Lord of Shadows The Dark Artifices 2

25

S

TART AND

S

IGH

Gwyn wouldn’t come into the Institute.

Kit didn’t know if it was principle or preference, but despite the fact that his arm was bleeding, soaking the side of his gray armor, the Wild Hunt leader only shook his head when Alec invited him cordially into the Institute.

“I am the head of the London Institute, however temporarily,” Alec said. “I am empowered to invite whoever I want inside.”

“I cannot linger,” Gwyn demurred. “There is much to be done.”

It had begun to rain. Alec was on the roof along with Mark, who had greeted Livvy and Ty with a mixture of terror and relief. The twins were still standing close to their brother, his arm around Livvy’s shoulder, his hand clasping Ty’s sleeve.

There was no one to greet Kit that way. He stood off a little to the side, watching. The ride on horseback from the river—Gwyn seemed to be able to summon horses out of the air, like a magician conjuring pennies—had been a blur; Ty and Livvy had ridden with Diana, and Kit had wound up behind Gwyn, clinging desperately to his belt and trying not to fall off the horse into the Thames.

“I cannot stay among all this cold iron,” Gwyn said, and he did look fairly peaked, in Kit’s opinion. “And you, Blackthorns—you should get yourself inside the Institute. Within its walls you are safe.”

“What about Emma and Jules?” Livvy said. “They could be outside, the Riders could be looking for them—”

“Magnus went to find them,” Alec reassured her. “He’ll make sure they’re all right.”

Livvy nodded gravely, but she still looked worried.

“We might need some help from you, Diana,” said Alec. “We’re sending the children to Alicante as soon as Magnus returns.”

“Which children?” asked Diana. She had a soft, low voice; now it was rough with tiredness. “Just yours, or . . .”

“Tavvy and Drusilla as well,” Alec said. He eyed Livvy and Ty: Kit guessed that if he had his druthers, Alec would bring the twins along, too, but knew they’d never stand for it.

“Ah,” said Diana. “Might I suggest that rather than taking up residence with the Inquisitor in Alicante, you stay with me on Flintlock Street? It would be good if the Cohort didn’t know you were there.”

“My thought exactly,” said Alec. “Better to stay under the radar of the Dearborns and their ilk, especially just before the Council meeting.” He frowned. “And hopefully we’ll be able to get the binding spell off Mark and Cristina before we need to leave. Otherwise they might not be able to—”

“One of the Riders was killed,” Kit said.

Everyone stared at him. He wasn’t sure why he’d spoken, himself. The world seemed to be swaying around him, and strange things were important.

“You remember,” he said. “It’s why they fled, in the end. One of them had died, and the others could feel it. Maybe Julian and Emma fought them and won.”

“No one can kill one of the Riders of Mannan,” said Gwyn.

“Emma could,” said Livvy. “If Cortana—”

Kit’s knees gave out. It was very sudden and he hadn’t expected it at all. One moment he was standing, the next he was kneeling in a cold puddle, wondering why he couldn’t get up.

“Kit!” Diana cried. “Alec, he hit his head during the fight—he said it didn’t hurt, but—”

Alec was already striding over to Kit. He was stronger than he looked. His arms braced Kit, lifting him; a hot dart of pain went through Kit’s head as he moved, and a merciful grayness closed in.

* * *

They lay on the bed afterward in the twilight dark, Emma with her head on Julian’s chest. She could hear his heart beating through the soft material of his T-shirt.

They had toweled their hair and put on dry clothes and curled up together under one layer of blankets. Their feet were tangled together; Julian was running a slow, thoughtful hand through her loose hair.

“Tell me,” he said. “You said there was something I needed to know. And I stopped you.” He paused. “Tell me now.”

She folded her arms on his chest, resting her chin on them. There was relaxation in the curve of his body around hers. But his expression was more than curious; she could see the intensity in the back of his eyes, his need to know. To make sense out of all the pieces that didn’t make sense now.

“I was never dating Mark,” she said. “That was all a lie. I asked him to pretend to be dating me, and he had said he owed me his life before, so he agreed. It was never real.”

His fingers stilled in her hair. Emma swallowed. She had to get through all this without thinking of whether Julian would hate her at the end. Otherwise she’d never be able to finish.

“Why would you do that?” he said carefully. “Why would Mark agree to hurt me?”

“He didn’t know it was hurting you,” Emma said. “He never knew there was anything between us—not until we went to Faerie. He found out then, and he told me we had to end it. That’s why I stopped things in London. Mark didn’t mind. We didn’t feel that way about each other.”

“So Mark didn’t know,” he said. “Why did you do it, then?” He held up a hand. “Never mind. I know the answer: to stop me loving you. To break us up. I even know why you picked Mark.”

“I wish it could have been anyone else—”

“No one else would have made me hate you,” he said flatly. “Nobody else would have made me give you up.” He propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at her. “Make me understand,” he said. “You love me and I love you, but you wanted to wreck all that. You were so determined you brought Mark into it, which I know you’d never do if you weren’t desperate. So what made you so desperate, Emma? I know being in love with your parabatai is forbidden, but it’s a stupid Law—”

“It’s not,” she said, “a stupid Law.”

He blinked. His hair was dry now. “Whatever you know, Emma,” he said in a low voice, “it’s time to tell me.”

So she did. Leaving nothing out, she told him what Malcolm had said to her about the parabatai curse, how he was showing her mercy, killing her, when otherwise she and Julian would watch each other die. How the Nephilim hated love. What Jem had confirmed for her: the terrible fate of parabatai who fell in love; the death and destruction they would bring down around them. How she knew that neither of them could ever become mundanes or Downworlders to break the bond: how being Shadowhunters was part of their souls and their selves, how the exile from their families would destroy them.

The light from the fire threw a dark gold glow across his face, his hair, but she could see how pale he was, even under that, and the starkness that took over his expression as she spoke, as if the shadows were growing harsher. Outside, the rain poured steadily down.

When she was done, he was silent a long time. Emma’s mouth was dry, as if she’d been swallowing cotton. Finally she could stand it no longer and moved toward him, knocking the pillow onto the floor. “Jules—”

He held a hand up. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

She looked at him miserably. “Because of what Jem said. That finding out that what we had was forbidden for good reason would just make it worse. Believe me, knowing what I know hasn’t made me love you any less.”

