Lady Midnight

by Cassandra Clare

  Julian stared off toward the distant hills, silent. It was Emma who answered.

  "Malcolm, last year we fought off a battalion of Forneus demons with tentacles and no faces," Emma said. "Don't try to freak us out about this."

  "I'm just saying. Danger. You know, that thing most people avoid."

  "Not us," Emma said cheerfully. "Tentacles, Malcolm. No faces."

  "Stubborn." Malcolm sighed. "Just promise to call me if you need me or if you find out anything else."

  "Definitely," said Julian. Emma wondered if the cold knot of guilt that she felt at hiding things from Malcolm also sat in his chest. The wind off the ocean had picked up. It caught the dust in the garden and blew it into swirls. Julian pushed his hair out of his eyes. "Thanks for helping," he added. "We know we can depend on you." He headed down the path, toward the steps to the bridge, which shimmered alive as he approached it.

  Malcolm's face had turned somber, despite the bright noon light reflecting off the ocean. "Don't depend on me too much," he said, so softly she wondered if he knew she would hear him.

  "Why not?" She turned her face up to him in the sunlight, blinking. His eyes were the color of jacaranda blossoms.

  "Because I'll let you down. Everyone does," Malcolm said, and went back inside his house.

  Cristina sat on the floor outside Mark Blackthorn's bedroom.

  There had been no sound from inside for what felt like hours. The door was cracked open and she could see him, curled into a ball in a corner of the room like a trapped wild animal.

  Faeries had been her area of study at home. She had always been fascinated by tales of the hadas, from the noble warriors of the Courts to the duendes who teased and bothered mundanes. She had not been in Idris for the declaration of the Cold Peace, but her father had, and the story sent a shiver through her. She had always wanted to meet Mark and Helen Blackthorn, to tell them--

  Tiberius appeared in the hall, carrying a cardboard box. His twin sister was beside him, a patchwork quilt in her hand. "My mother made this for Mark when he was left with us," she said, catching Cristina eyeing it. "I thought he might remember."

  "We couldn't get into the storeroom, so we brought Mark some gifts. So he'd know we want him here," said Ty. His gaze moved restlessly around the hall. "Can we go in?"

  Cristina glanced into the bedroom. Mark was unmoving. "I don't see why not. Just try to be quiet and not wake him."

  Livvy went in first, laying the quilt on the bed. Ty set the cardboard box on the floor, then wandered over to where Mark was lying. He picked up the quilt that Livvy had set down and knelt beside his brother. A little awkwardly, he laid the quilt on top of Mark.

  Mark jerked upright. His blue-gold eyes flew open and he caught hold of Ty, who gave a sharp frightened cry like the cry of a seabird. Mark moved with incredible speed, flinging Ty to the ground. Livvy screamed and darted from the room, just as Cristina hurtled inside.

  Mark was kneeling over Tiberius, pinning him to the ground with his knees. "Who are you?" Mark was saying. "What were you doing?"

  "I'm your brother! I'm Tiberius!" Ty was wriggling madly, his headphones sliding off to hit the floor. "I was giving you a blanket!"

  "Liar!" Mark was breathing hard. "My brother Ty is a little boy! He's a child, my baby brother, my--"

  The door rattled behind Cristina. Livvy burst back into the room, her brown hair flying. "Let him go!" A seraph blade appeared in her hand, already beginning to glow. She spoke to Mark through gritted teeth, as if she'd never met him. As if she hadn't been carrying a patchwork quilt for him through the Institute only moments before. "If you hurt Tiberius, I'll kill you. I don't care if you're Mark, I'll kill you."

  Mark stilled. Ty was still writhing and twisting, but Mark had stopped moving entirely. Slowly, he turned his head toward his sister. "Livia?"

  Livvy gasped and began to sob. Julian would be proud, though, Cristina thought: She was weeping without moving, the blade still steady in her hand.

  Ty took advantage of Mark's distraction to hit at him, connecting solidly with Mark's shoulder. Mark winced and rolled away without striking back. Ty leaped to his feet and darted across the room to join Livvy; they stood shoulder to shoulder staring at their brother with wide eyes.

