Mark was unmoving: his face pale, color striping the high cheekbones that marked out his faerie heritage.
There was love in his family's eyes as they looked at Julian, and worry and fear, but Emma wondered if Jules could see any of it. If all he saw was the children he had given up so much of his life for, happy with someone else. If, like her, he looked at the kitchen and remembered how he had taught himself to clean it when he was twelve years old. Taught himself to cook: simple things at first, spaghetti and butter, toast and cheese. A million cheese sandwiches, a million burns on Julian's hands and wrists from the stove and the spatter. The way he'd walked down the path to the highway every few days to accept the grocery delivery, before he could drive. The way he'd dragged and carried all their food back up the hill.
Julian on his knees, skinny in jeans and sweatshirt, scrubbing the floor. The kitchen had been designed by his mother, it was a piece of her, but it was also a piece of everything he'd given over the years to his family.
And he would do it again, Emma thought. Of course he would: He loved them that fiercely. The only thing that made Julian angry was fear, fear for his sisters and brothers.
He was afraid now, though Emma wasn't sure why. She saw only the look on his face as he registered their resentment of him, their disappointment. The fire seemed to go out of him. He slid down the front of the stove until he was sitting on the floor.
"Jules?" It was Tavvy, white granules coating his hair. He shuffled close and put his arms around Julian's neck.
Jules made an odd sound, and then he pulled his brother in and hugged him fiercely. Sugar sifted down onto his black gear, dusting it with white powder.
The kitchen door opened and Emma heard a gasp of surprise. She turned and saw Cristina gaping at the mess. "!Que desastre!"
It didn't exactly require a translation. Mark cleared his throat and began stacking dirty dishes in the sink. Not so much stacking them as flinging them, really. Livvy went over to help him while Cristina stared.
"Where's Diana?" Emma asked.
"She's home. Malcolm Portaled us there and back," said Cristina, not taking her eyes off the charred pots on the stove. "She said she needed to catch up on sleep."
Still holding Tavvy, Julian stood up. There was powdered sugar on his shirt, in his hair, but his face was calm, expressionless. "Sorry about the mess, Cristina."
"It's fine," she said, looking around the room. "It is not my kitchen. Though," she added hastily, "I can help you clean up."
"Mark will clean up," Julian said, without looking at his brother. "Did you and Diana find anything out from Malcolm?"
"He had gone to see some warlocks he thought might be able to help," said Cristina. "We talked about Catarina Loss. I've heard of her--she teaches at the Academy sometimes, Downworlder studies. Apparently both Malcolm and Diana are good friends with her, so they exchanged a lot of stories I didn't really understand."
"Well, here's what we learned from Rook," said Emma, and launched into the story, leaving out the part where Ty had almost sliced off Kit Rook's head.
"So someone needs to tail Sterling," said Livvy eagerly when Emma was done. "Ty and I could do it."
"You can't drive," Emma pointed out. "And we need you here for research."
Livvy made a face. "So we get stuck here reading 'it was many and many a year ago' nine thousand times?"
"There's no reason we can't learn how to drive," said Ty, looking mulish. "Mark was saying, it's not like it matters that we're not sixteen, it's not as if we have to obey mundane laws anyway--"
"Did Mark say that?" Julian said quietly. "Fine. Mark can teach you how to drive."
Mark dropped a plate into the sink with a crash. "Julian--"
"What is it, Mark?" said Jules. "Oh, right, you don't actually know how to drive, either. And of course teaching someone to drive takes time, but you might not actually be here. Because there's no guarantee you're staying."
"That's not true," Livvy said. "We've practically solved the case--"
"But Mark has a choice." Julian was looking at his older brother over his baby brother's head. His blue-green gaze was a steady fire."Tell them, Mark. Tell them you're sure you'll choose us."
Promise them, his gaze said. Promise them you won't hurt them.
Mark said nothing.
