There was no lock on the door. All Diego could do was kick it shut before flopping back down on his bed. He stared at the ceiling again, but this time it provided no distraction.
6
FROM A PROUD TOWER
Emma awoke with a pounding headache to a knocking on her bedroom door. She’d fallen asleep on the floor in all her clothes; her hair was damp, sticking to her cheeks. She felt, and suspected she looked, like a shipwreck.
“Come in,” she called, and the door swung open. It was Julian.
She sat up. For a moment they simply stared at each other. Emma felt cold all over; he would notice her blotchy face, her rumpled clothes. Even if he didn’t love her, he would feel—
“You’d better get dressed and cleaned up,” he said. He wore jeans and a blue sweater and looked as if he’d slept fine. He looked good, even. Like a handsome stranger, someone she didn’t know.
There was nothing harsh in his voice, just a calm pragmatism. She hadn’t needed to worry he’d feel pity for her, she realized, or even guilt; he didn’t feel anything at all.
“Dane Larkspear just came by the house with a message,” he said. “The Inquisitor wants to see us right away.”
* * *
The moment Cristina opened the door to the kitchen, Helen popped up from behind the counter, holding a ladle and smiling brightly. “Good morning!”
Cristina had woken early, her body scrambled by the time difference between L.A. and Idris, and sleepwalked her way to the kitchen, meaning to throw together some toast and coffee. Helen’s energetic greeting made her want to lie down and nap on the table. She would never understand morning people, especially those who functioned without a caffeine injection.
“I’m making oatmeal,” Helen went on.
“Oh,” said Cristina. She didn’t really like oatmeal.
“Aline’s up in the office, trying to make sense of all the papers. It looks like the Centurions tore the place apart.” Helen grimaced.
“I know.” Cristina looked longingly at the coffeemaker. Would it be rude to push past Helen and grab for the coffee beans and filter?
“Don’t bother,” Helen said. “The Centurions left moldy coffee in the pot.” She gestured toward the sink, where the coffeepot was soaking.
Cristina instantly hated the Centurions even more than she had before. “Is there anything they don’t ruin?”
“They left laundry,” Mark said, coming in with his hair wet. He must have just showered. Cristina felt the immediate and uncontrollable spark of nerves in her stomach, and sat down on a counter stool. She could still see the healing weal of skin around Mark’s wrist, where the binding spell had cut him; she had one that matched. His eyes glowed in the morning sunlight, blue and gold as the heart of the ocean; she turned quickly away from looking at him and began studying a kitchen tile depicting Hector’s body being dragged around the walls of Troy. “So much laundry. Piles and piles of laundry.”
“I’ll do the laundry.” Helen had moved to the stove and was stirring a pot industriously. “I’m making oatmeal.”
“Oh,” said Mark. He met Cristina’s eyes briefly. A shared moment of oatmeal dislike passed between them.
More Blackthorns started piling into the kitchen: Ty, followed by Kit and then Dru and Tavvy. There was a babble of voices, and for a moment, things felt nearly normal. Nearly. Without Emma, she knew, the Institute would never be normal for her. Emma had been the first person she’d met in Los Angeles; Emma had befriended her instantly and without hesitation. Her introduction to L.A. had been going to all of Emma’s favorite places, her secret beaches and canyon trails; it had been driving in the car with her with the radio on and their hair down, hot dogs at Pink’s, pie at the Apple Pan at midnight.
It was hard not to feel anchorless now, an unmoored boat on the tide. But she clung to what Emma had said to her: They’ll need you. Mark will need you.
Ty grabbed a bag of potato chips off the counter and handed it to Kit, who gave him a thumbs-up. They had a way of communicating without words, almost like Emma and Julian did.
“You don’t need those,” Helen said. “I’m making oatmeal!” She pointed at the table with her spoon: She’d set it with matching bowls and even a vase with a sprig of wildflowers.
“Oh,” said Kit.
“I want pancakes,” announced Tavvy.
“We’re not staying for breakfast,” said Ty. “Kit and I are going to the beach. We’ll see you later.”
