Ty had taken one of his hand toys out of his pocket, a mass of intermingled pipe cleaners, and was untangling it. Ty had one of the fastest-working minds of anyone Emma knew, and it calmed him to have a way to use his hands to diffuse some of that quickness and intensity. "The bodies have all been dumped at ley lines. All of them," he said, and Emma could hear the excitement in his voice.
"Ley lines?" Dru furrowed her brow.
"There's a network, circling the world, of ancient magical pathways," said Malcolm. "They amplify magic, so for centuries Downworlders have used them to create entrances into Faerie, that sort of thing. Alicante is built on a convergence of ley lines. They're invisible, but some can train themselves to sense them." He frowned, staring at the computer screen, where one of the images Cristina had taken of the dead body at the Sepulchre was displayed. "Can you do that thing?" he said. "You know, where you make the picture bigger?"
"You mean zoom in?" said Ty.
Before Malcolm could answer, the doorbell of the Institute rang. It was no ordinary, shrilling doorbell. It sounded like a gong being struck through the building, shivering the glass and stone and plaster.
Emma was up and on her feet in a second. "I'll get it," she said, and hurried downstairs, even as Julian half-rose from his seat to follow her.
But she wanted to be alone, just for a second. Wanted to process the fact that these killings dated back to the year of her parents' death. They had started then. Her father and mother had been the first.
These murders were connected. She could see the threads coming together, forming a pattern she could only begin to glimpse but knew was real. Someone had done these things. Someone had tortured and killed her parents, had carved evil markings on their skin and dumped them in the ocean to rot. Someone had taken Emma's childhood, torn away the roof and walls of the house of her life, leaving her cold and exposed.
And that someone would pay. Revenge is a cold bedfellow, Diana had said, but Emma didn't believe that. Revenge would give her the air back in her lungs. Revenge would let her think about her parents without a cold knot forming in her stomach. She would be able to dream without seeing their drowned faces and hearing their voices cry out for her help.
She reached the front door of the Institute and threw it open. The sun had just set. A glum vampire stood in the doorway, carrying several stacked boxes. He looked like a teenager with short brown hair and freckled skin, but that didn't mean much. "Pizza delivery," he said in a tone that suggested that most of his closest relatives had just died.
"Seriously?" Emma said. "Malcolm wasn't making that up? You really deliver pizza?"
He looked at her blankly. "Why wouldn't I deliver pizza?"
Emma fumbled at the small table near the door for the cash they usually kept there. "I don't know. You're a vampire. I figured you'd have something better to do with your life. Your unlife. Whatever."
The vampire looked aggrieved. "You know how hard it is to get a job when your ID says you're a hundred and fifty years old and you can only go out at night?"
"No," Emma admitted, taking the boxes. "I hadn't considered that."
"Nephilim never do." As he tucked a fifty into his jeans, Emma noticed that he was wearing a gray T-shirt that said TMI across the front. "Too much information?" she said.
He brightened. "The Mortal Instruments. They're a band. From Brooklyn. You heard of them?"
Emma had. Clary's best friend and parabatai, Simon, had belonged to them when he was a mundane. That was how they'd wound up named after the three most holy objects in the Shadowhunter world. Now Simon, too, was a Shadowhunter. She wondered how he felt about the band going on without him. About everything going on without him.
She made her way back up the stairs, her mind on Clary and the others in the New York Institute. Clary had found out she was a Shadowhunter when she was fifteen years old. There had been a time when she thought she'd lead a mundane life. She'd talked about it before, around Emma, the way anyone might talk about a road not taken. She'd carried a lot with her into her Shadowhunter life, including her best friend, Simon. But she could have chosen differently. She could have been a mundane.
Emma wanted to talk to her, suddenly, about what that might have meant. Simon had been Clary's best friend for her whole life, like Jules had been Emma's. Then they had been parabatai, once Simon was a Shadowhunter. What had changed? Emma wondered. What did it feel like to go from best friend to parabatai without having always known you were going to do it, how was it different?
And why didn't she know the answer to that herself?
