Lady Midnight

by Cassandra Clare

  "Julian," Emma said. "I hate to tell you this, but I think they've already figured that out."

  He smiled and slid off the bed. "Insults," he said. "I guess that means you're fine." He moved to the door.

  "We can't tell Diana we're going to Rook's," she said. "She thinks he's a crook."

  "She's not wrong." The dim light in the room sparked off Julian's bracelet. "Emma, do you want me to--"

  He hesitated, but Emma heard the unspoken words. Stay with you?

  Stay with me, she wanted to say. Stay and make me forget my nightmares. Stay and sleep next to me. Stay and chase the bad dreams away, the memories of blood.

  But she only forced a smile. "I should get to sleep, Jules."

  She couldn't see his expression as he turned to leave the room. "Good night, Emma."

  Emma woke late the next day: sometime overnight, the storm had washed the sky clean of clouds, and the afternoon sun was bright. Her head aching, she clambered out of bed, showered and changed, and nearly collided with Cristina outside her bedroom door.

  "You slept so long, I was worried," Cristina scolded. "Are you okay?"

  "I will be once I have breakfast. Maybe something chocolate."

  "It's much too late for breakfast. It's past lunchtime. Julian sent me up to get you--he says he has drinks and sandwiches in the car but you have to get going now."

  "Do you think they're chocolate sandwiches?" Emma inquired, falling into step beside Cristina as they both headed for the stairs.

  "What's a chocolate sandwich?"

  "You know: bread, chocolate bar, butter."

  "That is disgusting." Cristina shook her head; the pearls in her earlobes gleamed.

  "Not as disgusting as coffee. You off to Malcolm's?"

  Cristina flashed a smile. "I shall ask a million questions of your purply-eyed warlock so that Diana doesn't think about you and Julian or whether you might be at Mr. Rook's."

  "I'm not sure he's a mister," Emma said, stifling a yawn. "I've never heard anyone call him anything but 'hey, Rook' or sometimes 'that bastard.'"

  "That is very rude," said Cristina. There was something playful in her dark eyes. "I think Mark is nervous about being alone with the younger ones. This should be very amusing." She tugged one of Emma's damp braids. "Julian is waiting for you downstairs."

  "Good luck distracting Malcolm," Emma called as Cristina strode off down the hallway toward the kitchen where Diana was, presumably, waiting.

  Cristina winked. "Good luck getting information, cuata."

  Shaking her head, Emma headed down to the parking lot, where she found Julian standing beside the Toyota, examining the contents of the trunk. Beside him was Mark.

  "I thought Cristina was going to be here," Mark was saying as Emma approached. "I did not realize she was going to Malcolm's. I did not think that I would be left alone with the children."

  "They're not children," Julian said, nodding a greeting at Emma. "Ty and Livvy are fifteen; they've looked after the others before."

  "Tiberius is angry that you are not allowing him to come with you to Rook's," said Mark. "He said he was going to lock himself in his room."

  "Terrific," said Julian. His voice was rough; he looked as if he hadn't slept. Emma wondered what could have kept him up. Research? "I guess you'll know where he is. Look, the only one who needs looking after is Tavvy."

  Mark looked ill with horror. "I know."

  "He's a kid, not a bomb," said Emma, buckling on a weapons belt. There were several seraph blades and a stele thrust through it. She wasn't in gear, just jeans and a jacket that would hide the sword on her back. Not that she expected trouble, but she hated going out without Cortana, currently napping in the trunk. "It'll be okay. Dru and Livvy can help."

  "Maybe this mission of yours is too dangerous," Mark said, as Julian slammed the trunk shut. "A faerie would tell you that a rook is a black crow--a bird of ill omen."

  "I know," Julian said, sliding a final, thin dagger into the holder strapped around his wrist. "It also means to cheat or to swindle. It was my word of the day last year from Diana."

  "Johnny Rook is a swindler, all right," Emma agreed. "He swindles mundanes. We'll be fine."

  "The children could set themselves on fire," Mark said. He didn't sound like he was joking.

  "Ty and Livvy are fifteen," said Emma. "They're nearly the same age you were when you joined the Hunt. And you were--"

  "What?" Mark turned his odd eyes on her. "I was fine?"

  Emma felt herself flush. "An afternoon in their own home is not exactly the same as being kidnapped by cannibalistic faerie predators."