“But—” Helen began, but it was no use; they’d already left, Ty dragging Kit behind him with a firm grip on his wrist. Kit shrugged apologetically before disappearing through the door.
“I hate oatmeal,” said Dru. She sat down at the table, frowning.
“I hate oatmeal too,” said Tavvy, pushing in next to his sister. He frowned too, and for a moment the resemblance between them was almost comical.
“Well, oatmeal is what there is,” Helen said. “But I can make toast, too.”
“Not toast,” said Tavvy. “Pancakes.”
Helen shut the stove off. For a moment she stood staring down into the pot of cooling oatmeal. In a small voice, she said, “I don’t know how to make pancakes.”
Cristina got hurriedly off her stool. “Helen, let me help you make some eggs and toast,” she said.
“Julian can make pancakes,” said Tavvy.
Helen had made room for Cristina at the counter by the stove. Cristina handed over bread; as Helen loaded up the toaster, Cristina saw that her hands were shaking.
“I really don’t want eggs for breakfast,” said Dru. She picked one of the flowers out of the vase on the table and plucked off its head. Petals showered down onto the table.
“Come on, both of you,” said Mark, going over to his younger brother and sister and ruffling their hair affectionately. “We just got back. Don’t give Helen a hard time.”
“Well, she doesn’t have to make breakfast,” said Dru. “We could make our own.”
Helen hurried over with the plate of toast and set it on the table. Dru stared at it blankly. “Come on, Dru,” she said. “Just eat the bread.”
Dru stiffened all over. “Don’t tell me what to eat and not eat,” she said.
Helen flinched. Tavvy reached for the jam and upended it, shaking it until sticky jelly splattered all over his plate, the table, and his hands. He giggled.
“Don’t—no!” Helen said, grabbing the jam out of his hands. “Tavvy, don’t do that!”
“I don’t have to listen to you,” Tavvy said, his small face flushing. “I don’t even know you.”
He pushed his way past Dru and bolted from the kitchen. After a moment, Dru shot Helen a reproachful look and darted after him.
Helen stood where she was, holding the empty plastic jam jar, tears running down her face. Cristina’s heart went out to her. All she wanted was to please her siblings, but they couldn’t forgive her for not being Julian.
She moved toward Helen, but Mark was already there, putting his arms around his sister, getting jam on his shirt. “It’s all right,” Cristina heard him say. “When I first got back, I was always messing things up. I got everything wrong. . . .”
Feeling like an intruder, Cristina slipped out of the kitchen; some family scenes were private. She headed down the hall slowly (she was sure there was a second coffeemaker in the library), half her mind on what Mark had said to Helen. She wondered if he really felt that way. She remembered the first time she’d seen him, crouched against the wall of his bedroom as the wind blew the curtains around him like sails. The bond she had felt with him had been immediate—she hadn’t known him before the Hunt had taken him, and had no expectations of what he was like or who he should be. It had tied them together as strongly as the binding spell, but what if everything had changed? What if what they had was broken and could never be repaired?
“Cristina!”
She spun around. Mark was behind her, flushed; he’d been running to catch up to her. He stopped when she tu
rned and hesitated a moment, looking like someone about to take a step off a high cliff.
“I have to be with Helen now,” he said. “But I need to talk to you. I’ve needed to talk to you since—for a long time. Meet me in the parking lot tonight, when the moon is high.”
She nodded, too surprised to say anything. By the time it occurred to her that “when the moon is high” wasn’t very helpful—what if it was cloudy?—he’d already vanished down the hall. With a sigh, she headed off to send Catarina Loss a fire-message.
* * *
It had been only a few days since Robert Lightwood’s death, but Horace Dearborn had already completely redecorated his office.
The first thing Emma noticed was that the tapestry of the Battle of the Burren was missing. The fireplace was lit now, and over it Alec Lightwood’s image had been replaced by Zara Dearborn’s. It was a portrait of her in gear, her long blond-brown hair falling to her waist in two braids like a Viking’s. ZARA DEARBORN, CLAVE HERO, said a gold plaque on the frame.
