Lady Midnight

by Cassandra Clare

  Kieran glanced at her with shimmering eyes. Neither looked quite human: The black eye was too dark, the silver too metallic. And yet the overall effect was haunting, inhumanly beautiful. "We know about your parents," he said. "We know of their deaths. We know of the demon language with which their bodies were inscribed."

  "Mutilated," Emma said, her breath catching, and felt Julian's eyes on her, a reminder that he was there, a silent support. "Disfigured. Not inscribed."

  Kieran's expression didn't change. "We understand as well that you have tried for years to translate or understand the markings, with no success. We can help you change that."

  "What are you saying, exactly?" Julian demanded. His eyes were guarded; his whole posture was. The tension in his body kept Emma from bursting out with questions.

  "The scholars of the Unseelie Court have studied the markings," said Iarlath. "It looks like a language from an ancient time of Faerie. One long before your human memory. Before there were Nephilim."

  "Back when faeries were more closely tied to their demonic ancestry," said Arthur hoarsely.

  Kieran's lip curled as if Arthur had said something distasteful. "Our scholars began to translate it," he said. He drew several sheets of thin, parchment-like paper from his cloak. Emma recognized on them the markings she was so familiar with. Below the markings were more words, written in a spidery script.

  Emma's heart started to pound.

  "They translated the first line," he said. "It does appear to perhaps be part of a spell. There our knowledge fails us--the Fair Folk do not deal in spells; that is warlock territory--"

  "You translated the first line?" Emma burst out. "What is it?"

  "We will tell you," said Iarlath, "and give you the work our scholars have done so far, if you will agree to our terms."

  Julian looked at them with suspicion. "Why would you translate only the first line? Why not the whole thing?"

  "Scarce had the scholars worked out the meaning of that first line when the Unseelie King forbade them to continue," said Kieran. "The magic of this spell is dark, demonic in origin. He did not want it awakened in Faerie."

  "You could have continued the work yourself," said Emma.

  "All faeries are forbidden by the King to touch these words," snapped Iarlath. "But that does not mean our involvement ends. We believe this text, these markings, may help lead you to the killer, once they are understood."

  "And you want us to translate the rest of the markings?" Julian said. "Using the line you've worked out as a key?"

  "More than that," said Iarlath. "The translation is but the first step. It will lead you to the murderer. Once you have found that person, you will turn them over to the Unseelie King that they might stand trial for the murder of the fey and receive justice."

  "You want us to conduct an investigation on your behalf?" Julian snapped. "We're Shadowhunters. We're bound by the Cold Peace, just like you. It is forbidden for us to help the Fair Folk, forbidden for us to even entertain you here. You know what we'd be risking. How dare you ask?"

  There was rage in Julian's voice--rage out of proportion to the suggestion, but Emma couldn't blame him. She knew what he saw when he looked at faeries, especially faeries with the broken eyes of the Wild Hunt. He saw the cold wastes of Wrangel Island. He saw the empty bedroom in the Institute where Mark no longer was.

  "It isn't just their investigation," Emma said quietly. "It's mine, too. This has to do with my parents."

  "I know," Julian said, and his anger was gone. There was an ache in his voice instead. "But not this way, Emma--"

  "Why come here?" Arthur interrupted, looking pained, his face gray. "Why not to a warlock?"

  Kieran's beautiful face twisted. "We cannot consult a warlock," he said. "None of Lilith's Children will deal with us. The Cold Peace has left us shunned by other Downworlders. But you can visit the High Warlock Malcolm Fade, or Magnus Bane himself, and demand an answer to your question. We are chained, but you--" He spoke the word with scorn. "You are free."

  "This is the wrong family to have come to," said Arthur. "You are asking us to break the Law for you, as if we have some special regard for the Fair Folk. But the Blackthorns have not forgotten what you have taken from them."

  "No," Emma said. "We need those papers, we need--"

  "Emma." Arthur's look was sharp. "Enough."

  Emma dropped her gaze, but her blood was singing through her veins, a determined melody of rebellion. If the faeries left and took the papers with them, she would find some way to track them down, to retrieve the information, to learn what she had to learn. Some way. Even if the Institute couldn't risk it, she could.