  "Both of you, go," Cristina said to them. She could feel the panic and worry rolling off them in waves; Mark could clearly feel it too. He was wincing, opening and closing his hands as if in pain. She bent down to whisper to the twins. "He's frightened. He didn't mean it."

  Livvy nodded and sheathed her blade. She took Ty's hand and said something to him in the quiet, private language they had. He followed her out of the room, pausing only briefly to look back at Mark, his expression hurt and bewildered.

  Mark was sitting up, panting, his body bent over his knees. He was bleeding from the reopened cut on his shoulder, staining his shirt. Cristina began to back slowly out of the bedroom.

  Mark's body tensed. "Please don't go," he said.

  Cristina stared. As far as she knew, this was the first coherent thing he'd said since arriving at the Institute.

  He lifted his chin, and for a brief moment she saw beneath the dirt, the bruises, and the scratches, the Mark Blackthorn she had seen pictures of, the Mark Blackthorn who could be related to Livvy and Julian and Ty. "I'm thirsty," he said. There was something rusty, almost disused, about his voice, like an old motor starting up again. "Is there water?"

  "Of course." Cristina fumbled a glass off the dresser and went into the small attached bathroom. When she emerged and handed the full glass to Mark, he was sitting up, his back against the footboard of the bed. He looked at the glass wryly. "Water from taps," he said. "I'd almost forgotten." He took a long swallow and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Do you know who I am?"

  "You're Mark," she said. "Mark Blackthorn."

  There was a long pause before he nodded, almost imperceptibly. "No one has called me that in a long time."

  "It's still your name."

  "Who are you?" he said. "I should remember, probably, but--"

  "I'm Cristina Mendoza Rosales," she said. "There is no reason you should remember me, since we have never met before."

  "That's a relief."

  Cristina was surprised. "Is it?"

  "If you don't know me and I don't know you, then you won't have any--expectations." He looked suddenly exhausted. "Of who I am or what I'm like. I could be anyone to you."

  "Earlier," Cristina said. "On the bed. Were you sleeping or pretending?"

  "Does it matter?" he said, and Cristina couldn't help thinking that it was a most faerielike reply, a reply that didn't actually answer her question. He shifted against the footboard. "Why are you in the Institute?"

  Cristina knelt down, putting her head on a level with Mark's. She smoothed her skirt over her knees--even when she didn't want them to, her mother's words about how an off-duty Shadowhunter must always be neat and presentable echoed in her head.

  "I am eighteen," she said. "I was assigned to study the ways of the Los Angeles Institute as part of my travel year. How old are you?"

  This time Mark's hesitation went on for so long, Cristina wondered if he was going to speak at all. "I don't know," he said finally. "I was gone--I thought I was gone--a long time. Julian was twelve. The others were babies. Ten and eight and two. Tavvy was two."

  "For them it has been five years," Cristina said. "Five years without you."

  "Helen," Mark said. "Julian. Tiberius. Livia. Drusilla. Octavian. Every night I counted out their names among the stars, so I would not forget. Are they all living?"

  "Yes, all of them, though Helen is not here--she is married and lives with her wife."

  "Then they are living, and happy together? I am glad. I had heard the news of her wedding in Faerie, though it seems long ago now."

  "Yes." Cristina studied Mark's face. Angles, planes, sharpness, that curve at the top of his ear that spoke of faerie blood. "You have missed a great deal."


  "You think I don't know that?" Heat boiled up in his voice, mixed with bewilderment. "I don't know how old I am. I don't recognize my own sisters and brothers. I don't know why I'm here."

  "You do," said Cristina. "You were there when the faerie convoy was speaking to Arthur in the Sanctuary."

  He tilted his face toward hers. There was a scar across the side of his neck, not the mark of a vanished rune, but a raised welt. His hair was untidy and looked as if it had been uncut for months, years even. The curling white tips touched his shoulders. "Do you trust them? The faeries?"

  Cristina shook her head.

  "Good." He looked away from her. "You shouldn't." He reached for the cardboard box that Ty had left on the floor and pulled it toward him. "What is this?"

  "Things they thought you might want," Cristina said. "Your brothers and sisters."