When she arrived back in the computer room, Malcolm was standing near the desk, violet eyes snapping. "You see, it's not a protection circle at all," he was saying, then broke off as Emma came in. "It's pizza!"
"It can't be pizza," said Ty, staring perplexedly at the screen. His long fingers had nearly untangled all the pipe cleaners; when he was done, he'd tangle them back up and start again.
"All right, enough," said Jules. "We're taking a break from killings and profiles for dinner." He took the boxes from Emma, shooting her a grateful look, and set them down on the coffee table. "I don't care what you all want to talk about, it just can't involve murder or blood. Any blood."
"But it's vampire pizza," Livvy pointed out.
"Immaterial," Julian said. "Couch. Now."
"Can we watch a movie?" Malcolm piped up, sounding remarkably like Tavvy.
"We can watch a movie," Julian said. "Now, Malcolm, I don't care if you are the High Warlock of Los Angeles, sit your butt down."
The vampire pizza was shockingly good. Emma decided fairly quickly that she didn't care what was in the sauce. Mouse heads, stewed people parts, whatever. It was amazing. It had a crispy crust and just the right amount of fresh mozzerella. She sucked the cheese off her fingers and made faces at Jules, who had excellent table manners.
The film was much more puzzling. It appeared to be about a man who owned a bookstore and was in love with a famous woman, except Emma recognized neither of them and wasn't sure if she was supposed to. Cristina watched in large-eyed bafflement, Ty put his headphones on and closed his eyes, and Dru and Livvy sat on either side of Malcolm, patting him gently while he wept.
"Love is beautiful," he said while the man on-screen ran through traffic.
"That's not love," said Julian, leaning back against the couch. The flickering light from the screen played over his skin, making it seem unfamiliar, adding frecklings of darkness to the smooth, pale places and lighting the shadows under his cheekbones, at the hollow of his throat. "That's movies."
"I came to Los Angeles to bring back love," Malcolm said, his dark violet eyes mournful. "All great movies are about love. Love lost, found, destroyed, regained, bought, sold, dying, and being born. I love movies, but they've forgotten what they're about. Explosions, effects, that wasn't what it meant when I first got here. It was about lighting cigarette smoke so it looked like heavenly fire and lighting women so they looked like angels." Malcolm sighed. "I came here to bring true love back from the dead."
"Oh, Malcolm," said Drusilla, and burst into tears. Livvy handed her a napkin from the pizza place. "Why don't you have a boyfriend?"
"I'm straight," Malcolm said, looking surprised.
"Well, all right, then a girlfriend. You should find a nice Downworlder girl, maybe a vampire, so she'll live forever."
"Leave Malcolm's love life alone, Dru," said Livvy.
"True love is hard to find," Malcolm said, gesturing at the people kissing on-screen.
"Movie love is hard to find," said Julian. "Because it's not real."
"What do you mean?" said Cristina. "Are you saying there is no true love? I don't believe that."
"Love isn't chasing someone to the airport," said Julian. He leaned forward, and Emma could see just the edge of the parabatai Mark on his collarbone, escaping above the neck of his T-shirt. "Love means you see someone. That's all."
"You see them?" Ty echoed, sounding dubio
us. He'd turned the music down on his player, but his headphones were still on, his black hair scrunched up around them.
Julian took hold of the remote. The movie had ended; white credits scrolled down the screen. "When you love someone, they become a part of who you are. They're in everything you do. They're in the air you breathe and the water you drink and the blood in your veins. Their touch stays on your skin and their voice stays in your ears and their thoughts stay in your mind. You know their dreams because their nightmares pierce your heart and their good dreams are your dreams too. And you don't think they're perfect, but you know their flaws, the deep-down truth of them, and the shadows of all their secrets, and they don't frighten you away; in fact you love them more for it, because you don't want perfect. You want them. You want--"
He broke off then, as if realizing everyone was looking at him.
"You want what?" said Dru with enormous eyes.
"Nothing," Julian said. "I'm just talking." And he shut off the TV and picked up the pizza boxes. "I'm going to throw these away," he said, and left.
"When he falls in love," said Dru, looking after him, "it's going to be like . . . wow."