  Iarlath looked at Arthur. "I do not think you wish to make such a hasty decision."

  Arthur's jaw tightened. "Why do you second-guess me, neighbor?"

  The Good Neighbors. An old, old term for faerie folk. It was Kieran who replied: "Because we have something that you want above all other things. And if you help us, we are willing to give it to you."

  Julian paled. Emma, staring at him, was for a moment too caught up in his reaction to realize herself what they were implying. When she did, her heart gave an uneven throb inside her chest.

  "What is it?" Julian whispered. "What do you have that we want?"

  "Oh, come now," Kieran said. "What do you think?"

  The door of the Sanctuary, the one that went to the outside of the Institute, opened, and the faerie in the brown robes came in. He moved with grace and silence, no hesitation or trepidation-- without anything human about his movements at all. Entering the pattern of the angelic rune on the floor, he came to a stop. The room was completely silent as he raised his hands to his hood and--for the first time--hesitated.

  His hands were human, long-fingered, tanned pale brown.

  Familiar.

  Emma wasn't breathing. She couldn't breathe. Julian looked as if he were in a dream. Arthur's face was blank, confused.

  "Take your hood down, boy," said Iarlath. "Show your face." The familiar hands tightened on the hood and yanked it down. Pushing, then shoving the cloak off his shoulders, as if the material of it clung unpleasantly. Emma saw the flash of a long, lithe body, of pale hair, of thin hands, as the cloak was wrenched away and slid to the ground in a dark puddle.

  A boy stood in the heart of the rune, panting. A boy who looked about seventeen, with fair hair that curled like acanthus vines, tangled with twigs and briars, hanging to his shoulders. His eyes showed the shattered doubling of the Wild Hunt: two colors--one gold, one Blackthorn blue. His feet were bare, black with dirt, his clothes ragged and torn.

  A wave of dizziness passed through Emma along with a terrible mixture of horror and relief and amazement. Julian had stiffened, as if he'd been shocked with electricity. She saw the slight tightening of his jaw, the twitch of a muscle in his cheek. He didn't open his mouth; it was Arthur who spoke, half-rising from his chair, his voice thready and uncertain:

  "Mark?"

  Mark's eyes widened in confusion. He opened his mouth to answer. Iarlath whirled on him. "Mark Blackthorn of the Wild Hunt," he snapped. "Do not speak until given permission to speak."

  Mark's lips slammed together. His face was still.

  "And you," said Kieran, holding up a hand as Julian started forward, "stay where you are."

  "What have you done to him?" Julian's eyes flashed. "What have you done to my brother?"

  "Mark belongs to the Wild Hunt," said Iarlath. "If we choose to release him to you, it will be at our recognizance."

  Arthur had sunk back into the chair behind him. He was blinking owlishly and looking from Mark to the faerie host. The gray color was back in his face. "The dead rise and the lost return," he said. "We should fly blue banners from the tops of the towers."

  Kieran seemed coldly puzzled. "Why does he say that?"

  Julian looked from Arthur to Mark to the other two faeries. "He's in shock," he said. "His health is fragile; it has been since the war."

  "It's fr
om an old Shadowhunter poem," said Emma. "I'm surprised you don't know it."

  "Poems contain much truth," said Iarlath, and there was humor in his voice, but a bitter sort. Emma wondered if he was laughing at them or himself.

  Julian was staring at Mark, a look on his face of unmitigated shock and longing. "Mark?" he said.

  Mark looked away.

  Julian looked as if he had been pierced by elf-bolts, the sly faerie arrows that burrowed under the skin and released deadly poison. Any anger Emma had felt toward him about the night before evaporated. The look on his face was like knife blades in her heart. "Mark," he said again, and then in a half whisper, "Why? Why can't he speak to me?"

  "He is forbidden by Gwyn to speak until our bargain is sealed," said Kieran. He glanced at Mark, and there was something cold in his expression. Hatred? Envy? Did he despise Mark for being half-human? Did they all? How had they showed their hate all these years, when Mark was at their mercy?

  Emma could sense how hard Julian was holding himself back from going to his brother. She spoke for him. "So Mark is your bargaining chip."