“Subtle,” Julian muttered. He and Emma had just come into Horace’s office; the Inquisitor was bent over and poking around in his desk, seemingly ignoring them. The desk at least was the same, though a large sign hung behind it that announced: PURITY IS STRENGTH. STRENGTH IS VICTORY. THEREFORE PURITY IS VICTORY.
Dearborn straightened up. “ ‘Clave hero’ might be a bit simple,” he said thoughtfully, making it quite clear he’d heard Julian’s comment. “I was thinking ‘Modern Boadicea.’ In case you don’t know who she was—”
“I know who Boadicea was,” said Julian, seating himself; Emma followed. The chairs were new as well, with stiff upholstery. “A warrior queen of Britain.”
“Julian’s uncle was a classical scholar,” said Emma.
“Ah yes, so Zara told me.” Horace dropped heavily into his own seat, behind the mahogany desk. He was a big man, rawboned, with a nondescript face. Only his size was unusual—his hands were enormous, and his big shoulders pulled at the material of his uniform. They must not have had time to make one up for him yet. “Now, children. I must say I’m surprised at you two. There has always been such a . . . vibrant partnership between the Blackthorn and Carstairs families and the Clave.”
“The Clave has changed,” said Emma.
“Not all change is for the worse,” said Horace. “This has been a long time coming.”
Julian swung his feet up, planting his boots on Horace’s desk. Emma blinked. Julian had always been rebellious at heart, but rarely openly. He smiled like an angel and said, “Why don’t you just tell us what you want?”
Horace’s eyes glinted. There was anger in them, but his voice was smooth when he spoke. “You two have really fucked up,” he said. “More than you know.”
Emma was jolted. Shadowhunter adults, especially those in positions of authority, rarely swore in front of anyone they considered children.
“What do you mean?” she said.
He opened a desk drawer and took out a black leather notebook. “Robert Lightwood’s notes,” he said. “He took them after every meeting he had. He took them after the meeting he had with you.”
Julian went white; he clearly recognized the notebook. Robert must have written in it after Emma had left his office with Manuel.
“I know what you told him about your relationship,” Dearborn said with relish. “Parabatai in love. Disgusting. And I know what you wanted from him. Exile.”
Though the color had left his face, Julian’s voice was steady. “I still think you should tell us what you want from us.”
“To fall in love with your parabatai is, shall we say, a breach of contract. The contract you’ve made as Nephilim, with the Clave. It desecrates our holiest of holy bonds.” He set the notebook back in its drawer. “But I am not an unreasonable man. I’ve come up with a mutually beneficial solution to all our little problems. And a few of the big ones.”
“Solutions aren’t usually mutually beneficial when one party has all the power,” said Julian.
Dearborn ignored him. “If you agree to be sent on a mission to the Land of Faerie, if you promise to find and to kill Annabel Blackthorn there and bring back the Black Volume of the Dead, I’ll honor the terms Robert set out. Exile and secrecy. No one will ever know.”
“You can’t be sure she’s in Faerie—” Julian began.
“You have got to be kidding,” Emma said at the same time.
“My sources say she’s in the Unseelie Court, and no, I am not ‘kidding,’ ” said Dearborn. “I would swear it on the Mortal Sword, if Carstairs hadn’t broken it.”
Emma flushed. “Why do you want the Black Volume? Planning on raising some dead?”
“I have no interest in some warlock’s pitiable book of necromantic amusements,” said Horace, “save keeping it out of the hands of Annabel Blackthorn and the King of Unseelie. Do not even consider trying to fob me off with imitations or fakes. I will know, and I will punish you. I want the Black Volume in the control of Nephilim, not Downworlders.”
“You must have older, more capable people who can do this?” said Julian.
“This mission must be carried out with the utmost secrecy,” Dearborn snapped. “Who has a better reason to keep it a secret than you?”
“But time works differently in Faerie,” said Julian. “We could wind up coming back ten years from now. That won’t help you much.”
“Ah.” Dearborn sat back. There was a pile of cloth behind him, in one corner of the room: Emma realized with a jolt that it was the tapestry of the Battle of the Burren, thrown away like so much trash. Strange for a man who claimed to value Nephilim history. “A long time ago, three medallions were given to the Clave by the Fair Folk. They prevent time slippage in Faerie. One is missing, but you’ll be given one of the remaining two. You can return it when you yourselves come back.”