His eyes were such a dark blue in the dim light they looked like Kit’s. “So you decided to make me hate you.”

“I tried,” she whispered. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“But I could never hate you,” he said. “Hating you would be like hating the idea of good things ever happening in the world. It would be like death. I thought you didn’t love me, Emma. But I never hated you.”

“And I thought you didn’t love me.”

“And it didn’t make any difference, did it? We still loved each other. I understand why you were so upset about what we did to Porthallow Church, now.”

She nodded. “The curse makes you stronger before it makes you destructive.”

“I’m glad you told me.” He touched her cheek, her hair. “Now we know nothing we can do will change how we feel about each other. We’ll have to find another solution.”

There were tears on Emma’s face, though she didn’t remember starting to cry. “I thought if you stopped loving me, you’d be sad for a while. And if I was sad forever, that would be okay. Because you’d be all right, and I’d still be your parabatai. And if you could be happy eventually, then I could be happy too, for you.”

“You’re an idiot,” Julian said. He put his arms around her and rocked her, his lips against her hair, and he whispered, the way he whispered when Tavvy had nightmares, that she was brave to have done what she did, that they’d fix it all, they’d find a way. And even though Emma could still see no way out for them, she relaxed against his chest, letting herself feel the relief of having shared the burden, just for this moment. “But I can’t be angry. There’s something I should have told you, as well.”

She drew away from him. “What is it?”

He was fiddling with his glass bracelet. Since Julian rarely expressed any anxiety in a visible way, Emma felt her heart thump.

“Julian,” she said. “Tell me.”

“When we were going into Faerie,” he said in a low voice, “the phouka told me that if I entered the Lands, I would meet someone who knew how to break the parabatai bond.”

The thumping of Emma’s heart became a rapid tattoo beating against the inside of her rib cage. She sat up straight. “Are you saying you know how to break it?”

He shook his head. “The wording was correct—I met someone who did know how to break it. The Seelie Queen, to be precise. And she told me she knew it could be done, but not how.”

“Is that part of returning the book?” Emma said. “We give her the Black Volume, she tells us how to end the bond?”

He nodded. He was looking at the fire.

“You didn’t tell me,” she said. “Is that because you thought I wouldn’t care?”

“Partially,” he said. “If you didn’t want the bond broken, then neither did I. I’d rather be your parabatai than nothing.”

“Jules—Julian—”

“And there’s more,” he said. “She told me there would be a cost.”

Of course, a cost. There is always a cost when faeries are involved.

“What kind of cost?” she whispered.

“Breaking the bond involves using the Black Volume to dig out the root of all parabatai ceremonies,” said Julian. “It would break our bond, yes. But it would also destroy every parabatai bond in the world. They’d all be snapped. There’d be no more parabatai.”

Emma stared at him in absolute shock. “We couldn’t possibly do that. Alec and Jace—Clary and Simon—there are so many others—”

“You think I don’t know that? But I couldn’t not tell you. You have a right to know.”

Emma felt as if she could barely breathe. “The Queen—”

A sharp bang echoed through the room, as if someone had set off a firecracker. Magnus Bane appeared in their kitchen, wrapped in a long black coat, his right hand sparking blue fire, his expression thunderous. “Why in the names of the nine princes of Hell are neither of you answering your phone?” he demanded.

Emma and Julian gaped at him. After a moment, he gaped back.

“My God,” he said. “Are you . . . ?”

He didn’t finish the question. He didn’t have to.

Emma and Julian scrambled out of the bed. They were both mostly dressed, but Magnus was looking at them as if he’d caught them in flagrante.

“Magnus,” Julian said. He didn’t follow up his greeting by saying it wasn’t like that, or Magnus was getting the wrong idea. Julian didn’t say things like that. “What’s going on? Is something wrong at home?”

Magnus looked, at that moment, like he was feeling his age. “Parabatai,” he said, and sighed. “Yes, something’s wrong. We need to get you back to the Institute. Grab your things and get ready to leave.”

He leaned back against the kitchen island, crossing his arms. He was wearing a sort of greatcoat with several layers of short capes in the back. He was dry—he must have Portaled from inside the Institute.

“There’s blood on your sword, Emma,” he said, looking at where Cortana was propped against the wall.

“Faerie blood,” said Emma. Julian was yanking on a sweater and running his fingers through his wild hair.

“When you say faerie blood,” Magnus said, “you mean the Riders, don’t you?”

Emma saw Julian start. “They were looking for us—how would you know?”

“They weren’t just looking for you. The King sent them to find the Black Volume. He instructed them to hunt all of you—all the Blackthorns.”

“To hunt us?” Julian demanded. “Is anyone hurt?” He strode across the room to Magnus, almost as if he meant to grab the warlock by his shirt and shake him. “Is anyone in my family hurt?”

“Julian.” Magnus’s voice was firm. “Everyone’s fine. But the Riders did come. They attacked Kit, Ty, and Livvy.”

“And they’re all right?” Emma demanded anxiously, shoving her feet into boots.

“Yes—I got a fire-message from Alec,” Magnus said. “Kit got a bump on the head. Ty and Livvy, not a scratch. But they were lucky—Gwyn and Diana intervened.”

“Diana and Gwyn? Together?” Emma was baffled.

“Emma killed one of the Riders,” Julian said. He was gathering up Annabel’s portfolio, Malcolm’s diaries, shoving them into his bag. “We hid his body up on the cliff, but we probably shouldn’t leave it there.”

Magnus whistled between his teeth. “No one’s killed one of Mannan’s Riders in—well, in all the history I know.”

Emma shuddered, remembering the cold feeling as the blade had gone into Fal’s body. “It was horrible.”

“The rest of them are not gone forever,” said Magnus. “They will come back.”

Julian zipped his bag and Emma’s. “Then we need to take the children somewhere safe. Somewhere the Riders won’t find them.”

“Right now, the Institute is the safest place outside Idris,” said Magnus. “It’s warded, and I’ll ward it again.”

“The cottage is safe too,” Emma said, hoisting her bag over her shoulder. It was twice as heavy as it had been before with the addition of Malcolm’s books. “The Riders can’t come near it; they said so.”

“Thoughtful of Malcolm,” said Magnus. “But you’d be trapped in the house if you stayed, and I can’t imagine you’d want to be unable to leave these four walls.”

