Lord of Shadows

by Cassandra Clare

  Mark sat on the edge of his bed, examining his wrist. The wound that wrapped it appeared darker, crusted with blood at the edges, and the bruises that radiated out from it shaded from deep red to purple.

  "Let me bandage it," Kieran said. He sat on the nightstand, his feet half pulled up under him. His hair was tangled and he was barefoot. It looked as if a wild creature had alighted on some piece of civilization: a hawk balancing on the head of a statue. "At least let me do that for you."

  "Bandaging it won't help," Mark said. "Like Magnus said--it won't heal until the spell's off."

  "Then do it for me. I cannot bear looking at it."

  Mark looked at Kieran in surprise. In the Wild Hunt, they had seen their fair share of injuries and blood, and Kieran had never been squeamish.

  "There are bandages in there." Mark indicated the drawer of the nightstand. He watched as Kieran hopped down and retrieved what he needed, then returned to the bed and to him.

  Kieran sat down and took Mark's wrist. His hands were clever and capable, blunt-nailed, calloused from years of fighting and riding. (Cristina's hands were calloused, too, but her wrists and fingertips were smooth and soft. Mark remembered the feel of them against his cheek in the faerie grove.)

  "You are so distant, Mark," Kieran said. "Further from me now than you were when I was in Faerie and you were in the human world."

  Mark looked steadfastly at his wrist, now wrapped in a bracelet of bandage. Kieran tied the knot expertly and set the box aside. "You can't stay here forever, Kier," Mark said. "And when you go, we will be separated. I can't not think about that."

  Kieran gave a soft, impatient noise and flopped down on the bed, among the sheets. The blankets were already flung onto the floor. With his black hair tangled against the white linen, his body sprawled out with no regard for human modesty--his shirt had ridden up to the bottom of his rib cage, and his legs were flung wide apart--Kieran looked even more of a wild creature. "Come with me, then," he said. "Stay with me. I saw the look on your face when you saw the horses of the Hunt. You would do anything to ride again."

  Suddenly furious, Mark leaned down over him. "Not anything," he said. His voice throbbed with low anger.

  Kieran gave a slight hiss. He caught at Mark's shirt. "There," he said. "Be angry with me, Mark Blackthorn. Shout at me. Feel something."

  Mark stayed where he was, frozen, just above Kieran. "You think I don't feel?" he said, incredulously.

  Something flickered in Kieran's eyes. "Put your hands on me," he said, and Mark did, feeling helpless to stop himself. Kieran clutched at the sheets as Mark touched him, pulling at his shirt, snapping the buttons. He moved his hands over Kieran's body, as he had done on countless nights before, and a slow flame began in his own chest, the memory of desire becoming the immediate present.

  It burned in him: a lambent, sorrowful heat, like a signal fire on a distant hill. Kieran's shirt came up and over his head and his arms were tangled in it, so he reached for Mark with his legs, pulling him in, holding him with his knees. Kieran lifted up his mouth to Mark's, and he tasted like the sweet ice of polar expanses under skies streaked with the northern lights. Mark couldn't stop his hands: The shape of Kieran's shoulder was like the rise of hills, his hair soft and dark as clouds; his eyes were stars and his body moved under Mark's like the rush of a waterfall no human eye had ever seen. He was starlight and strangeness and freedom. He was a hundred arrows loosed from a hundred bows at the same time.

  And Mark was lost; he was falling through dark skies, silvered with the diamond dust of stars. He was tangling his legs with Kieran's, his hands were in Kieran's hair, they were hurtling through mist over green pastures, they were riding a fire-shod horse over deserts where sand rose up in clouds of gold. He cried out, and then Kieran was rushing away from him as if he had been lifted up off the bed--it was all rushing away, and Mark opened his eyes and he was in the library.

  He had fallen asleep, head on his arms, face against the wood of the table. He bolted upright with a gasp and saw Kieran, sitting in the embrasure of the windowsill, looking at him.

  The library was otherwise empty, thank the Angel. No one was there except them.

  Mark's hand was throbbing. He must have struck it against the edge of the table; the sides of his fingers were already starting to swell.

  "A pity," said Kieran, looking at Mark's hand thoughtfully. "Or you wouldn't have woken up."

  "Where is everyone?" Mark said. He swallowed against the dryness in his throat.