  Rage flashed across Kieran's face, sudden and startling. "Why must you state things that are obvious? Why must all humans do it? Foolish girl--"

  Julian changed; his attention snapped away from Mark, his spine straightening, his voice hardening. He sounded calm, but Emma, who knew him so well, could hear the ice in his voice. "Emma is my parabatai," he said. "If you ever speak to her like that again, there will be blood on the floor of the Sanctuary, and I do not care if they put me to death for it."

  Kieran's beautiful, alien eyes gleamed. "You Nephilim are loyal to your chosen partners, I will give you that." He waved a dismissive hand. "I suppose Mark is our bargaining chip, as you put it, but do not forget that it is the fault of the Nephilim that we need one at all. There was a time when Shadowhunters would have investigated the killings of our kind because they believed in their mandate to protect more than they believed in their hate."

  "There was a time when the Fair Folk might have freely returned to us one of our own," said Arthur. "The pain of loss goes both ways, as does the loss of trust."

  "Well, you will have to trust us," said Kieran. "You have no one else. Do you?"

  There was a long silence. Julian's gaze went back to his brother, and in that moment Emma hated the Fair Folk, for in holding Mark, they also held Julian's human, breakable heart. "So you want us to find out who is responsible for these killings," he said. "Stop the murders of faeries and humans. And in return you will give us Mark, if we succeed?"

  "The Court is prepared to be far more generous," said Kieran. "We will give you Mark now. He will assist you in your investigation. And when the investigation is over, he may choose whether he remains with you or returns to the Hunt."

  "He will choose us," Julian said. "We are his family."

  Kieran's eyes shone. "I would not be so sure, young Shadowhunter. Those of the Hunt are loyal to the Hunt."

  "He isn't of the Hunt," Emma said. "He's a Blackthorn."

  "His mother, Lady Nerissa, was fey," said Kieran. "And he has ridden with us, reaped the dead with us, mastered the use of elf-bolt and arrow. He is a formidable warrior in the faerie fashion, but he is not like you. He will not fight like you. He is not Nephilim."

  "Yes, he is," said Julian. "Shadowhunter blood breeds true. His skin can bear Marks. You know the laws."

  Kieran did not reply to that, just looked at Arthur. "Only the head of the Institute can decide this. You must let your uncle speak freely."

  Emma looked to Arthur; they all did. Arthur picked nervously, fretfully at the arm of his chair. "You wish the fey boy here that he might report on us to you," he said finally in a quavering voice. "He will be your spy."

  The fey boy. Not Mark. Emma looked over at Mark, but if a flicker of hurt passed across his stony face, it was invisible.

  "If we wished to spy on you, there are easier ways," said Kieran in a tone of cold reproach. "We would not need to give up Mark--he is one of the best fighters of the Hunt. Gwyn will miss him sorely. He will not be a spy."

  Julian drew away from Emma, fell on his knees by his uncle's chair. He leaned in and whispered to Arthur, and Emma strained to hear what he was saying, but could make out only a few words-- "brother" and "investigation" and "murder" and "medicine" and "Clave."

  Arthur held up a shaking hand, as if to silence his nephew, and turned to the faeries. "We will accept your offer," he said. "On the condition that there will be no tricks. At the end of the investigation, when the killer is caught, Mark will make his own free choice to stay or to go."

  "Of course," said Iarlath. "As long as the murderer is clearly identified. We wish to know the one with the blood on his hands-- it will not be enough for you to say 'it was done by that one or this one' or 'vampires were responsible.' The murderer or murderers will be placed in the custody of the Courts. We will mete out justice."

  Not if I find the murderer first, Emma thought. I'll deliver his dead body to you, and that had better be good enough.

  "First you swear," said Julian, his blue-green eyes bright and hard. "Say, 'I swear that when the terms of the bargain are fulfilled, Mark Blackthorn will make his own free choice whether he wishes to be part of the Hunt or return to his life as a Nephilim.'"

  Kieran's mouth tightened. "I swear that when the terms of the bargain are fulfilled, Mark Blackthorn will make his own free choice whether he wishes to be part of the Hunt or return to his life as a Nephilim."