“No,” Julian said, but he said it quietly. Emma could see Magnus raking his gaze over the interior of the cottage—the mess of teacups they hadn’t cleaned up, the signs of Julian’s cooking, the disarray of the bedcovers, the remains of the fire in the grate. A place built by and for two people who loved each other yet weren’t allowed to, and that had sheltered two more such people two hundred years later. “I suppose we wouldn’t.”

There was sympathy in Magnus’s eyes when he looked back at Julian, and at Emma, too. “All dreams end when you wake,” he said. “Now, come. I’ll Portal us home.”

* * *

Dru watched the rain streak her bedroom windows. Outside, London was a blur, the glow of streetlights expanding in the rain to become yellow dandelion clocks of light perched on elongated metal posts.

She had been in the library long enough to tell Mark that she was fine, before he’d gotten worried about Cristina and gone looking for her. When they’d both returned, Dru’s stomach had tightened with fear. She’d been sure Cristina was going to tell—tell everyone about Jaime, spill her secret, spill his.

The expression on Cristina’s face wasn’t comforting, either. “Can I talk to you in the hall, Dru?” she had said.

Dru nodded and put her book down. She hadn’t been reading it anyway. Mark had gone over to Kieran and the children, and Dru followed Cristina out into the hall.

“Thank you,” Cristina said, as soon as the door was shut. “For helping Jaime.”

Dru cleared her throat. Being thanked seemed like a good sign. At least a sign that Cristina wasn’t mad. Maybe.

Cristina smiled. She had dimples. Dru immediately wished she had them too. Did she? She’d have to check. Though smiling at herself in the mirror sounded a little bizarre. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone he was here, or that you helped him. It must not have been easy, putting up with him as you did.”

“I didn’t mind,” Dru said. “He listened to me.”

Cristina’s dark eyes were sad. “He used to listen to me, once, too.”

“Is he going to be all right?” Dru asked.

“I think so,” Cristina said. “He has always been smart and careful.” She touched Dru’s cheek. “I’ll let you know if I hear from him.”

And that was that. Dru had gone back to her bedroom, feeling hollow. She knew she’d been supposed to stay in the library, but she needed to be where she could think.

She’d sat on the edge of her bed, kicking her legs listlessly. She wanted Jaime to be there so she’d have someone to talk to. She wanted to talk about the fact that Magnus looked tired, that Mark was stressed, that she was worried about Emma and Jules. She wanted to talk about how she missed home, the smell of the ocean and desert.

She swung her legs harder—and her heel collided with something. Bending down, she saw with surprise that Jaime’s duffel bag was still stuffed under her bed. She pulled it out from under the mattress, trying not to spill the contents. It was already unzipped.

He must have shoved it there in a hurry when Cristina came in, but why would he leave it? Did it mean he was planning on coming back? Or had he just left behind the stuff he didn’t need?

She didn’t mean to look inside, or at least that was what she told herself later. It wasn’t that she needed to know if he was coming back. It was just an accident.

Stuffed inside were a jumble of boy’s clothes, a bunch of jeans and shirts, and a few books, spare steles, unactivated seraph blades, a balisong not unlike Cristina’s, and some photographs. And something else, something that shone so brightly that she thought for a moment it was a witchlight—but the illumination was less white than that. It glowed with a dim, deep gold color, like the surface of the ocean. Before she knew it, her hand was on it—

She felt herself jerked off her feet, as if she were being sucked into a Portal. She yanked her hand back, but she was no longer touching anything. She was no longer in her room at all.

She was underground, in a long corridor dug out of the earth. The roots of trees grew down into the space, like the curling ribbon on expensively wrapped gifts. The corridor stretched away on either side of her into shadows that deepened like no shadows above ground.

Dru’s heart was pounding. A terrible sense of unreality choked her. It was as if she’d traveled through a Portal, but with no idea where she’d gone, with no sense of familiarity. Even the air in the place smelled like something strange and dark, some kind of scent she’d never breathed before.

Dru reached automatically for the weapons at her belt, but there was nothing there. She’d come here completely unprepared, in only jeans and a black T-shirt with cats on it. She choked back a hysterical laugh and moved to press herself against the wall of the underground corridor, keeping to the depth of the shadows.

Lights appeared at the end of the hall. Dru could hear high, sweet voices in the distance. Their chatter was like the chatter of birds. Faeries.

She moved blindly in the other direction, and nearly fell backward when the wall gave way behind her and became a curtain of fabric. She stumbled through and found herself in a large stone room.

The walls were squares of green marble, veined with thick black lines. Some of the squares were carved with golden patterns—a hawk, a throne, a crown divided into two pieces. There were weapons in the room, ranged around on the surfaces of different tables—swords and daggers of copper and bronze, hooks and spikes and maces of all sorts of metal except iron.

There was also a boy in the room. A boy her age, maybe thirteen. He had turned around when she came in, and now he stared at her in astonishment.

“How dare you come into this room?” His voice was sharp, imperious.

He wore rich clothing, silk and velvet, heavy leather boots. His hair was white-blond, the color of witchlight. It was cut short, and a pale band of metal encircled it at his brow.

“I didn’t mean to.” Dru swallowed. “I just want to get out of here,” she said. “That’s all I want.”

His green eyes burned. “Who are you?” He took a step forward, snatching a dagger up off the table beside him. “Are you a Shadowhunter?”

Dru raised her chin and stared back at him. “Who are you?” she demanded. “And why are you so rude?”

To her surprise, he smiled, and there was something familiar about it. “I’m called Ash,” he said. “Did my mother send you?” He sounded hopeful. “Is she worried about me?”

“Drusilla!” said a voice. “Dru! Dru!”

Dru looked around in confusion: Where was the voice coming from? The walls of the room were starting to darken, to melt and merge. The boy in the rich clothes with his sharp faerie’s face looked at her in confusion, raising his dagger, as more holes began to open around her: in the walls, in the floor. She shrieked as the ground gave way beneath her and she fell into darkness.

The whirling air caught her again, the cold spinning almost-Portal, and then she slammed back to reality on the floor of her bedroom. She was alone. She gasped and choked, trying to pull herself to her knees. Her heart felt as if it was going to rip its way out of her chest.

Her mind spun—the terror of being underground, the terror of not knowing if she’d ever return home, the terror of an alien place—and yet the images slipped away from her, as if she were trying to hold on to water or wind. Where was I? What happened?