  "Some have gone to find ingredients to dissolve the binding spell," said Kieran. "The children became restive, and Cristina went with them and Magnus's lover."

  "You mean Alec," said Mark. "His name is Alec."

  Kieran shrugged. "As for Magnus, he went to something called an Internet cafe to make printings of Emma and Julian's messages. We were left to do research, but you promptly fell asleep."

  Mark chewed his lower lip. His body could still feel Kieran's, though he knew Kieran hadn't touched him. He knew it, but he had to ask anyway, despite dreading the answer. "And you made me dream," he said.

  It wasn't the first time Kieran had ever done that: He had given Mark pleasant dreams a few times when he could not sleep during the nights of the Hunt. It was a faerie gift.

  But this was different.

  "Yes," Kieran said. There were white threads in his dark hair, like lines of ore running through a mine shaft.

  "Why?" Mark said. Anger was gathering in his veins. He felt it like a pressure in his chest. They'd had terrific fights while they were in the Hunt. The screaming sort you had when everything in the world seemed to be at stake because the other person was all you had. Mark remembered pushing Kieran partway down a glacier and then flinging himself after: catching him as they both rolled into a snowbank, gripping each other in the cold with wet, frozen fingers that slipped and slid on their skin.

  The problem was that fights with Kieran usually led to kissing, and that, Mark felt, was not helpful. It probably wasn't all that healthy, either.

  "Because you are not truthful with me. Your heart is closed and shrouded. I cannot see it," Kieran said. "I thought, in dreams, perhaps . . ."

  "You think I'm lying to you?" Mark felt his heart give a thump of dread.

  "I think you are lying to yourself," said Kieran. "You were not born for this life, of politics and plots and lies. Your brother is. Julian thrives at it. But you do not wish to make these kinds of bargains, where you ruin your soul to serve a greater good. You are kinder than that."

  Mark let his head fall against the chair back. If only he could tell himself Kieran was wrong, but he wasn't. Mark loathed himself every moment of every day for lying to Kieran, even if the lie was in a good cause.

  Kieran said, "Your brother would burn the world if it saved his family. Some are like that. But you are not."

  "I understand you cannot believe this matters to me as much as it does, Kieran," Mark said. "But it is the truth."

  "Remember," Kieran whispered. Even now, in the mundane world, there was something proud and arrogant about Kieran's gestures, his voice. Despite the jeans Mark had lent him, he looked as if he should be at the head of a faerie army, flinging out his arm in sweeping command. "Remember that none of it is real."

  And Mark did remember. He remembered a note written on parchment, wrapped in the shell of an acorn. The first message Kieran had sent him after he'd left the Hunt.

  "It is real to me," Mark said. "All of this is real to me." He leaned forward. "I need to know you are here in this with me, Kieran."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means no more anger," said Mark. "It means no more sending me dreams. I needed you for so long, Kieran. I needed you so much, and that kind of need, it bends you and warps you. It makes you desperate. It makes you not choose."

  Kieran had frozen. "You're saying you didn't choose me?"

  "I'm saying the Wild Hunt chose us. I'm saying if you are finding strangeness in me, and dis
tance, it is because I cannot help but ask myself, over and over: In another world, in another situation, would we still have chosen each other?" He looked hard at the other boy. "You are a gentry prince. And I am half-Nephilim, worse than the lowest chaff, tainted in blood and lineage."

  "Mark."

  "I am saying the choices we make in captivity are not always the choices we make in freedom. And thus we question them. We cannot help it."

  "It is different for me," said Kieran. "After this, I return to the Hunt. You are the one with freedom."

  "I will not let you be forced back into the Hunt if you do not wish it."

  Kieran's eyes softened. In that moment, Mark thought he would have promised him anything, no matter how rash.

  "I would like us both to have freedom," Mark said. "To laugh, to enjoy ourselves together, to love in the ordinary way. You are free here with me, and perhaps we could take that chance, that time."

  "Very well," Kieran said, after a long pause. "I will stay with you. And I will help you with your dull books." He smiled. "I am in this with you, Mark, if that is how we will learn what we mean to each other."

  "Thank you," Mark said. Kieran, like most faeries, had no use for "you're welcome"; instead he slid off the windowsill and went in search of a book on the shelves. Mark stared after him. He had said nothing to Kieran that was not true, and yet he felt as leaden inside as if every word he had spoken was a lie.

