Cortana met no resistance. It slid through the creature's shoulder; blood splashed onto Emma's wrist and forearm. Slimy, clotted, foul blood. She gagged as the thing spun like a tornado, whipping out at her with its glassine claw. They twirled across the floor of the church in a sort of dance, Cortana flashing and gleaming. It was impossible to wound the thing--hacking and slashing at it only opened up a temporary gap, like a dent in water, that closed up immediately.
She didn't dare take her eyes off the demon long enough to look around for Julian. She knew he was there, but he felt farther away, as if he'd gone to the other side of the church. She couldn't see the distant, flashing star of his seraph blade, either. Jules, she thought. A little help now would be good.
With a frustrated growl, the demon charged again. Emma swung, an overhead two-fisted slash, and the demon howled; she'd smashed a few of its teeth in. A sharp pain lanced up her arm. She twisted the sword, grinding it into the demon's head, breathing in the pleasure of its screams.
Light exploded into the world. She staggered back, her eyes burning. A square was opening in the roof above, like the sunroof of a car peeling back. She saw a shadow against the sun; Julian, perched on one of the church's highest rafters, and then the sunlight speared down through the gap and the demon began to burn.
It shrieked as it burned. Its edges blackening, it staggered back. The room stank of boiling blood. Julian dropped from the rafters, landing on the altar: His stele was in one hand, his seraph blade in the other.
She held out her free hand, the one that wasn't clasping Cortana, toward him. He knew what she wanted, without asking. The seraph blade arced through the air toward her like a firework. Emma caught it, spun, and drove the blade into the weakened, burning demon.
With a last shriek, it vanished.
The silence that came after was stunning. Emma gasped, her ears ringing, and turned to Jules. "That was awesome--"
Jules flung himself down from the altar, grabbing the ichor-smeared seraph blade out of her hand. It was already starting to warp out of shape, choked with demon blood. He hurled it aside and grabbed Emma's hand, flipping it over so he could see the long scratch that ran from the back of her palm up her forearm.
He was stark white. "What happened? Did it bite you?"
"Not exactly. I sliced myself on its teeth."
He ran his fingers up her arm. She winced. It was a long and narrow cut, but not shallow. "It doesn't burn? Or sting?"
"I'm fine," she said. "Jules. I'm fine."
He stared at her for a moment. His eyes were fierce and tearless in the harsh light from above. He turned away without another word and stalked down the aisle of the church, toward the doors.
Emma looked down at her hand. Her wound was quite ordinary, she thought; it would need to be cleaned, but it wasn't anything out of the usual in terms of injuries sustained in battle. She slid Cortana back into its sheath and followed Julian out of the church.
For a moment, she didn't see him at all. It was as if he'd vanished, and all that was left was the view from the church. Green fields fading away into a wash of blue: blue sea, blue sky, the blue haze of distant hills.
She heard a cry, thin and faint, and ran toward it, toward the graveyard where headstones thinned and faded by time tilted back and forth like a pack of scattered playing cards.
There was a loud squeak. "Let me go! Let me go!" Emma spun around and saw the grass moving; the smallest piskie was wriggling madly, pinned to the ground by Jules, whose bleakly cold expression sent a shiver through Emma.
"You locked us in with that thing," Julian said, his arm across the piskie's throat. "Didn't you?"
"Didn't know it was there! Didn't know!" squeaked the piskie, twisting under Julian's hold.
"What's the difference?" Emma protested. "Julian. Don't--"
"Necromancy happened in that church. It tore open a hole between dimensions that let a demon through. It could have ripped us to shreds."
"Didn't know!" the piskie whined.
"Who didn't know?" Julian demanded. "Because I'll bet anything you did."
The piskie went limp, boneless. Julian pinned it with a knee. "The lady said to tell you to go there. She said you were dangerous. Would kill faeries."
"I might now," said Julian.
"It's all right, Jules," Emma said. She knew the piskie wasn't the innocent, childlike creature it appeared to be. But something about seeing it twist and whimper made her feel sick.
"It's not all right. You were hurt," Julian said, and the cold tone in his voice made her remember the look on his face when Anselm Nightshade was led away. Julian, you scared me a little, she'd said at the time.