She raised herself to her knees, feeling sick and nauseated. She blinked away the dizziness—there were green eyes in the back of her vision, green eyes—and saw that Jaime’s duffel bag was gone. Her window was propped open, the floor damp below the window. He must have come in and out while she was . . . gone. But where had she been? She didn’t remember.

“Dru!” The voice came again. Mark’s voice. And another impatient knock on her door. “Dru, didn’t you hear me? Emma and Jules are back.”

* * *

“There,” Diana said, checking the bandage on Gwyn’s arm one last time. “I wish I could give you an iratze, but . . .”

She let her voice trail off, feeling silly. She was the one who had insisted they go to her rooms in Alicante so she could bandage his wound, and Gwyn had been quiet ever since.

He had slapped his horse’s flank after they’d climbed from it into her window, sending it soaring into the sky.

She’d wondered as he looked around her room, his bicolored eyes taking in all the visible traces of her life—the used coffee mugs, the pajamas thrown into a corner, the ink-stained desk—whether she’d made the right decision bringing him here. She had let so few people into her personal space for so many years, showing only what she wanted to show, controlling access to her inner self so carefully. She had never thought the first man she allowed into her room in Idris would be an odd and beautiful faerie, but she knew when he winced violently as he sat down on her bed that she had made the right call.

She’d gritted her teeth in sympathetic pain as he started to peel away his barklike armor. Her father had always kept extra bandages in the bathroom; when she returned from her trip there, gauze in hand, she found Gwyn shirtless and grumpy-looking on her rumpled blanket, his brown hair almost the same color as her wooden walls. His skin was several shades paler, smooth and taut over bones that were just a shade alien.

“I do not need to be ministered to,” he said. “I have always bandaged my own wounds.”

Diana didn’t answer, just set about making a field dressing. Sitting behind him as she worked, she realized it was the closest she’d ever been to him. She’d thought his skin would feel like bark, like his armor, but it didn’t: It felt like leather, the very softest kind that was used to make scabbards for delicate blades.

“We all have wounds that are sometimes better cared for by someone else,” she said, setting the box of bandages aside.

“And what of your wounds?” he said.

“I wasn’t injured.” She got to her feet, ostensibly to prove to him that she was fine, walking and breathing. Part of it was also to put some distance between them. Her heart was skipping beats in a way she didn’t trust.

“You know that is not what I meant,” he said. “I see how you care for those children. Why do you not just offer to head the Los Angeles Institute? You would make a better leader than Arthur Blackthorn ever did.”

Diana swallowed, though her mouth was dry. “Does it matter?”

“It matters in that I wish to know you,” he said. “I would kiss you, but you draw away from me; I would know your heart, but you hide it in shadow. Is it that you do not like or want me? Because in that case I will not trouble you.”

There was no intention to cause guilt in his voice, only a plain statement of fact.

If he had made a more emotional plea, perhaps she would not have responded. As it was, she found herself crossing the room, picking up a book from the shelf by the bed. “If you think there’s something I’m hiding, then I suppose you’re right,” she said. “But I doubt it’s what you think.” She raised her chin, thinking of her namesake, goddess and warrior, who had nothing to apologize for. “It’s nothing I did wrong. I’m not ashamed; I’ve no reason to be. But the Clave—” She sighed. “Here. Take this.”

Gwyn took the book from her, solemn-faced. “This is a book of law,” he said.

She nodded. “The laws of investiture. It details the ceremonies by which Shadowhunters take on new positions: how one is sworn in as Consul, or Inquisitor, or the head of an Institute.” She leaned over him, opening the book to a well-examined page. “Here. When you’re sworn in as the head of an Institute, you must hold the Mortal Sword and answer the Inquisitor’s questions. The questions are law. They never change.”

Gwyn nodded. “Which of the questions is it,” he said, “that you do not want to answer?”

“Pretend you are the Inquisitor,” Diana said, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Ask the questions, and I will answer as if I’m holding the Sword, entirely truthfully.”

Gwyn nodded. His eyes were dark with curiosity and something else as he began to read aloud. “Are you a Shadowhunter?”

“Yes,” said Diana.

“Were you born a Shadowhunter, or did you Ascend?”

“I was born a Shadowhunter.”

“What is your family name?”

“Wrayburn.”

“And what was the name you were given at birth?” asked Gwyn.

“David,” said Diana. “David Laurence Wrayburn.”

Gwyn looked puzzled. “I do not understand.”

“I am a woman,” said Diana. “I always have been. I always knew I was a girl, whatever the Silent Brothers told my parents, whatever the contradiction of my body. My sister, Aria, knew too. She said she’d known it from the moment I could talk. But my parents—” She broke off. “They weren’t unkind, but they didn’t know the options. They told me I should live as myself at home, but in public, be David. Be the boy I knew I wasn’t. Stay under the radar of the Clave.

“I knew that would be living a lie. Still, it was a secret the four of us kept. Yet with every year my crushing despair grew. I withdrew from interaction with other Shadowhunters our age. At every moment, waking and sleeping, I felt anxious and uncomfortable. And I feared I would never be happy. Then I turned eighteen. My sister was nineteen. We went to Thailand together to study at the Bangkok Institute. I met Catarina Loss there.”

“Catarina Loss,” said Gwyn. “She knows. That you are—that you were—” He frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to say it. That you were named David by your parents?”

“She knows,” Diana said. “She didn’t know at the time. In Thailand, I lived as the woman I am. I dressed as myself. Aria introduced me as her sister. I was happy. For the first time I felt free, and I chose a name for myself that embraced that freedom. My father’s weapons shop had always been called Diana’s Arrow, after the goddess of the hunt, who was proud and free. I named myself Diana. I am Diana.” She took a ragged breath. “And then my sister and I went out to explore an island where it was rumored there were Thotsakan demons. It turned out not to be demons at all, but revenants—hungry ghosts. Dozens of them. We fought them, but we were both injured. Catarina rescued us. Rescued me. When I woke up in a small house not far away, Catarina was caring for us. I knew she had seen my injuries—that she had seen my body. I knew she knew . . .”

“Diana,” said Gwyn in his deep voice, and stretched out a hand. But Diana shook her head.