"Of course then we'll probably never see him again," said Livvy. "Lucky girl, whoever she'll be."
Ty's brows drew together. "You're joking, right?" he said. "You don't mean we'll actually never see him again?"
"Definitely not," Emma said. When Ty was much younger, he'd been puzzled by the way people talked and the way they exaggerated to make a point. Phrases like "raining cats and dogs" had caused him annoyance--and sometimes a small amount of betrayal, since he liked cats and dogs a great deal more than he liked rain.
At some point Julian had begun a series of silly drawings for him, showing the literal meaning of phrases and then the figurative ones. Ty had giggled at the illustrations of cats and dogs falling out of the sky and people having their socks knocked off, as well as the bubble pictures of animals and people explaining what the idioms really meant. After that he was often to be found in the library, looking up expressions and their meanings, committing them to memory. Ty didn't mind having things explained to him, and he never forgot what he'd been taught, but he preferred teaching himself.
He still sometimes liked to be reassured that an exaggeration was an exaggeration, even if he was 90 percent sure of it. Livvy, who knew better than anyone the anxiety that imprecise language could cause her brother, scrambled to her feet and went over to him. She put her arms around him, her chin against his shoulder. Ty leaned against her, his eyes half-lidded. Ty liked physical affection when he was in the mood for it, as long as it wasn't too intense--he liked having his hair ruffled and his back patted or scratched. Sometimes he reminded Emma a bit of their cat, Church, when Church wanted an ear rub.
Light flared. Cristina had gotten up and flicked the witchlight back on. Brightness expanded to fill the room as Julian came back in and looked around; whatever composure he'd lost was back. "It's late," he said. "Bedtime. Especially for you, Tavvy."
"Hate bedtime," said Tavvy, who was sitting in Malcolm's lap, playing with a toy the warlock had given him. It was square and purple and sent off bright sparks.
"That's the spirit of the revolution," said Jules. "Malcolm, thanks. I'm sure we'll be needing your help again."
Malcolm set Tavvy gently aside and stood up, brushing pizza dust from his rumpled clothes. Picking up his discarded jacket, he headed out into the hallway, Emma and Julian following him. "Well, you know where to find me," he said, zipping the jacket up. "I was going to talk to Diana tomorrow about--"
"Diana can't know," Emma said.
Malcolm looked puzzled. "Can't know about what?"
"That we're looking into this," Julian said, cutting Emma off. "She doesn't want us involved. Says it's dangerous."
Malcolm looked disgruntled. "You could have mentioned that before," he said. "I don't like keeping things from her."
"Sorry," Julian said. His expression was smooth, faintly apologetic. As always, Emma was both impressed and a little frightened by his ability to lie. Julian was an expert liar when he wanted to be; no shadow of what he really felt would touch his face. "We can't go much further with this without help from the Clave and the Silent Brothers anyway."
"All right." Malcolm looked at them both closely; Emma did her best to match Julian's poker face. "As long as you talk to Diana about this tomorrow." He shoved his hands into his pockets, the light gleaming off his colorless hair. "There is one thing I didn't get a chance to tell you. Those markings around the body that Emma found, they weren't for a protective spell."
"But you said--" Emma started.
"I changed my mind when I got a closer look," Malcolm said. "They're not protective runes. They're summoning runes. Someone's using the energy of the dead bodies to summon."
"To summon what?" said Jules.
Malcolm shook his head. "Something to this world. A demon, an angel, I don't know. I'll look at the photos some more, ask around the Spiral Labyrinth discreetly."
"So if it was a summoning spell," Emma said, "was it successful or unsuccessful?"
"A spell like that?" Malcolm said. "If it was successful, believe me, you'd know."
Emma was woken up by a plaintive meow.
She opened her eyes to find a Persian cat sitting on her chest. It was a blue Persian, to be precise, very round, with tucked-in ears and large yellow eyes.
With a yelp Emma leaped to her feet. The cat went flying. The next few moments were chaos as she stumbled over her nightstand while the cat yowled. Finally she succeeded in turning on the light, to find the cat sitting by the door of her room, looking smug and entitled.