  "We didn't eat people," Mark said indignantly. "At least not to my knowledge."

  Julian unlocked the driver's side door and slid inside. Emma climbed into the passenger seat as he leaned out the window and looked sympathetically at his brother. "Mark, we have to go. If anything happens, have Livvy text us, but right now Rook is the best chance we have. Okay?"

  Mark straightened up as if readying for battle. "Okay."

  "And if they do manage to set themselves on fire?"

  "Yes?" Mark said.

  "You'd better find a way to put them out."

  Johnny Rook lived in Victor Heights, in a small craftsman bungalow with dusty windows sandwiched between two ranch houses. It had a disused air that Emma assumed was carefully cultivated. It looked like the sort of place neighborhood children would skip over when searching for candy on Halloween.

  Otherwise it was a nice street. There were kids playing hopscotch a few houses down, and an old man reading a newspaper in his gazebo, surrounded by lawn gnomes. When Julian pictured mundane life, it looked a lot like this. Sometimes he thought it wouldn't be so bad.

  Emma was strapping Cortana on. They were already glamoured, so there was no worry about the children down the street seeing her as she pulled the strap tight, a small frown line appearing between her eyebrows as she got the fit right. Her hair shone in the California sunlight, brighter than the gold of Cortana's hilt. The white scars on her hands gleamed, too, diffuse, a lacelike patchwork.

  No. Mundane life was not an option.

  Emma lifted her head and smiled at him. A familiar smile, easy. It was like last night--the dancing and the music that still seemed to him like a fever dream--hadn't happened. "Ready to go?" she said.

  The paved path that led to the front door was cracked where the roots of trees had grown up, their inexorable force snapping the pavement. The persistence of growing things, Julian thought, and wished he had a canvas and paints. He was reaching for his phone to snap a picture when it went off with the dull ring that signaled a text message.

  He glanced at the screen. It was from Mark.

  CAN'T FIND TY.

  Julian frowned and thumbed a reply while jogging up the steps after Emma. DID YOU LOOK IN HIS BEDROOM?

  There was an ornate knocker on the front door in the shape of a wild-haired, wild-eyed Green Man. Emma lifted it and let it fall as Julian's phone beeped again.

  DO YOU TAKE ME FOR A BUFFOON? OF COURSE I DID.

  "Jules?" Emma said. "Is everything all right?"

  "Buffoon?" he muttered, his fingers flying over the touch pad. WHAT DOES LIVVY SAY?

  "Did you just mutter 'buffoon'?" Emma demanded. Julian could hear footsteps approaching from the other side of the door. "Julian, try to act not weird, okay?"

  The door flew open. The man standing on the other side was tall and rangy, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket. His hair was so close-cropped it was hard to tell its color, and tinted glasses hid his eyes.

  He slumped against the doorjamb the moment he saw Emma. "Carstairs," he said. It was a sound between a prayer and a groan.

  Julian's phone pinged. LIVVY SAYS SHE DOESN'T KNOW.

  The man raised an eyebrow. "Busy?" he said sardonically. He turned to Emma. "Your other boyfriend was politer."

  Emma flushed. "This isn't my boyfriend. This is Jules."

  "Of course. I should have reco
gnized the Blackthorn eyes." Rook's voice turned silky. "You look just like your father, Julian."

  Julian didn't much like the man's smirk. Then again, he'd never liked anything about Emma associating with Rook. Mundanes who dabbled in magic, even ones with the Sight, were a gray area to the Clave--there wasn't a Law, but neither were you supposed to deal with them. If you needed magic done, you hired a nice, Clave-approved warlock.

  Not that Emma had ever cared much about the approval of the Clave.

  LIVVY'S LYING. SHE ALWAYS KNOWS WHERE TY IS. MAKE HER TELL YOU. Jules shoved the phone back into his pocket. It wasn't unusual for Ty to vanish, into corners of the library or places in the hill where he could coax lizards out from under their rocks. And he was angry, which made it more likely he'd hide.

  The man swung the door open. "Come in," he said in a resigned tone. "You know the rules. No taking out weapons, Carstairs. And no back talk."