“Don’t,” she said. “Or I won’t be able to get through it.” Her eyes were burning with unshed tears. “I pulled the rags of my clothes around my body. I screamed for my sister. But she was dead, had died while Catarina ministered to her. I broke down completely then. I had lost everything. My life was destroyed. That’s what I thought.” A tear slipped down her face. “Catarina nursed me back to health and sanity. I was in that cottage with her for weeks. And she talked to me. She gave me words, which I’d never had, as a gift. It was the first time I heard the word ‘transgender.’ I broke into tears. I had never realized before how much you can take from someone by not allowing them the words they need to describe themselves. How can you know there are other people like you, when you’ve never had a name to call yourself? I know there must have been other transgender Shadowhunters, that they must have existed in the past and exist now. But I have no way to search for them and it would be dangerous to ask.” A flicker of anger at the old injustice sharpened her voice. “Then Catarina told me of transitioning. That I could live as myself, the way I needed to and be acknowledged as who I am. I knew it was what I wanted.

“I went with Catarina to Bangkok. But not as David. I went as Diana. And I did not go as a Shadowhunter. I lived with Catarina in a small apartment. I told my parents of Aria’s death and that I was Diana now: They replied that they had told the Council that David was the one who had died. That they loved me and understood, but that I must live in the mundane world now, for I was seeing mundane doctors and that was against the law.

“It was too late for me to stop them. The Clave was told that David had died out on the island, fighting revenants. They gave David my sister’s death, a death with honor. I wished they had not lied, but if they had to wear white for the boy who was gone, even if he’d never really existed, I couldn’t deny them that.

“Catarina had worked as a nurse for years. She knew mundane medicine. She brought me to a clinic in Bangkok. I met others like myself there. I wasn’t alone any longer. I was there for three years. I never planned to be a Shadowhunter again. What I was gaining was too precious. I couldn’t risk being discovered, having my secrets flayed open, being called by a man’s name, having who I was denied.

“Through the years, Catarina guided me through the mundane medical procedure that gave me the body in whose skin I felt comfortable. She hid my unusual test results from the doctors so they would never be puzzled by my Shadowhunter blood.”

“Mundane medicine,” Gwyn echoed. “It is forbidden, is it not, for a Shadowhunter to seek out mundane medical treatment? Why did Catarina not simply use magic to aid you?”

Diana shook her head. “I wouldn’t have wanted that,” she said. “A magic spell can always be undone by another spell. I will not have the truth of myself be something that can be dissolved by a stray enchantment or passing through the wrong magical gate. My body is my body—the body I have grown into as a woman, as all women grow into their bodies.”

Gwyn nodded, though Diana couldn’t tell if he understood. “So that is what you fear,” was all he said.

“I’m not afraid for myself,” said Diana. “I’m afraid for the children. As long as I’m their tutor, I feel like I can protect them in some way. If the Clave knew what I’d done, that I’d sought out mundane doctors, I’d wind up in prison under the Silent City. Or in the Basilias, if they were being kind.”

“And your parents?” Gwyn’s face was unreadable. Diana wished he would give her some kind of sign. Was he angry? Would he mock her? His calmness was making her pulse race. “Did they come to you? You must have missed them.”

“I feared to expose them to the Clave.” Diana’s voice hitched. “Each time they spoke of a clandestine visit to Bangkok, I put them off. And then the news came that they had died, slain in a demon attack. Catarina was the one who told me. I wept all night. I could not tell my mundane friends of my parents’ deaths because they would not understand why I didn’t return home for a funeral.

“Then news came of the Mortal War. And I realized I was still a Shadowhunter. I could not let Idris suffer peril without a fight. I returned to Alicante. I told the Council that I was the daughter of Aaron and Lissa Wrayburn. Because that was the truth. They knew there had been a brother and a sister and the brother had died: I gave my name as Diana. In the chaos of war, no one questioned me.

I rose up as Diana in battle. I fought as myself, with a sword in my hand and angel fire in my veins. And I knew I could never go back to being a mundane. Among my mundane friends I had to conceal the existence of Shadowhunters. Among the Shadowhunters I had to hide that I had once used mundane medicine. I knew either way I would have to hide a part of myself. I chose to be a Shadowhunter.”

“Who else has known all this? Besides Catarina?”

“Malcolm knew. There is a medicine I must take, to maintain the balance of my body’s hormones—I usually get it from Catarina, but there was a time she couldn’t do it, and had Malcolm make it. After that, he knew. He never directly held it over my head, but I was always aware of his knowledge. That he could hurt me.”

“That he could hurt you,” Gwyn murmured. His face was a mask. Diana could hear her heart beating in her ears. It was as if she had come to Gwyn with her heart in her hands, raw and bleeding, and now she waited for him to produce the knives.

“All my life I’ve tried to find the place to be myself and I’m still looking for it,” said Diana. “Because of that, I have hidden things from people I loved. And I have hidden this from you. But I have never lied about the truth of myself.”

What Gwyn did next surprised Diana. He rose from the bed, took a step forward, and went down on his knees in front of her. He did it gracefully, the way a squire might kneel to a knight or a knight to his lady. There was something ancient in the essence of the gesture, something that went back to the heart and core of the folk of Faerie.

“It is as I knew,” he said. “When I saw you upon the stairs of the Institute, and I saw the fire in your eyes, I knew you were the bravest woman ever to set foot on this earth. I regret only that such a fearless soul was ever hurt by the ignorance and fear of others.”

“Gwyn . . .”

“May I hold you?” he asked.

She nodded. She couldn’t speak. She knelt down opposite the leader of the Wild Hunt and let him take her into his broad arms, let him stroke her hair and murmur her name in his voice that still sounded like the rumble of thunder—but now it was thunder heard from inside a warm, closed house, where everyone was safe inside.

* * *

Tavvy was the first one to sense Emma and Julian’s return when they Portaled back into the Institute library with Magnus. He had been sitting on the floor, systematically dismantling some old toys with the assistance of Max. The moment Julian felt the floor solid under his feet, Tavvy bounded upright and careened toward him, crashing into him like a train that had gone off its tracks.

“Jules!” he exclaimed, and Julian swung him up into his arms and crushed him in a hug as Tavvy clung to him and babbled about what he’d seen and eaten and done in the past few days, and Jules ruffled his brother’s hair and felt a tension he hadn’t even known he was carrying go out of him.