Oh, Emma thought. She remembered what Julian had said to her outside. This was what he was afraid of: that they loved Mark too much already. He would give up the children he loved to Mark without a murmur, if it was what they wanted--if, as Ty had said, they wanted Mark to take care of them. He would give them up because he loved them, because their happiness was his, because they were his breath and blood.
But Mark was his brother too, and he loved him as well. What did you do, what could you do, when what threatened the ones you loved was something else you loved just as much?
"Julian." To everyone's surprise, it was Uncle Arthur, standing in the doorway. He cast a brief, uninterested look over the mess in the kitchen, before zeroing in on his nephew. "Julian, I need to talk to you about something. Privately."
Faint worry flickered in the back of Julian's eyes. He nodded to his uncle just as something buzzed in Emma's pocket. Her phone.
Her stomach clenched. It was only two words, not from a number but from a series of zeroes. THE CONVERGENCE.
Something had tripped the monitor at the convergence site. Her mind raced. It was nearly sunset. The convergence door would be opening--but the Mantids would be stirring as well. She needed to leave immediately to get there at the safest time.
"Did someone call you?" Julian asked, glancing over at her. He was setting down Tavvy, ruffling his hair, gently pushing him toward Dru, who was looking distinctly green.
Emma stifled a frown--wouldn't the message have gone to him, too? Or not--she remembered him saying that his phone was nearly dead, back at Johnny Rook's. And Diana was asleep. Emma realized she might well be the only person here who had received the convergence message.
"Just Cameron," she said, grabbing for the first available name she could think of. Jules's eyes shuttered; maybe he was still worried she was going to tell Cameron about Mark. He looked pale. His expression was calm, but she could feel a tense misery coming off him in waves. She thought of the way he had clung to Ty in front of Johnny Rook's house, the way he had looked at Mark. At Arthur.
Her training said she should bring Julian with her to the convergence. He was her parabatai. But she couldn't tear him away from his family right now. She just couldn't. Her mind rebelled against the thought in a way she couldn't bring herself to examine too closely.
"Cristina." Emma turned to her friend. "Can I talk to you in the hallway?"
With a worried look, Cristina followed Emma out into the corridor.
"Is this about Cameron?" Cristina said as soon as the kitchen door shut behind them. "I do not think I am up to giving any romantic advice right now--"
"I do have to go see Cameron," said Emma, her mind working quickly. She could bring Cristina with her to the convergence. Cristina was trustworthy; she wouldn't mention to anyone what they were doing. But Julian had been so clearly hurt--not just hurt, gutted--by her going to the cave alone with Mark and not telling him. And so much had strained and troubled their parabatai relationship--she couldn't do it to him again by bringing someone else with her. "But it's not that. Look, someone needs to tail Sterling. I don't think anything's going to happen with him--we're still within the window of two days--but just in case."
Cristina nodded. "I can do it. Diana left the truck; I'll take it. I need the address, though."
"Julian has it. And I'll give you a note for him."
"Good, because he'll ask," said Cristina dryly. There was a sudden terrible noise from the kitchen: the sound of Dru running across the kitchen floor and throwing up noisily into the sink.
"Oh, poor girl," said Emma. "But I mean, that thing she drank was really disgusting. . . ."
"Emma, I know that you're n
ot telling me the truth. I know you are not going to see Cameron Ashdown." Cristina held up a hand, stifling Emma's protest. "And it is all right. You would not lie to me without good reason. It's just--"
"Yes?" Emma said. She tried to keep her eyes guileless. It was better, she told herself. If Diana caught her, if she got in trouble, she'd be the only one who did: Cristina and Julian didn't deserve that. She could weather it on her own.
"Be careful," Cristina said. "Don't make me regret lying for you, Emma Carstairs."
The sun was a brilliant ball of flame out over the ocean as Emma steered the Toyota up the dirt road that led to the convergence. The sky was darkening fast. The Toyota bumped the last few yards over the field, nearly rolling into a shallow ditch before she braked and cut the engine.