A medallion? Emma remembered Cristina’s necklace, its power to control time in Faerie. One of them is missing. . . .
“And how are we supposed to get back?” Emma said. “It’s not as if returning from Faerie is easy for a human.”
“You will use the map we give you to locate a place called Bram’s Crossroads,” said Horace. “There you will find a friend ready to bring you home.” He steepled his fingers together. “I will conceal the fact that you are not in Alicante by placing guards around the Princewater house. The word will be that you are under house arrest until the matter of the Mortal Sword is cleared up. But I must insist that you find the book and return within four days. Otherwise I may assume you decided to strike out on your own, in which case I will have no choice but to reveal your secret.”
“What makes you think we can do this in four days?” said Julian.
“Because you have no choice,” Horace replied.
Emma exchanged a look with Julian. She suspected his feelings, such as they were, mirrored her own—suspicion and helplessness. They couldn’t trust Horace Dearborn, but if they didn’t agree to this plan, he would destroy their lives. Their Marks would be stripped. They would never see the other Blackthorns again.
“There’s no need for you to look so untrusting,” said Dearborn. “We are in this together. None of us want Annabel Blackthorn or the Unseelie King to possess such a powerful item as the Black Volume.” He gave a yellowish smile. “Besides, Julian, I thought you’d be pleased. This is your chance to kill Annabel Blackthorn and take her precious book from her. I would have thought you’d want revenge.”
Unable to bear the way the Inquisitor was looking at Julian, Emma stood up. “I want Cortana,” she said. “It was my father’s before mine, and it has belonged in my family since before Jem and Cordelia Carstairs. Give it back to me.”
“No,” Horace said, his thin mouth flattening. “We are still investigating how it managed to shatter the Mortal Sword. We will furnish you with weapons, food, a map, and all the gear you need, but not Cortana.”
“Seraph blades don’t work in Faerie,” said Julian. “Neither will our
runes.”
Dearborn snorted. “Then you’ll be given daggers and swords and crossbows. You know we have every weapon you might need.” He rose to his feet. “I don’t care what you use to kill Annabel Blackthorn. Just kill her. You brought that bitch to us. It’s your responsibility to rid us of her.”
Julian slid his boots off the desk. “When are we supposed to be leaving?”
“And how will we get there?” said Emma.
“That’s for me to know,” said Dearborn. “As for when you leave, it might as well be now. It’s not as if you have anything you need to be doing in Alicante.” He gestured toward the door, as if he couldn’t wait to be rid of them. “Go home and retrieve whatever personal items you require. And don’t waste time. Guards will be coming to get you shortly. Be ready.”
“Fine,” Emma said. She strode over to the corner and picked up the tapestry of Alec. “But I’m keeping this.”
It was surprisingly heavy. Dearborn raised his eyebrows but said nothing as she staggered out of the room clutching it.
* * *
“Where are we going?” Kit said. He was holding the bag of potato chips, salt and grease on his fingers. It was a weird breakfast, but he’d had weirder in his life. Besides, the ocean breeze was lifting his hair off his forehead, the beach was deserted, and he and Ty were walking into a golden haze of sand and sunshine. Despite everything, his mood was lifting.
“Remember that cave?” Ty said. “The one we were in when we saw Zara talking to Manuel?”
“Yeah,” Kit said, and almost added, when we were with Livvy, but he knew that was what Ty meant by “we.” It was a word that for him would always include Livvy. The shadow of memory fell over Kit’s good mood: He remembered that night, Livvy laughing, Ty holding up a starfish—the salt air had tangled his usually straight hair, and his eyes had echoed the silver color of the moon. He had been smiling, his real, shining Ty-smile. Kit had felt closer to the two of them than he had ever felt to anyone else. “Wait—why are we going there?”
They had reached the part of the beach where long fingers of pocked granite reached out into the ocean. The waves rushed in from the sea, slamming against the rocks, whipping themselves up into white-silver spray.
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