  Mark was expressionless, unmoving as he had been all this time, as if they weren't discussing him but someone else. He looked as if he were seeing through the walls of the Sanctuary, seeing the distant ocean perhaps, or a place even farther away than that.

  "Then I think we have an arrangement," Julian said.

  The two faeries looked at each other, and then Kieran walked over to Mark. He laid his white hands on Mark's shoulders and said something to him in a guttural language Emma didn't understand--it was nothing Diana had taught them, not the high, fluting speech of the Court fey or any other magical speech. Mark didn't move, and Kieran stepped away, looking unsurprised.

  "He is yours for now," he said. "We will leave his steed for him. They have become . . . attached."

  "He won't be able to use a horse," Julian said, his voice tight. "Not in Los Angeles."

  Kieran's smile was full of contempt. "I think you'll find he can use this one."

  "God!" It was Arthur, crying out. He lurched forward, his hands cradling his head. "It hurts--"

  Julian moved to his uncle's side, reaching to grip his arm, but Arthur threw him off, rising to his feet, his breath uneven. "I must excuse myself," he said. "My headache. It is unbearable."

  He looked horribly unwell, it was true. His skin was the color of dirty chalk, his collar sticking to his throat with sweat.

  Both Kieran and Iarlath said nothing. Neither did Mark, who still stood swaying blindly on his feet. The fey watched Arthur with avid curiosity burning in their eyes. Emma could read their thoughts. The head of the Los Angeles Institute. He is weak, unwell. . . .

  The inner doors rattled, and Diana came in. She looked cool and calm as always. Her dark gaze took in the scene before her. Her glance brushed over Emma once; there was cold anger in it. "Arthur," she said. "You are needed upstairs. Do go. I will escort the convoy outside to discuss the bargain."

  How long was she out there eavesdropping? Emma wondered as Arthur, looking desperately grateful, limped past Diana and toward the door. Diana was as quiet as a cat when she wanted to be.

  "Is he dying?" Iarlath asked with some curiosity, his gaze following Arthur as he left the Sanctuary.

  "We're mortal," Emma said. "We get sick, we age. We're not like you. But it's nothing that should be a surprise."

  "Enough," Diana said. "I will lead you from the Sanctuary, but first--the translation." She held out a slim brown hand.

  Kieran handed over the near-translucent papers with a w
ry look. Diana glanced down at them. "What does the first line say?" Emma said, unable to stop herself.

  Diana frowned. "Fire to water," she said. "What does that mean?"

  Iarlath gave her a single cool look and moved to join her. "It will be the task of your people to find out."

  Fire to water? Emma thought of the bodies of her parents, drowned and then crumbling like ashes. Of the body of the man in the alley, scorched and then soaked in seawater. She looked at Julian, wondering if his mind was following the same paths as hers--but no, he was looking at his brother, unmoving, as if frozen in place.

  She itched to get her hands on the papers, but they were folded into Diana's jacket, and Diana was leading the two faerie men toward the Sanctuary exit. "You understand that we will be investigating this without the knowledge of the Clave," she said as Iarlath fell into step beside her. Kieran walked behind them, scowling.

  "We understand that you fear your government, yes," said Iarlath. "We fear them too, the architects of the Cold Peace."

  Diana didn't rise to the bait. "If you must contact us during the investigation, you'll need to take care in doing so."

  "We will come only to the Sanctuary, and you may leave messages here for us," said Kieran. "If we hear that you have spoken of our bargain to anyone outside these walls, especially one who is not Nephilim, we will be most displeased. Mark, too, is under orders of secrecy from the Hunt. You will find he will not disobey them."

  Sunlight speared into the Sanctuary as Diana opened the doors. Emma felt a flash of gratitude for her tutor as Diana and the two faeries vanished outside. Gratitude for sparing Arthur--and for sparing Julian one more second of pretending he was all right.

  For Jules was looking at his brother--finally, really looking at him, with no one to see or judge his weakness. With no one to, at the last moment, take Mark away from him again.

  Mark raised his head slowly. He was thin as a lath, so much narrower and more angular than Emma remembered him. He didn't seem to have aged so much as sharpened, as if the bones of chin and cheek and jaw had been refined with careful tools. He was gaunt but graceful, in the manner of the fey.