But then, Nightshade had been guilty. Clary had said so.
"Leave him alone!" It was another one of the piskies, wavering palely in the grass. A female piskie, judging from clothes and hair length. She waved her hands ineffectually at Julian. "He doesn't know anything!"
Julian didn't move. He stared icily down at the faerie. He looked like a statue of an avenging angel, something blank and pitiless.
"Don't come near us again," he said. "Speak of this to no one. Or we will find you, and I will make you pay."
The piskie nodded jerkily. Julian stood up, and the piskies vanished as if the ground had swallowed them up.
"Did you have to scare them so much?" Emma said, a little hesitantly. Julian still had that frighteningly blank expression on his face, as if his body was here but his mind was a million miles away.
"Better scared than making trouble." Julian turned to her. A little of the color was coming back to his skin. "You need an iratze."
"It's all right. It doesn't hurt that much, and besides, I want to clean it first." Iratzes could heal skin over any wound, but sometimes that meant sealing in infection or dirt.
Concern flickered in his eyes. "Then we should go back to the cottage. But first, I need your help with something."
Emma thought of the broken altar, the spilled blood, and groaned. "Don't say cleaning up."
"We're not going to clean the church up," said Julian. "We're going to burn it down."
*
Whoever was holding Cristina was strong, stronger than a mundane human.
"Now step forward, and do as I say," said the voice behind her, breathless but low and confident. She found herself shoved ahead into the center of the park. She was hauled toward the fountain, and the two faeries standing there. Both of them stared--Kieran at her, his brother a little above her head.
"Erec," Adaon said, sounding weary. "What are you doing here?"
"I followed you." Erec's voice echoed behind Cristina. She remembered him with a flare of hate, remembered him in Faerie, Julian's knife against his throat as his was against her own now. "I was curious as to your purpose here. And I wanted to see our little brother, too."
"Let her go," Kieran said, with a gesture toward Cristina. He didn't meet her eyes. "She's nothing to do with this. Just a Shadowhunter spying without my knowledge."
"You said she's nothing to do with you," Erec sneered. "Not that you don't care." Hot silver pain flashed at Cristina's throat. She felt the warmth of blood. She stiffened her spine, refusing to flinch.
"Leave her be." Kieran's face was a pale mask of rage. "Do you want the Nephilim after you, Erec? Are you a fool? I know you're a torturer--you used to torture me." He took a step toward Cristina and Erec. "Do you remember? You made these." He shoved his loose black sleeves up, and Cristina saw the long scars on his arms. "And the ones on my back."
"You were a soft child," said Erec. "Too soft to be the son of a King. Kindness has no place in the court of a broken crown." He chuckled. "Besides, I come with news. Father has sent the Seven."
Kieran paled even further. "Mannan's Seven? Sent them where?"
"Here. To the mundane world. They are tasked to retrieve the Black Volume, now that the death of Malcolm Fade is known. They will find it, and before you do."
"The Black Volume is nothing to do w
ith me," said Kieran.
"But it is to do with our father," said Adaon. "He has wanted it since the First Heir was stolen."
"Longer than he has hated the Nephilim?" Kieran said.
Erec spat. "Those Nephilim you love so. They are a doomed race. You are wasting yourself, Kieran, when you could be much more."
"Let him be, Erec," Adaon said. "What do you imagine Father would do if Kieran came home, besides kill him?"
"If Father was still alive to kill anyone."
"Enough scheming!" roared Adaon. "Enough, Erec!"
"Then let him prove he's loyal!" Erec removed the knife from Cristina's throat with a sudden gesture; she spluttered and coughed. Her wrist was searing pain and Erec's hands were iron bands around her upper arms. He shoved her forward, toward his brothers, without releasing his grip. "Kill the Shadowhunter," he shouted at Kieran. "Adaon, give him your blade. Run it through her heart, Kieran. Show you are loyal and I will intercede for you with Father. You can be welcomed back at Court instead of killed or exiled to the Hunt."
Adaon put his hand to his side, to sieze his sword, but Kieran had already seized it. Cristina struggled, kicking out, but she couldn't dislodge Erec's grip. Terror rose up in her as Kieran came toward them both, the faerie sword glimmering in his hand, his eyes flat as mirrors.