"Church," she wailed. "Seriously? Don't you have somewhere to be?"
It was clear from Church's expression that he didn't. Church was a cat who sometimes belonged to the Institute. He'd shown up on the front step four years ago, left in a box on the doorstep with a note addressed to Emma and a line of script underneath. Please take care of my cat. Brother Zachariah.
At the time Emma hadn't been able to figure out why a Silent Brother, even a former Silent Brother, had wanted her to take care of his cat. She'd called Clary, who'd said that the cat had once lived at the New York Institute but did truly belong to Brother Zachariah, and if Emma and Julian wanted the cat they should keep him.
His name was Church, she said.
Church turned out to be the kind of cat who didn't stay where he was put. He was endlessly escaping out open windows and disappearing for days or even weeks. At first Emma had been frantic every time he left, but he always came back looking sleeker and more self-satisfied than ever. When Emma turned fourteen, he'd begun to come back with presents for her tied to his collar: shells and pieces of sea glass. Emma had put the shells on her windowsill. The sea glass had become Julian's good-luck bracelet.
By then, Emma knew the presents were from Jem, but she had no way of reaching him to thank him. So she did her best to take care of Church. There was always dry cat food left out for Church in the entryway, and clean drinking water. They were happy to see him when he showed up, and not worried when he didn't.
Church meowed and scraped at the door. Emma was used to this: It meant he wanted her to follow him. With a sigh she pulled on a sweater over her leggings and tank top and shoved her feet into flip-flops.
"This better be good," she told Church, grabbing up her stele. "Or I'll make you into a tennis racket."
Church didn't appear worried. He led Emma through the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door. The moon was high and bright, reflecting off the water in the distance. It made a path that Emma wandered toward, bemused, as Church kept up his trotting. She scooped him up as they crossed the highway, and deposited him on the beach when they reached the other side.
"Well, we're here," she said. "The world's biggest litter box."
Church gave her a look that suggested he wasn't impressed with her wit, and sauntered toward the shoreline. They wandered
along the edge of the water together. It was a peaceful night, the surf slow and shallow, quieter than the wind. Occasionally Church would make a run for a sand crab, but he always came back, trotting just ahead of Emma, toward the northern constellations. Emma was starting to wonder if he was actually leading her anywhere at all when she realized that they'd rounded the curve of rocks that hid her and Julian's secret beach, and that the beach wasn't uninhabited.
She slowed down. The sand was lit up with moonlight, and Julian was sitting in the middle of it, well up from the shoreline. She went toward him, her feet silent on the sand. He didn't look up.
She rarely had a chance to look at Julian when he didn't know she was watching. It felt strange, even a little unnerving. The moon was bright enough that she could see the color of his T-shirt--red--and that he was wearing old blue jeans, and that his feet were bare. His bracelet of sea glass seemed to glow. She rarely wished that she could draw, but she did now, just so that she could draw the way he was all one perfect single line, from the angle of his bent leg to the curve of his back as he leaned forward.
Only a few feet from him, she stopped. "Jules?"
He looked up. He didn't seem the least bit startled. "Was that Church?"
Emma glanced around. It took her a moment before she located the cat, perched on top of a rock. He was licking his paw. "He came back," she said, sitting down on the sand next to Jules. "You know, for a visit."
"I saw you coming around the rocks." He gave her a half smile. "I thought I was dreaming."
"Couldn't sleep?"
He rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. His knuckles were splattered with paint. "You could say that." He shook his head. "Weird nightmares. Demons, faeries--"
"Pretty standard Shadowhunter stuff," Emma pointed out. "I mean, that just sounds like a Tuesday."
"Helpful, Emma." He flopped back down on the sand, his hair making a dark halo around his head.
"I'm all about being helpful." She flopped down next to him, looking up at the sky. Light pollution from Los Angeles spilled out to the beach, too, and the stars were dim but visible. The moon moved in and out behind clouds. A strange sense of peace had fallen over Emma, a sense that she was where she belonged. She hadn't felt it since Julian and the others had left for England.
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