She got out, reaching back inside to pull out weapons. She had left Cortana back at the Institute. It had caused her a pang, but walking out with it strapped to her back would have invited questions. At least there were seraph blades. She tucked one into her belt and thumbed her witchlight stone out of her pocket, glancing around as she did--it was oddly quiet here, with no sound of insects, small animals, or birdsong. Only the wind in the grass.
The Mantid demons. At night they probably came out and ate everything living. She shuddered and strode toward the cave. The convergence entrance was opening, a thick black line against the granite.
She glanced back once, worriedly--the sun was lower than she would have liked, dying the ocean water bloody. She'd parked as close as she could to the cave entrance so that if it was dark when she emerged, she could get to the car quickly. It was looking more and more likely that she'd have to kill some Mantids on the way, though.
As she strode toward the sheer wall of rock, the black line widened a little more, as if welcoming her. She leaned against the rock with one hand, peering into the gap. It smelled oddly of seawater.
She thought of her parents. Please let me find something, she prayed. Please let me find a clue, discover how this connects to what was done to you. Please let me avenge you.
So I can sleep at night.
Inside the gap, Emma could see the dim gleam of the rock corridor leading into the cave's heart.
Gripping her witchlight, Emma plunged into the convergence.
Night had nearly fallen--the sky was shading from blue to indigo, the first stars twinkling out above the distant mountains. Cristina sat with her legs up on the dashboard of the truck, her eyes fixed on the two-story ranch house that belonged to Casper Sterling.
The Jeep she recognized was parked in the court in front of the house, under an old-growth olive tree. A low wall ran around the property; the neighborhood, just beside Hancock Park, was full of expensive but not particularly showy houses. Sterling's was closed, shuttered and dark. The only evidence she had that he was home was the car in the driveway.
She thought of Mark, then wished she hadn't. She was doing that a lot these days--thinking of Mark and then regretting it. She had worked hard to return her life to normal after she left Mexico. No more romances with brooding and troubled men, no matter how handsome.
Mark Blackthorn wasn't brooding or troubled exactly. But Mark Blackthorn belonged to Kieran and the Wild Hunt. Mark Blackthorn had a divided heart.
He also had a soft, husky voice, startling eyes, and a habit of saying things that turned her world backward. And he was an excellent dancer, from what she'd seen. Cristina rated dancing highly. Boys who could dance well, kissed well--that was what her mother always said.
A dark shadow ran across the roof of Sterling's house.
Cristina was up and out of the car in seconds, her seraph blade in her hand. "Miguel," she whispered, and it blazed up. She was heavily glamoured enough that she knew no mundane could see her, but the blade provided precious light.
She moved forward carefully, her heart pounding. She remembered what Emma had told her about the night Julian had been shot: the shadow on the roof, the man in black. She eased up to the house itself. The windows were dark, the curtains motionless. Everything was still and silent.
She moved toward the Jeep. She slipped her stele out of her pocket just as a shape dropped to the ground beside her with an oomph. Cristina leaped out of the way as the shadow unfolded; it was Sterling, dressed in what Cristina imagined mundanes thought gear looked like. Black pants, black boots, a tailored black jacket.
He stared at her, and his face turned slowly purple. "You," he snarled.
"I can help you," Cristina said, keeping her voice and her blade steady. "Please let me help you."
The hatred in his eyes startled her. "Get away," he hissed, and yanked something out of his pocket.
A gun. A handgun, small caliber, but enough to make Cristina step back. Guns were something that rarely entered Shadowhunter life; they belonged to mundanes, to their world of ordinary human crime.
But they could still spill Shadowhunter blood and split Shadowhunter bones. He backed away, pointing the gun at her, until he reached the end of his driveway. Then he turned and ran.
Cristina bolted after him, but by the time she'd reached the end of the driveway, he was disappearing around the corner of the street. Apparently he hadn't exaggerated--weres really were faster than humans. Faster, even, than Shadowhunters.
Cristina muttered a mild curse and trudged back to the Jeep. She drew her stele from her belt with her free hand and, crouching down, carefully marked a small tracking rune into the side of the vehicle, just above the wheel.