  *

  The sky over London was cloudless and blue and beautiful. The water of the Thames, parting on either side of the boat, was almost blue. Sort of the color of tea, Kit thought, if you put blue ink into it.

  The place they were going--Ty had the address--was on Gill Street, Magnus had explained, in Limehouse. "Used to be a terrible neighborhood," he said. "Full of opium dens and gambling houses. God, it was fun back then."

  Mark had looked immediately panicked.

  "Don't worry," Magnus had added. "It's very dull now. All fancy condos and gastropubs. Very safe."

  Julian would have forbidden this excursion, Kit was fairly sure. But Mark hadn't hesitated--he seemed, far more than his brother, to regard Livvy and Ty as adult Shadowhunters who were simply expected to work like the others.

  It was Ty who had hesitated for a moment, looking worriedly at his sister. Livvy seemed absolutely fine now--they were on the top level of the boat, open to the air, and she was raising her face into the wind with unabashed pleasure, letting it lift her hair and whip it around.

  Ty was watching everything around them with that absorbed fascination of his, as if he were memorizing every building, every street. His fingers drummed a tattoo on the metal railing, but Kit didn't think that indicated anxiety. He'd noticed that Ty's gestures didn't always correspond to a bad mood. Sometimes they corresponded to a good one: If he was feeling relaxed, he'd watch his own fingers make lazy patterns against the air, the way a meteorologist might watch the movement of clouds.

  "If I became a Shadowhunter," Kit said, to neither of the twins specifically, "would I have to do a lot of homework? Or could I just, sort of, start doing it?"

  Livvy's eyes sparkled. "You are doing it."

  "Yes, but this is a state of emergency," said Ty. "He's right--he'd have to catch up on some classes. It's not as if you're as ignorant as a mundane would be," he added to Kit, "but there are some things you'd probably need to learn--classes of demons, languages, that sort of thing."

  Kit made a face. "I was really hoping I could learn on the job."

  Livvy laughed. "You could always go in front of the Council and make a case for it."

  "The Council?" said Kit. "How are they different from the Clave?"

  Livvy laughed harder.

  "I can see how your case might not be successful," said Ty. "Though I suppose we could tutor you a bit."

  "A bit?" said Kit.

  Ty smiled his rare, dazzling smile. "A bit. I do have important things to do."

  Kit thought of Ty on the roof the night before, how desperate he had seemed. He was back to his old self now, as if Livvy's restoration had restored him, too. He rested his elbows on the rail as the boat chugged past an imposing fortress-like building that loomed over the riverbank.

  "The Tower of London," said Livvy, noticing Kit's gaze.

  "The stories say that six ravens must always guard the Tower," said Ty, "or the monarchy will fall."

  "All the stories are true," said Livvy in a soft voice, and a chill went up Kit's spine.

  Ty turned his head. "Wasn't it a raven that carried Annabel and Malcolm's messages?" he said. "I think that was in Emma and Julian's notes."

  "Seems unreliable," said Kit. "What if the raven got bored, or distracted, or met a hot falcon on the way?"

  "Or was intercepted by faeries," said Livvy.

  "Not all faeries are bad," said Ty.

  "Some faeries are good, some are bad, like anyone," said Kit. "But that might be too complicated for the Clave."

  "It's too complicated for most people," Ty said.

  From anyone else, Kit would have thought that the comment was meant to be reproving. Ty, though, probably just meant it. Which was oddly pleasant to know.

  "I don't like what we've been hearing from Diana," said Livvy. "About how Zara's claiming she killed Malcolm."

  "My dad used to say that a big lie was often easier to carry off than a small one," said Kit.

  "Well, hopefully he was wrong," said Livvy, a little sharply. "I can't stand the idea that anyone thinks Zara and people like her are heroes. Even if they don't know she's lying about Malcolm, the Cohort's plans are despicable."

  "It's too bad none of you can just tell the Clave what Julian saw happen in the scrying glass," said Kit.

  "If they knew he'd gone to Faerie, he could be exiled," said Livvy, and there was an edge of real fear in her voice. "Or have his Marks stripped."