Cristina had been sitting with Rafe, talking to him quietly in Spanish. Mark was at a library table with Alec, and—to Julian’s surprise—Kieran, a mass of books open in front of them.

Cristina jumped to her feet and ran to hug Emma. Livvy came barreling into the room, Ty following more quietly after, and Julian lowered Tavvy to the ground—where he remained by Julian’s side, gripping his leg—while he greeted the rest of his family in a blur of hugs and exclamations.

Emma was hugging the twins, a sight that sent a dart of familiar pain through Julian’s rib cage. The dread of separation, of pulling apart what belonged together: the dream of his family, Emma as his partner, the children their responsibility.

A hand touched his shoulder, jolting him out of imagination. It was Mark, who looked at him with uneasiness. “Jules?”

Of course. Mark didn’t realize Julian knew the truth about him and Emma. He looked worried, hopeful, like a puppy who had come begging for scraps but half-expected to be slapped away from the table.

Was I that bad? Julian wondered, guilt spearing through him. Mark hadn’t even known, hadn’t imagined Julian loving Emma. Had been horrified when he found out. Mark and Emma loved each other, but not romantically, which was what Julian would have wanted. His heart swelled with tenderness toward both of them for everything they had given up to protect him, for being willing to let him hate them if that was what it took.

He drew Mark with him into a corner of the room. The hubbub of greeting went on all around them as Julian lowered his voice. “I know what you did,” he said. “I know you were never really dating Emma. I’m grateful. I know it was for me.”

Mark looked surprised. “It was Emma’s idea,” he said.

“Oh, believe me, I know.” Julian put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “And you did a good job with the kids. Magnus told me. Thank you.”

Mark’s face lit up. It made Julian’s heart ache even harder. “I didn’t— I mean, they got in so much trouble—”

“You loved them and you kept them alive,” said Julian. “Sometimes that’s the best anyone can do.”

Julian pulled his brother toward him into a hard hug. Mark made a muffled noise of surprise before his own arms went around Julian, half-crushing the breath out of him. Julian could feel his brother’s heart hammering against his, as if the same relief and joy were beating through their shared blood.

They drew apart after a moment. “So you and Emma . . . ?” Mark began, half-hesitantly. But before Julian could reply, Livvy had thrown herself at them, somehow managing to hug Julian and Mark at the same time, and the conversation vanished into laughter.

Ty came more diffidently after her, smiling and touching Julian on the shoulder and then the hand as if to make sure he was really there. Tactile expression sometimes meant as much to Ty as what he could observe with his eyes.

Mark was telling Emma that Dru was still in her room, but she’d be coming shortly. Magnus had gone to Alec, and the two were talking quietly by the fireplace. Only Kieran remained where he was, so silent and still at the table that he could have been a decorative plant. The sight of him flicked a memory in Julian’s mind, though, and he looked around for blond hair and a sarcastic expression. “Where’s Kit?”

A flood of cross-explanations followed: the story of the Riders at the riverside, the way Gwyn and Diana had saved them, Kit’s injury. Emma described the four Riders they’d encountered in Cornwall, though it was Julian who detailed the way Emma had killed one of them, which prompted a great deal of exclaiming.

“I’ve never heard of anyone killing a Rider before,” said Cristina, hurrying to the table to pick up a book. “But someone must have.”

“No.” It was Kieran, his voice even and quiet. There was something in the timbre of it that reminded Julian of the Unseelie King’s voice. “No one ever has. There have only ever been seven, the children of Mannan, and they have lived almost since the beginning of time. There must be something very special about you, Emma Carstairs.”

Emma flushed. “There isn’t.”

Kieran was still looking at Emma curiously. He was wearing jeans and a cream-colored sweater. He looked alarmingly human, until you really examined his face and the uncanniness of his bone structure. “What was it like to kill something so old?”

Emma hesitated. “It was like—have you ever held ice so long in your hand that the coldness hurt your skin?”

After a pause, Kieran nodded. “It is a deathly pain.”

“It was like that.”

“So we’re safe here,” Julian said to Magnus, partly to forestall any further questions about the dead Rider. “In the Institute.”

“The Riders can’t reach us here. They are warded away,” said Magnus.

“But Gwyn was able to land on the roof,” Emma said. “So Fair Folk can’t be completely shut out—”

“Gwyn is Wild Hunt. They’re different.” Magnus reached down to pick up Max, who giggled and pulled on his scarf. “Also I’ve doubled the wards around the Institute since this afternoon.”

“Where’s Diana?” asked Julian.

“She went back to Idris. She says she has to keep Jia and the Council happy and calm and expecting this meeting to take place with no hiccups.”

“But we don’t have the Black Volume,” Julian said.

“Well, we still have a day and a half,” said Emma. “To find Annabel.”

“Without leaving these hallowed walls?” Mark said. He sat down on the arm of one of the chairs. “We are kind of trapped.”

“I don’t know if the Riders realize Alec and I are here,” Magnus said. “Or perhaps we could prevail on Gwyn.”

“The danger seems pretty severe,” said Emma. “We wouldn’t feel right, asking for that kind of help.”

“Well I’m going back to Idris with the kids—I can certainly see what I can do from there.” Alec flung himself down in a chair near Rafe and ruffled the boy’s dark hair.

Maybe Alec could get into Blackthorn Manor, Julian thought. He was exhausted, nerves frayed from one of the best and worst days of his life. But Blackthorn Manor was probably the place on earth Annabel had loved the most. His mind began to tick over the possibilities.

“Annabel cared about Blackthorn Manor,” he said. “Not Blackthorn Hall, here in London—the family didn’t own that yet. The one in Idris. She loved it.”

“So you think she might be there?” said Magnus.

“No,” said Julian. “She hates the Clave, hates Shadowhunters. She’d be too afraid to go to Idris. I was just thinking that if it was in danger, if it was threatened, she might be called out of where she’s hiding.”

He could tell Emma was wondering why he wasn’t mentioning that he’d seen Annabel in Cornwall; he wondered it a bit himself, but his instincts told him to keep it secret a little longer.

“You’re suggesting we burn down Blackthorn Manor?” said Ty, his eyebrows up around his hairline.

“Oddly,” Magnus muttered, “you wouldn’t be the first people ever to have that idea.”

“Ty, don’t sound so excited,” Livvy said.

“Pyromania interests me,” said Ty.