  "Define 'back talk,'" Emma said, stepping inside. Julian followed her. A wave of magic as thick as smoke in a burning building hit him. It hung in the air of the small living room, almost visible in the dim light that filtered through the yellowing curtains. Tall craftsman bookshelves held spell books and grimoires, copies of The Malleus Maleficarum, the Pseudomonarchia Daemonum, The Lesser Key of Solomon, and a blood-red volume with the words Dragon Rouge lettered on the spine. A yellowish rag rug that matched the curtains lay crookedly on the floor; Rook kicked it aside with an unpleasant grin.

  Under it was revealed a spell circle chalked onto the hardwood planks. It was the kind of circle warlocks stood inside when they summoned demons; the circle created a protective wall. It was actually two circles, one inside the other, making a sort of frame, and inside the frame were scrawled the sigils of the seventy Lords of Hell. Julian frowned as Rook stepped neatly into the circle and crossed his arms.

  "A protection circle," Rook said unnecessarily. "You can't get in."

  "And you can't get out," Julian observed. "Not easily, anyway."

  Rook shrugged. "Why would I want to?"

  "Because that's some powerful magic you're playing with."

  "Don't judge," Rook said. "We who cannot wield the magic of Heaven must use what comes to hand."

  "The sigils of Hell?" Julian said. "There's some middle ground between Hell and Heaven, surely."

  Rook flashed a grin. "There's all the world," he said. "It's a messy place, Shadowhunter, and we don't all get to keep our hands clean."

  "There's a difference between dirt and blood," Julian said. Emma shot him a quelling look, one that said: We're here because we need something. She didn't always have to write on his skin for him to know what she was thinking.

  The curtains rustled, though there was no breeze. "Look, we're not here to bother you," Emma said. "We just want some information, and we'll go."

  "Information isn't free," said Rook.

  "I've got something good for you this time. Better than cash," Emma said. Avoiding Julian's eyes, she took a pale column of silvery-white stone from the inside of her jacket pocket. She flushed slightly, aware of Julian's eyes on her as he realized what she was holding: an unnamed seraph blade.

  "What is he going to do with adamas?" Julian demanded.

  "Adamas that has been treated by the Iron Sisters goes for a high price at the Shadow Market," said Rook, not taking his eyes off Emma's prize. "But it still depends on what you want to know about."

  "The Midnight Theater and the Followers," Emma said. "We want to know about them."

  Rook narrowed his eyes. "What do you want to know?"

  Emma gave him a brief rundown of the events of the night before, leaving out Mark and how they'd found out about the Lottery in the first place. When she was done, Rook whistled.

  "Casper Sterling," he said. "I always thought that guy was a scumbag. Yakking on about how he was better than werewolves, better than humans, too. Can't say I'm sorry his number came up."

  "Johnny," Emma said severely. "They're going to kill him."

  An odd expression flickered across Rook's face, but it vanished quickly. "And you want me to do what about it? They're a whole organization, Carstairs."

  "We need to know who their leader is," said Julian. "Belinda called him the Guardian. He's the one we need to find."

  "I don't know," said Rook. "I'm not sure pissing off the Followers is worth even adamas." But his eyes clung to the silvery-white stuff longingly. Emma pressed the advantage.

  "They'll never know you had anything to do with it," she said. "But I saw you flirting with Belinda at the Shadow Market. She's got to know."

  Rook shook his head. "She doesn't."

  "Huh," Emma said. "Okay, which of them does?"

  "None of them. The leader's identity is totally secret. I don't even know if it's a man or a woman. The Guardian could be either, you know?"

  "If I find out you're hiding something you know from me, Johnny," Emma said in a cold voice, "there will be consequences. Diana knows I'm here. You won't be able to get me in trouble with the Clave. But I could get you in trouble. Serious trouble."

  "Emma, forget it," Julian said in a bored voice. "He doesn't know anything. Let's take the adamas and go."

  "They get two days," Rook said in a thin, angry voice. "When their numbers get picked. They get two days before the kill has to happen." He glared at them both, as if somehow this was their fault. "It's sympathetic magic. The energy of the death of a supernatural creature powers the spell that makes them all stronger. And the leader--he shows up for the kill. That much I know. If you're there for the death, you'll see him. Or her. Whoever it is."

  "The Guardian shows up at the murder?" Emma said. "To harvest the energy?"

  "So if we shadow Sterling, if we wait for someone to attack him, we'll see the Guardian?" Julian said.

  "Yeah. That should work. I mean, you're crazy to want to be there at some big dark-magic party, but I guess it's your business."