Cristina began to pray. Angel, keep me safe. Raziel, help me. She kept her eyes open. She wouldn't close them. That was a coward's way to die. If the Angel wanted her to die now, she'd die on her feet with her eyes open like Jonathan Shadowhunter. She would--
Kieran's eyes flickered, minutely, his head tilting. She followed the movement, suddenly understanding, as he lifted the sword in his hand. He swung it forward--and she ducked her head.
The sword sliced through the air cleanly above her. Something hot and wet and copper-smelling spilled across her back. She cried out, pivoting away as Erec's arms released her, his throat severed to the spine, his body crumpling to the pebbled path.
"Kieran," Adaon breathed in horror. Kieran stood over Erec's body, the blood-smeared sword in his hand. "What have you done?"
"He would have killed her," Kieran said. "And she is my--and Mark--"
Cristina caught at the fountain to hold herself up. Her legs felt numb. The pain in her arm was fire.
Adaon strode forward and snatched the sword from Kieran's hand. "Iarlath was not your blood," he said. His skin looked tight with shock. "But Erec was. You will be denounced a kin-slayer if anyone discovers what you have done."
Kieran raised his head. His eyes burned into his brother's. "Will you tell them?"
Adaon jerked the hood up over his face. Wind had begun to blow through the square--a cold, sharp squall of it. Adaon's cloak flapped like wings. "Go, Kieran. Seek the safety of the Institute."
Adaon bent over Erec's body. It was twisted at a violent angle, blood running among the pebbles and grass. As he knelt, Kieran started to walk out of the park--and stopped.
Slowly, he turned back and looked at Cristina. "Aren't you coming?"
"Yes." She was surprised at the steadiness of her own voice, but her body betrayed her--when she stood upright, agony shot through her arm, down into her side, and she doubled over, gasping.
A moment later there were hands on her, none too gentle, and she felt herself lifted off the ground. She started in surprise--Kieran had picked her up and was carrying her from the park.
She let her arms dangle, not knowing what else to do. She was speechless. Despite the dancing the night before, it was bizarre to be held by Kieran like this. Mark had been there, then--and now they were alone.
"Do not be foolish," said Kieran. "Put your arms around me. I do not want to drop you and then have to explain matters to Mark."
He would have killed her. And she is my--and Mark--
She wondered what he'd meant to say. Mark would have been angry? Mark would have been disappointed? She is my friend?
No, he couldn't have meant that. Kieran didn't like her. She was sure of it. And maybe that hadn't been what he'd said at all. Her memories were becoming blurred with pain.
They were passing down a street whose lights seemed to change from gas to electric as they went. Illumination blinked on in windows overhead. Cristina raised her arms and put them around Kieran's neck. She laced her fingers together, biting her lip against the pain of the binding spell.
Kieran's hair tickled her fingers. It was soft, surprisingly so. His skin was incredibly fine-grained, more so than any human's, like the surface of polished porcelain. She remembered Mark kissing Kieran against a tree in the desert, hands on his hair, pushing the neck of his sweater down to get at his skin, his bones, his body. She blushed.
"Why did you follow me?" Kieran said stiffly.
"I saw you through the library window," said Cristina. "I thought you were running away."
"I went to see Adaon, as I promised I would, that is all. Besides"-- he laughed shortly--"where have I to go?"
"People often run even when they have nowhere to go," said Cristina. "It is all about what you can bear in the place where you are."
There was a long silence, long enough that Cristina assumed Kieran wasn't planning to answer. Then he spoke. "I have the sense," he said, "that I have done Mark some kind of wrong. I do not know what it was. But I see it in his eyes when he looks at me. He thinks he is hiding it, but he is not. Though he can lie with his mouth, he has never learned to conceal the truth in his eyes."
"You'll have to ask Mark," said Cristina. They had reached the street that led to the Institute. Cristina could see the spire of it rising in the distance. "When Adaon said that if you became King, you'd have to give up Mark, what did he mean?"
"A King of Faerie can have no human consort." He looked down at her with his eyes like stars. "Mark lies about you. But I have seen the way he looks at you. Last night, when we danced. He more than desires you."
"Do--do you mind?" Cristina said.
