders on their backs.

He looked around wildly. Mundanes were all around, paying little to no attention to the three teenagers in jeans and hooded raincoats hurrying along with their bags full of magic powders.

“The Wild Hunt?” Kit said. “But why—?”

“I don’t think it’s the Wild Hunt,” said Livvy. “They ride at night. It’s broad daylight.” She put her hand to her side, where her seraph blades hung.

“I don’t like this.” Ty sounded breathless. The figures were incredibly close now, skimming the top of the bridge, angling downward. “They’re coming toward us.”

They turned, but it was too late. Kit felt a breeze ruffle his hair as the horses and their riders passed overhead. A moment later there was a clatter as the three landed in a neat pattern around Kit, Livvy, and Ty, cutting off their retreat.

The horses were a glimmering bronze in color, and their riders were bronze-skinned and bronze-haired, wearing half masks of gleaming metal. They were beautiful, bizarre and unearthly, entirely out of place in the shadows of the bridge as the water taxis skated by and the road above hummed with traffic.

They were clearly faeries, but nothing like the ones Kit had seen before in the Shadow Market. They were taller and bigger, and they were armed, despite the edicts of the Cold Peace. Each wore a massive sword at his waist.

“Nephilim,” said one, in a voice that sounded like glaciers breaking apart. “I am Eochaid of the Seven Riders, and these are my brothers Etarlam and Karn. Where is the Black Volume?”

“The Black Volume?” Livvy echoed. The three of them had squeezed tighter against the wall of the path. Kit noticed people giving them odd glances as they passed by, and he knew they looked as if they were staring at nothing.

“Yes,” said Etarlam. “Our King seeks it. You will give it up.”

“We don’t have it,” said Ty. “And we don’t know where it is.”

Karn laughed. “You are but children, so we are inclined to be lenient,” he said. “But understand this. The Riders of Mannan have done the bidding of the Unseelie King for a thousand years. In that time many have fallen to our blades, and we have spared none for any reason, not for age or weakness or infirmity of body. We will not spare you now.” He leaned over the mane of his horse, and Kit saw for the first time that the horse had a shark’s eyes, inky and flat and deadly. “Either you know where the Black Volume is, or you will make useful prisoners to tempt those who do. Which will it be, Shadowhunters?”