  "Gifts of welcome," said Mark in a puzzled tone, and knelt down by the box, removing a hodgepodge of odd items--some T-shirts and jeans that were probably Julian's, a microscope, bread and butter, a handful of desert wildflowers from the garden behind the Institute.

  Mark raised his head to look at Cristina. His eyes glittered with unshed tears. His shirt was thin and ragged; she could see through the material, see other welts and scars on his skin. "What do I say to them?"

  "To who?"

  "My family. My brothers and sisters. My uncle." He shook his head. "I remember them, and yet I don't. I feel as if I have lived here all my life, and yet I have also always been with the Wild Hunt. I hear the roar of it in my ears, the call of the horns, the sound of the wind. It overpowers their voices. How do I explain that?"

  "Don't explain it," said Cristina softly. "Just say you love them and you missed them every day. Tell them you hated the Wild Hunt. Tell them you're glad to be back."

  "But why would I do that? Won't they know I'm lying?"

  "Didn't you miss them? Aren't you glad to be back?"

  "I don't know," he said. "I cannot hear my heart or what it tells me. I can only hear the wind."

  Before Cristina could reply, a sharp tap came at the window. It rattled again, a pattern of taps that sounded almost like a code.

  Mark sprang to his feet. He crossed the room to the window and flung it open, leaning out. When he ducked back in, there was something in his hand.

  An acorn. Cristina's eyes widened. Acorns were one of the ways faeries sent messages to each other. Hidden in leaves, flowers, and other wild things.

  "Already?" she said, unable to help it. They couldn't leave him even for this long, alone with his family, in his home?

  Looking pale and strained, Mark crushed the acorn in his fist. A twist of pale parchment fell out. He caught it and read the message silently.

  His hand opened. He slid to the floor, pulling his knees up against his chest, dropping his head in his hands. His long pale hair fell forward as the parchment fluttered to the ground. A low sound issued from his throat, halfway between a groan and a wail of pain.

  Cristina picked up the parchment. On it was written, in a delicate script, Remember your promises. Remember that none of it is real.

  "Fire to water," said Emma as they sped down the highway toward the Institute. "After all these years, I finally know what some of those markings mean."

  Julian was driving. Emma had her feet propped on the dashboard, her window down, the sea-softened air filling the car and lifting the light hair around her temples. This was how she'd always ridden in cars with Julian, with her feet up and the wind in her hair.

  It was something Julian loved, Emma beside him in the car, driving with the blue sky overhead and the blue sea to the west. It was an image that felt full of infinite possibility, as if they could simply keep driving forever, the horizon their only destination.

  It was a fantasy that played out sometimes when he was falling asleep. That he and Emma packed their things into the trunk of a car and left the Institute, in a world where he had no children and there was no Law and no Cameron Ashdown, where nothing held them back but the limits of their love and imagination.

  And if there were two things he believed were limitless, it was love and imagination.

  "It does sound like a spell," Julian said, wrenching his mind back to the present moment. He revved the engine, the wind rushing in through Emma's window as they gathered speed. Her hair lifted, pale corn silk spilling out from the neatness of her braids, making her look young and vulnerable.

  "But why would the spell be recorded on the bodies?" Emma asked. The thought of anything hurting her made an ache form inside his chest.

  And yet he was hurting her. He knew it. Knew it and hated it. He'd believed he'd had such a brilliant idea when he'd thought of taking the children to England for eight weeks. Knowing Cristina Rosales was coming, knowing Emma wouldn't be alone or unhappy. It had seemed perfect.

  He'd thought things would be different when he came back. That he would be different.

  But he wasn't.

  "What did Magnus say to you?" he asked as she looked out the window, her scarred fingers drumming an arrhythmic tattoo on her bent knee. "He whispered something."

  A furrow appeared between her brows. "He said that there are places where ley lines converge. I assume he means that since they bend and curve, there are locations where more than one of them meet. Maybe all of them."

  "And that's important because . . . ?"

  She shook her head. "I don't know. We do know all the bodies have been dumped at ley lines, and that's a specific kind of magic. Maybe the convergences have some quality we need to understand. We should find a map of ley lines. I bet Arthur would know where to look in the library. If not, we can find it ourselves."