"I do not mind you," said Kieran. "I thought I would, but I do not. It is something about you. You are beautiful, and you are kind, and you are--good. I do not know why that should make a difference. But it does."
He sounded almost surprised. Cristina said nothing. Her blood was getting on Kieran's shirt. It was a surreal sight. His body was warm, not cold as marble as she'd always imagined. He smelled faintly of night and woods, a clean smell untouched by the city.
"Mark needs kindness," Kieran said, after a long pause. "And so do I."
They'd reached the Institute, and Kieran went quickly up the stairs--and paused at the top. His arms tautened around her.
Cristina looked at him, puzzled. Then the light dawned. "You can't open the door," she said. "You're not a Shadowhunter."
"That is the case." Kieran blinked at the doors as if they'd surprised him.
"What if you'd come back without me?" Cristina had the most bizarre urge to laugh, though nothing that had happened had been funny, and Erec's blood still stiffened the back of her clothes. She wondered how many times she'd have to shower before she felt even a little clean. "I really would have imagined you'd thought further ahead."
"I seem to have absorbed some of your human impulsiveness," Kieran said.
He sounded shocked at himself. Taking pity on him, Cristina began to unknot her fingers from around his neck.
She reached for the door, but it swung inward. Light blazed out of the entryway, and on the threshold stood Mark, staring from one of them to the other in astonishment.
"Where were you?" he demanded. "By the Angel--Kieran, Cristina--" He reached out as if to take her from Kieran's arms.
"It's all right," Cristina said. "I can stand."
Kieran gently lowered her to the ground. The pain in her arm was already beginning to fade, though looking at Mark's wrist--red, puffy, ringed with blood--filled her with guilt. It was so hard to believe, even now, that the pain she felt was his pain too; her bleeding, his bleeding.
Mark drew his hand down her sleeve, already h
ardening as Erec's blood dried. "All this blood--it's not just your wrist--and why would you go out, either of you--?"
"It is not her blood," said Kieran. "It is my brother's."
They were all in the entryway now. Kieran reached behind him and deliberately shut the massive front doors with a loud clang. Above them, Cristina could hear footsteps, someone hurrying downstairs.
"Your brother's?" Mark echoed. Against Kieran's dark clothes the blood hadn't been very visible, but Mark seemed to look more closely now and see the thin spatters of scarlet against Kieran's neck and cheek. "You mean--Adaon?"
Kieran looked dazed. "I went to meet him, to speak of the binding spell and of his possible accession to the throne."
"And blood was spilled? But why?" Mark touched Kieran's cheek gently. "If we had known there might be a fight, we never would have suggested you talk to him on our behalf. And why did you go alone? Why did you not tell me, or bring me with you?"
Kieran closed his eyes for just a moment, turning his cheek into the cup of Mark's palm. "I did not want to risk you," he said in a low voice.
Mark met Cristina's eyes, over Kieran's shoulder. "It wasn't Adaon who wanted a fight," she said, rubbing her wrist. "It was Erec."
Kieran opened his eyes, gently drawing Mark's hand away from his face, lacing his fingers through Mark's as he did. "He must have followed Adaon to our meeting place," he said. "I never even had the chance to tell Adaon of our plans for him, and the throne." His eyes darkened. "Mark, there is something you must know--"
Magnus burst into the vestibule, Alec behind him. They were both out of breath. "What's going on?" Alec asked.
"Where are the children?" Kieran said. "The little ones, and the blue child with the small horns?"
Alec blinked. "Bridget's watching them," he said. "Why?"
"I will explain in more detail when I can," said Kieran. "For now, you must know this. The King my father has sent the Seven Riders to find the Black Volume, and they are here in London. I imagine he believes the location of the Black Volume is known by those in this Institute. The danger is great. We are safe within these walls for now, but--"
Mark had gone white. "But Livvy and Ty aren't within these walls," he said. "They went with Kit to get the ingredients for the binding spell. They're somewhere in the city."
There was a babble of voices, Alec snapping out a question, Magnus gesturing. But the pain and shock--not just hers, but Mark's--was graying out Cristina's vision, however much she tried to cling onto consciousness. She tried to say something but the words disappeared, everything sliding up and away from her as she tumbled into the shadows.
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