  "I guess it is," Julian said. His phone buzzed again. LIVVY WON'T TELL ME ANYTHING. SHE'S LOCKED HERSELF IN HER ROOM. HELP.

  A tendril of worry uncurled in Julian's stomach. He told himself he was being stupid. He knew he worried about his siblings too much. Ty had probably wandered off after an animal, was petting a squirrel or cuddling a stray cat. Or he might have shut himself away with a book, not wanting to socialize.

  Julian thumbed out a response: GO OUTSIDE AND LOOK FOR HIM IN THE BACK GARDEN.

  "Still texting?" said Rook, a mocking tone to his voice. "I'm guessing you have a pretty rich social life."

  "I wouldn't worry," said Julian. "My phone's almost out of battery."

  The phone whirred again. HEADED OUTSIDE, it said, and then the screen went black. He shoved it into his pocket as an enormous crash sounded from downstairs, and after it, the sound of a bitten-off cry.

  "What the hell?" said Rook.

  The shock in his voice was real; Emma must have heard it too, because she was already moving toward the steps that led downstairs. Rook shouted after them, but Julian knew it would take him a moment to free himself from his protection circle. Without another glance at Rook, he darted after Emma.

  Kit Rook pressed himself into the shadow of the stairwell. Voices filtered down from upstairs, along with dim sunlight. His father always sent him down into the cellar when they had visitors. Especially the kind of visitors that had him running for his chalk so he could draw a protection circle.

  Kit could only see shadows moving upstairs, but he could hear two voices. Young voices, to his surprise. A boy's and a girl's.

  He had a pretty good idea what they were, and it wasn't Downworlders. He'd seen the look on his father's face when they'd knocked on the door. Rook hadn't said anything, but he wore that expression for only one thing: Shadowhunters.

  Nephilim. Kit felt the slow burn of anger start in his stomach. He'd been sitting on the sofa watching TV and now he was crouched in the basement like a thief in his own home because Shadowhunters thought they had the right to legisl
ate magic. To tell everyone what to do. To--

  A figure hurtled at him out of the shadows. It hit him hard in the chest and he staggered back and slammed into the wall behind him, breath knocked out of his body. He gasped as light flared up around him--pale white light, held in the cup of a human hand.

  Something sharp kissed the base of Kit's throat. He sucked in air and raised his eyes.

  He was staring right at a boy his own age. Ink-black hair and eyes the color of the edge of a knife, eyes that darted away from his as the boy scowled. He had a long, thin, black-clad body and pale skin Marked all over with the runes of the Nephilim.

  Kit had never been this close to a Shadowhunter. The boy had one hand on his glowing light--it wasn't a flashlight or anything electronic; Kit knew magic when he saw it--and the other gripped a dagger whose point rested against Kit's throat.

  Kit had imagined before what he'd do if a Nephilim ever grabbed him. How he'd stomp on their feet, break their bones, snap their wrists, spit in their faces. He did none of those things, thought of none of those things. He looked at the boy with the knife to his throat, the boy whose black eyelashes feathered down against his cheekbones as he glanced away from Kit, and he felt something like a shock of recognition pass through him.

  He thought, How beautiful.

  Kit blinked. Though the other boy wasn't looking directly at him, he seemed to note the movement. In a harsh whisper, he demanded, "Who are you? What are you doing here? You're too young to be Johnny Rook."

  His voice was lovely. Clear and low, with a rasp to it that made him sound older than he was. A rich boy's voice.

  "No," said Kit. He felt dazed and puzzled, as if a bright camera flash had gone off in his eyes. "I'm not."

  The boy still wasn't looking directly at Kit. As if Kit weren't worth looking at. Kit's dazed feeling was starting to fade, to be replaced by anger.

  "Go on," Kit said, challenging. "Figure it out."

  The boy's expression clouded, then cleared. "You're his son," he said. "Johnny Rook's son."

  And then his lip did curl, just the slightest curl of contempt, and anger boiled up in Kit. He jerked aside fast, away from the dagger, and kicked out. The other boy spun, but Kit caught him with a glancing blow. He heard a cry of pain. The light tumbled from the boy's hand, winking out, and then Kit was being shoved up against the wall again, a hand scrabbling to fist itself in his shirt, and the dagger was back at his throat, and the other boy was whispering, "Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet," and then the room was full of light.