  "I could pretend I'm the one who saw it--it matters a lot less if I get tossed out of the Nephilim," Kit said.

  Kit had meant to lighten the mood with an obvious joke, but the twins looked rattled. "Don't you want to stay?" Ty's question was direct and sharp as a knife.

  Kit had no answer. There was a clamor of voices, and the boat jerked to a halt. It had docked at Limehouse, and the three of them hurried to get off--they were unglamoured, and as they pushed past several mundanes to get to the exit, Kit heard one of them mutter about kids getting tattooed way too young these days.

  Ty had made a face at all the noise, and had his headphones on as they wove through the streets. The air smelled like river water, but Magnus had been right--the docks vanished quickly, replaced by winding roads full of massive old factory buildings that had been turned into lofts.

  Ty had the map, and Livvy and Kit walked a little behind him, Livvy with her hand casually at her waist, where her weapons belt was hidden by her jacket. "He uses the headphones less when you're around," she said, her eyes on her brother, though her words were for Kit.

  "Is that good?" Kit was surprised.

  Livvy shrugged. "It isn't good or bad. It's just something I noticed. It's not magic or anything." She glanced sideways at him. "I think he just doesn't want to miss anything you say."

  Kit felt an odd stab of emotion go through him. It surprised him. He glanced sideways at Livvy. Since they'd left Los Angeles, she'd done nothing to indicate she wanted to repeat their one kiss. And Kit had found that he didn't either. Not that he didn't like Livvy, or find her pretty. But something seemed off about it now--as if it were somehow wrong.

  Maybe it was the fact that he didn't know if he wanted to be a Shadowhunter at all.

  "We're here." Ty had shoved his headphones down, the white band of them stark against his black hair. He alone among all the current Blackthorns had hair like that, though Kit had seen pictures in the Institute of their ancestors, some with the same dark hair and silver-gray eyes. "This should be illuminating. Shops like this have to abide by the Accords, unlike the Shadow Market, but they're also run by specia
lists." Ty looked enormously happy at the thought of all that specialized knowledge.

  They had passed the wider thoroughfare of Narrow Street and were now on what was presumably Gill Street, across from a single open shop. It had dimly lit windows and the owner's name spelled out in brass letters over the door. PROPRIETOR: F. SALLOWS. There was no description of what kind of shop it was, but Kit supposed that those who shopped there knew what they were shopping for.

  Ty was already across the street, opening the door. Livvy hurried after him. Kit was last--cautious and a little less than eager. He had grown up around magic-sellers and their patrons, and was wary of both.

  The inside of the shop didn't offer much reason to improve his views. The frosted windows let in glare but not light. It was clean at least, with long shelves lined with some things he'd seen before--dragon's teeth, holy water, blessed nails, enchanted beauty powders, luck charms--and quite a few he hadn't. Clocks that ran backward, though he had no idea why. The wire-jointed skeletons of animals he'd never seen before. Shark teeth too big to belong to any shark on earth. Jar after jar of butterfly wings in explosive colors of hot pink, neon yellow, and lime green. Bottles of blue water whose surfaces rippled like tiny seas.

  There was a dusty copper bell on the front counter. Livvy picked it up and rang it, while Ty studied the maps on the walls. The one he was staring at was marked with names Kit had never seen before--the Thorn Mountains, Hollow Town, the Shattered Forest.

  "Faerie," Ty said in an unusually subdued voice. "Hard to get maps of it, since the geography tends to change, but I looked at quite a few when Mark was missing."

  The tap-tap of heels on the floor announced the arrival of the shopkeeper. To Kit's surprise, she was familiar--dark-skinned and bronze-haired, dressed today in a plain black sheath dress. Hypatia Vex.

  "Nephilim," she said with a sigh. "I hate Nephilim."

  "I take it this isn't one of those places where the customer is always right," Livvy said.

  "You're not Sallows," said Ty. "You're Hypatia Vex. We met you yesterday."

  "Sallows died years ago," said Hypatia. "Killed by Nephilim, as it happens."

  Awkward, Kit thought.

  "We have a list of things we need." Livvy pushed a paper across the counter. "For Magnus Bane."

  Hypatia raised an eyebrow. "Ah, Bane, your great defender. What a pest that man is." She took the paper. "Some of these will take at least a day to prepare. Can you come back tomorrow?"