“I think you have to burn down several buildings before you can consider yourself to be an actual maniac for pyro,” Emma said. “I think before that you’re just an enthusiast.”

“I think setting a large fire in Idris will attract attention we don’t want,” said Mark.

“I think we don’t have a lot of choices,” said Julian.

“And I think we should eat,” Livvy said hastily, patting her stomach. “I’m starving.”

“We can discuss what we know, especially regarding Annabel and the Black Volume,” said Ty. “We can pool our information.”

Magnus glanced fleetingly at Alec. “After we eat we need to send the children to Idris. Diana’s standing by on the other side to help us keep the Portal open, and I don’t want her to have to wait too long.”

It was kind of him, Julian thought, to phrase it as if sending the children to Alicante was a favor Magnus was doing Diana, rather than a precaution taken to protect them. Tavvy skipped along with Rafe and Max to the dining room and Julian felt a pang, realizing how much his little brother had missed having friends close to his own age, even if he hadn’t known it.

“Jules?” He glanced down and saw that Dru was walking beside him. Her face was pale in the corridor’s witchlight.

“Yeah?” He resisted the urge to pat her cheek or pull her braids. She’d stopped appreciating that when she was ten.

“I don’t want to go to Alicante,” she said. “I want to stay here with you.”

“Dru . . .”

She hunched her shoulders up. “You were younger than me in the Dark War,” she said. “I’m thirteen. You can send the babies where it’s safe, but not me. I’m a Blackthorn, just like you.”

“So is Tavvy.”

“He’s seven.” Dru took a shaky breath. “You make me feel like I’m not part of this family.”

Julian stopped dead. Dru stopped with him, and they both watched as the others went into the dining room. Julian could hear Bridget scolding them all; apparently she’d been holding dinner for them for hours, though it had never occurred to her to find them and tell them so.

“Dru,” he said. “You really want to stay?”

She nodded. “I really want to.”

“Then that’s all you had to say. You can stay with us.”

She threw herself into his arms. Dru wasn’t a huggy sort of person, and for a moment Julian was too surprised to move; then he put his arms around his sister and tightened them against the flood of memories—baby Dru sleeping in his arms, taking her first toddling steps, laughing as Emma held her over the water at the beach, barely getting her toes wet.

“You’re the heart of this family, baby girl,” he said in the voice that only his brothers and sisters ever heard. “I promise you. You’re our heart.”

* * *

Bridget had somewhat haphazardly set out cold chicken, bread, cheese, vegetables, and banoffee pie. Kieran picked at the vegetables while the rest of them talked over each other to lay out what they knew.

Emma sat beside Julian. Every once in a while their shoulders would bump or their hands collide as they reached for something. Each touch sent a shower of sparks through him, like a small explosion of fireworks.

Ty, his elbows on the table, took point on the discussion, explaining how he, Kit, and Livvy had found the aletheia crystal and the memories trapped within it. “Two hundred years ago Malcolm and Annabel broke into the Cornwall Institute,” he explained, his graceful hands slicing through the air as he talked. Something seemed different about Ty, Julian thought, though how could his brother have changed in the few short days he’d been away? “They stole the Black Volume, but they were caught.”

“Do we know why they wanted it?” Cristina asked. “I do not see how necromancy would have helped them.”

“They planned to trade it to someone else, it looks like,” said Emma. “The book wasn’t for them. Someone had promised to trade them protection from the Clave for it.”

“It was a time when a relationship between a Shadowhunter and a Downworlder could have meant a death sentence for both of them,” said Magnus. “Protection would have been a very attractive offer.”

“They never got that far,” Ty said. “They were caught and thrown in prison in the Silent City, and the Black Volume was taken from them and returned to the Cornwall Institute. Then something weird happened.” He frowned. Ty didn’t like not knowing things. “Malcolm disappeared. He left Annabel to be questioned and tortured.”

“He wouldn’t have done that willingly,” said Julian. “He loved her.”

“People can betray even those they love,” said Mark.

“No, Julian’s right,” said Emma. “I hate Malcolm more than anyone, but he absolutely would never have left Annabel. She was his whole life.”

“It’s still what happened,” said Ty.

“They tortured Annabel for information until she pretty much lost her mind,” said Livvy. “Then they released her to her family. And they killed her and told everyone she’d become an Iron Sister. But it wasn’t true.”

There was a tightness in Julian’s throat. He thought of Annabel’s drawings, the lightness in them, the hope, the love for Blackthorn Manor in Idris and for Malcolm.

“Fast-forward almost a hundred years,” said Emma. “Malcolm goes to the Unseelie King. He’s found out that Annabel wasn’t an Iron Sister, that she was murdered. He’s out for bloody vengeance.” She paused, combing her fingers back through her hair, still tangled from Cornish wind and rain. “The Unseelie King tells him how to raise Annabel, but there’s a catch—Malcolm needs the Black Volume to do it, and now he doesn’t have it. It’s in the Cornwall Institute. He broke in there once, he doesn’t dare do it again. So there it stays until the Blackthorns who run the Institute move to Los Angeles, and they take it with them.”

Ty’s eyes lit up. “Right. And Malcolm sees his chance when Sebastian Morgenstern attacks, and takes the book. He starts to raise Annabel, and finally he succeeds.”

“Except she’s pissed off and kills him,” said Emma.

“How ungrateful,” said Kieran.

“Ungrateful?” Emma said. “He was a murderer. She was right to kill him.”

“He may have been a murderer,” said Kieran, “but it sounds as if he became one for her. He killed to give her life.”

“Maybe she didn’t want life,” said Alec. He shrugged. “He never did ask her what she wanted, did he?”

As if sensing the tense atmosphere at the table, Max began to wail. With a sigh, Alec picked him up and carried him out of the room.

“I’m sure it’s useful to know all this,” said Magnus. “But does it bring us closer to the Black Volume?”

“Maybe if we had more time, and the Riders weren’t after us,” said Julian.

“I think,” said Kieran slowly, his gaze unfocused, “that it was my father.”

Apparently it was his day for startling pronouncements. Everyone stared at him again. To Julian’s surprise, it was Cristina who spoke.

“What do you mean, it was your father?”

“I think he was the one who wanted the book all those years ago, when Malcolm first stole it,” said Kieran. “He is the thread that ties all this together. He wanted the book then and he wants it now.”