It wasn't a total disaster, she thought, trudging back to the truck. As Emma had said, they were still within the two-day window before the "hunt" began. And having put a tracking rune on Sterling's car was sure to help. If they just stayed away from his house, let him think they'd given up, hopefully he'd get careless and start driving.
Only when she climbed into the truck and slammed the door behind her did she see that her phone was flashing. She'd missed a call. She picked it up and her heart fell into her stomach.
Diego Rocio Rosales.
She dropped the phone as if it had turned into a scorpion. Why, why, why would Diego call her? She'd told him never to speak to her again.
Her hand stole to the charm at her throat and she clutched it, her lips moving in a silent prayer. Give me the strength not to call him back.
"Are you feeling better, Uncle?" Julian said.
Arthur, slumped behind the desk in his office, looked up with faded, distant eyes.
"Julian," he said. "I need to talk to you."
"I know. You said." Julian leaned back against a wall. "Do you remember what it was about?"
He felt exhausted, scraped out, hollow as a dry bone. He knew he should regret what he'd said in the kitchen about Mark. He knew he should be sympathetic to his uncle. But he couldn't dredge up the emotion.
He didn't really remember leaving the kitchen: He recalled handing Tavvy off, as much as you could hand off a sugarcoated seven-year-old; he recalled them all promising they would clean up their dinner of cheese and chocolate and brownies and burned things. Even Dru, once she'd stopped throwing up into the sink, had sworn she'd scrub the floor and get the ketchup off the windows.
Not that Julian had realized until that moment that there was ketchup on the windows.
He'd nodded and gone to leave the room, and then stopped to look around for Emma. But at some point Emma had left with Cristina. Presumably they were somewhere talking about Cameron Ashdown. And there was nothing Julian wanted less than to join in on that.
He didn't know when that had happened, that the thought of Cameron made him not want to see Emma. His Emma. You always wanted to see your parabatai. They were the most welcome face in the world to you. There was a wrongness about not wanting it, as if the earth had suddenly started spinning in the other direction.
"I don't think I do," Arthur said after a moment. "There was something I wanted to help with. Something about the investigation. You are still investigating, aren't you?"
"The
murders? The ones the faerie convoy came to us about? Yes."
"I think it was about the poem," Arthur said. "The one Livia was reciting in the kitchen." He rubbed at his eyes, obviously tired. "I was passing by and I heard it."
"The poem?" Julian echoed, confused. "'Annabel Lee'?"
Arthur spoke in his deep, rumbling voice, sounding out the lines of poetry as if they were the lines of a spell.
"But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we--
Of many far wiser than we--
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee--"
"I know the poem," Julian interrupted. "But I don't--"
"'Those who were older,'" Arthur said. "I've heard the phrase before. In London. I can't remember what it was in connection with." He picked up a pen from the desk, tapped it against the wood. "I'm sorry. I just--I can't remember."
"Those Who Are Older," murmured Julian. He remembered Belinda, back at the theater, smiling with her blood-red lips. May Those Who Are Older grant us all good fortune, she'd said.
An idea bloomed in the back of Julian's mind, but, elusive, disappeared when he tried to chase it.
He needed to go to his studio. He wanted to be alone, and painting would unlock his thoughts. He turned to go and only paused when Uncle Arthur's voice cut through the dusty air.
"Did I help you, boy?" he said.
"Yes," said Julian. "You helped."
When Cristina returned to the Institute, it was dark and silent. The entryway lights were off, and only a few windows glowed--Julian's studio, the bright spot of the attic, the square that was the kitchen.
Frowning, Cristina went directly there, wondering if Emma had returned yet from her mysterious errand. If the others had managed to clean up the mess they'd made.
At first glance the kitchen seemed deserted, only a single light on. Dishes were piled in the sink, and though someone had clearly scrubbed the walls and counters, there was still food crusted onto the stove, and two large trash bags, stuffed full and half-spilling their contents, propped against the wall.
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