  "Good."

  "Good?" She sounded surprised.

  "It's going to take a few days for Malcolm to translate those papers, and I don't want to spend those days sitting around the Institute, staring at Mark, waiting for him to--waiting. It's better if we keep working, have something to do." His voice sounded stretched thin to his own ears. He hated it, hated any visible or audible sign of weakness.

  Though at least it was only with Emma, who he could show these things to. Emma, alone in his life, did not need his caretaking. Did not need him to be perfect or perfectly strong.

  Before Julian could say anything else, Emma's phone went off with a loud buzz. She pulled it out of her pocket.

  Cameron Ashdown. She frowned at the llama on the screen. "Not now," she told it, and shoved the phone back into her jeans.

  "Are you going to tell him?" Julian asked, and heard the stiffness in his own voice, and hated it. "About all of this?"

  "About Mark? I would never tell. Never."

  He kept his grip on the wheel tight, his jaw set.

  "You're my parabatai," she said, and now there was anger in her voice. "You know I wouldn't."

  Julian slammed on the brakes. The car lurched forward, the wheel slewing out of his hands. Emma yelped as they skidded off the road and bumped down into a ditch by the side of the highway, in between the road and the dunes over the sea.

  Dust was rising up around the car in plumes. Julian whirled toward Emma. She was white around the mouth. "Jules."

  "I didn't mean it," he said.

  She stared. "What?"

  "You being my parabatai is the best thing in my life," Julian said. The words were steady and simple, spoken without a trace of anything held back. He'd been holding back so tightly that the relief of it was almost unbearable.

  Impulsively she undid her safety belt, rising up in her seat to look down on him solemnly. The sun was high overhead. Up close he could see the gold lines inside the brown of her eyes, the faint spatter of light freckles across her nose, the bits of lighter, sun-bleached hair mixed with the darker hair at her nape. Raw umber and Naples yellow, mixed with white. He could smell rose water on her, and laundry detergent.

  She leaned into him, and his body chased the feeling of closeness, of having her back and near. Her knees bumped against his
. "But you said--"

  "I know what I said." He turned toward her, slewing his body around in the driver's seat. "While I was away, I realized some things. Hard things. Maybe I even realized them before I left."

  "You can tell me what they are." She touched his cheek lightly. He felt his whole body lock into tension. "I remember what you said about Mark last night," she went on. "You were never the oldest brother. He always was. If he hadn't been taken, if Helen had been able to stay, you would have made different choices because you would have had someone to take care of you."

  He breathed out. "Emma." Raw pain. "Emma, I said what I said because--because sometimes I think I asked you to be my parabatai because I wanted you to be tied to me. The Consul wanted you to go to the Academy and I couldn't stand the thought. I'd lost so many people. I didn't want to lose you, too."

  She was so close to him he could feel the heat from her sun-warmed skin. For a moment she said nothing, and he felt as if he were on the gallows, having the hangman's noose fastened around his throat. Waiting only for the drop.

  Then she put her hand over his on the console between them.

  Their hands. Hers were delicate-looking, but more scarred than his own, more calloused, her skin rough against his. His sea-glass bracelet glowed like jewels in the sunlight.

  "People do complicated things because people are complicated," she said. "All that stuff about how you're supposed to make the parabatai decision only for totally pure reasons, that's a crock."

  "I wanted to tie you to me," he said. "Because I was tied here. Maybe you should have gone to the Academy. Maybe it would have been the right place for you. Maybe I took something away from you."

  Emma looked at him. Her face was open and completely trusting. He almost thought he could feel his convictions shatter, the convictions he'd built up before he'd left at the beginning of the summer, the convictions he'd carried with him all the way back home until the moment he'd seen her again. He could feel them breaking inside him, like driftwood shattered against rocks.

  "Jules," she said. "You gave me a family. You gave me everything."

  A phone shrilled again. Emma's. Julian sat back, heart pounding, as she thumbed it out of her pocket. He watched as her face set.

  "Livvy's texting," she said. "She says Mark woke up. And he's screaming."