“But why do you think he wanted it then?” Julian said. He kept his voice low and gentle. What Emma thought of as his leading-the-witness voice.

“Because of something Adaon said.” Kieran was looking down at his hands. “He said my father had wanted the book since the First Heir was stolen. It is an old story in Faerie, the theft of my father’s first child. It happened more than two hundred years ago.”

Cristina looked stunned. “I didn’t realize that’s what he meant.”

“The First Heir.” Magnus’s eyes looked unfocused. “I have heard that tale, or heard of it. The child was not just stolen, but murdered.”

“So the story goes,” said Kieran. “Perhaps my father wished to use necromancy to raise the child. I could not speak of his motives. But he could have offered Fade and Annabel protection in the Unseelie Lands. No Shadowhunter could touch them if they were safe in Faerie.”

Emma set her fork down with a clang. “Pretentious hair prince is right.”

Kieran blinked. “What did you call me?”

“I’m trying it out,” Emma said, with a wave. “And I said you were right. Enjoy it, because I doubt I’ll say it again.”

Magnus nodded. “The King is one of the few beings on this earth who could have kidnapped Malcolm from the prisons of the Silent City. He must not have wanted him to reveal their connection to the Council.”

“But why didn’t he take Annabel, too?” Livvy asked, a forkful of pie halfway to her mouth.

“Maybe because Malcolm had disappointed him by getting caught,” said Mark. “Maybe he wanted to punish them both.”

“But Annabel could have told on them,” said Livvy. “She could have said Malcolm was working for the King.”

“Not if she didn’t know,” said Emma. “There was nothing in the diaries Malcolm kept that mentioned who he was stealing the book for, and I bet he didn’t tell Annabel, either.”

“They tortured her,” said Ty, “and she still couldn’t say who it was, just that she had no idea. It must have been the truth.”

“That explains why when he found out Annabel wasn’t an Iron Sister, that he’d been lied to, Malcolm went to the Unseelie King,” said Julian. “Because he knew him.”

“So once the King wanted the book for necromancy,” Cristina said. “Now he wants it so he can destroy Shadowhunters?”

“Not all necromancy is raising the dead.” Magnus was gazing at the glass of wine by his plate as if there was some kind of secret hidden in its depth. “One moment,” he said, and scooped up Rafe from the chair beside him. He turned to Tavvy. “Would you like to come with us? And play with Alexander and Max?”

After a glance at Julian, Tavvy nodded. The group of them left the room, Magnus gesturing that he would be right back.

“This is just one meeting,” said Emma. “First we need to get the Council to believe that the Unseelie Court is an immediate threat. Right now they can’t tell good faeries from bad and aren’t interesting in trying.”

“Which is where Kieran’s testimony comes in,” said Mark. “And there is some evidence—there’s the blight Diana said she saw in Brocelind Forest, and the report from the Shadowhunters who said they fought a band of faeries but their weapons malfunctioned.”

“It’s not a lot to go on,” said Livvy. “Especially considering Zara and her nasty little band of bigots. They are going to try to seize power at this meeting. They’re going to try to grab the Institute. They couldn’t care less about some vague faerie threat.”

“I can make the Clave fear my father,” said Kieran. “But it may take all of us to make them understand that if they do not wish for a new era of darkness, they must abandon their dreams of extending the Cold Peace.”

“No registering warlocks,” said Ty. “No putting werewolves into camps.”

“The Downworlders who have seats on the Council all know about the Cohort,” said Magnus, returning without the children. “If it actually comes down to a vote about who heads the Los Angeles Institute, they’ll have to bring in Maia and Lily, as well as me. We’re entitled to vote.” He threw himself down in the chair at the head of the table.

“That’s still just three votes, even if you vote against the Cohort,” said Julian.

“It’s a tricky business,” Magnus agreed. “According to Diana, Jia doesn’t want Zara heading up the Los Angeles Institute any more than we do. She’ll be hard to discredit at the moment—with her lie about killing Malcolm, she’s pretty popular right now.”

Emma made a growling noise low in her throat. Cristina patted her hand.

“Meanwhile what we have is the promise that the Queen will fight with us against a threat the Council is unlikely to believe in, and even then only if she gets a book that we don’t currently have and wouldn’t be allowed to give her if we did,” Magnus said.

“Our bargain with the Seelie Queen is our business,” said Julian. “Right now, we say that she’s shown herself willing to cooperate under the right circumstances. Kieran’s empowered to promise she’ll help. He doesn’t need to go into details.”

“Brother, you think like a faerie,” said Mark, in a tone that made Julian wonder if that was a good thing or not.

“Maybe the King wants to raise an army of the dead,” said Dru hopefully. “I mean, it is a book of necromancy.”

Magnus sighed, tapping a fingernail against his glass thoughtfully. “Necromancy is about doing magic that uses the energy of death to power it. All magic needs fuel. Death energy is incredibly powerful fuel. It’s also incredibly destructive. The destruction of the land that you saw in Faerie, the blight in Brocelind—they are the scars left by terrible magic. The question remains—what is his ultimate goal?”

“You mean he needs more energy to spread those spells,” said Julian. “The ones that Malcolm helped with, that cancel out Shadowhunter magic.”

“I mean your magic is angelic in its nature,” said Magnus. “It comes from light, from energy and life. The opposite of that is Sheol, Hell, whatever you want to call it. The absence of light and life. Of any kind of hope.” He coughed. “When the Council voted for the Cold Peace, they were voting for a time that never existed. Just as the Cohort wishes everything to return to a lost Golden Age when Shadowhunters walked the world like gods and Downworlders and mundanes bowed before them.” Everyone stared at him. This was a Magnus Bane people rarely saw, Julian thought. A Magnus whose good cheer and casual optimism had deserted him. A Magnus who was remembering the darkness of all he had seen over the centuries: the death and the loss; the same Magnus Julian had seen in the Hall of Accords when he was twelve, begging the Council in vain not to pass the Cold Peace, knowing that they would. “The King wants the same. To unite two kingdoms that have always been separate but in his mind were one land once. We must stop the King, but in a way he is only doing what the Cohort would do. What we have to hope the Clave would not do.”

“You mean,” said Julian, “this is vengeance?”

Magnus shrugged. “It is the whirlwind,” he said. “Let us hope we can stop it.”