Queen of Air and Darkness

by Cassandra Clare

  Ty reached into the bag of chips, his arm brushing against Kit’s. “Because we need help to do necromancy. We can’t do it on our own.”

  “Please tell me we don’t need help from an army of the dead. I hate armies of the dead.”

  “Not an army of the dead. Hypatia Vex.”

  Kit nearly dropped the chips. “Hypatia Vex? The warlock from London?”

  “Yep,” said Ty. “Keep up, Watson.”

  “That’s not a ‘keep up,’ ” said Kit. “How would I know you contacted her? I didn’t think she liked us very much.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “You make a good point.” Kit stopped, sand kicking up around his sneakers. “Here we are.”

  The dark hole in the bluff opened up in front of them. Ty paused too, rooting around in the pocket of his hoodie. “I have something for you.”

  Kit rolled up the bag of chips and stashed it behind a rock. “You do?”

  Ty produced a small white stone, about the size of a golf ball, with a rune etched into it. “Your witchlight rune-stone. Every Shadowhunter has one.” He took Kit’s hand unselfconsciously and pressed the stone into his palm. A hot flutter went through Kit’s stomach, surprising him. He’d never felt anything like it before.

  “Thanks,” he said. “How do I activate it?”

  “Close your fingers around it and think of light,” said Ty. “Imagine a light switch flicking on; that’s what Julian said to me. Come on—I’ll show you.”

  Kit held the stone awkwardly as they headed up the path to the cave entrance. A few steps into the cave and the darkness enveloped them like velvet, muffling the sound of the waves outside. Kit could barely see Ty, the shadow of a shadow beside him.

  Like flicking a switch, he thought, and closed his fingers around the rune-stone.

  It gave a little kick in his palm, and light rayed out, illuminating the familiar stone corridor. It was much as it had been before, rough-walled and spidery, reminding Kit of the underground tunnels in the first Indiana Jones movie.

  At least this time they knew where they were going. They followed the curve of the tunnel around a bend, into an enormous stone chamber. The walls were granite, though black lines scored through them showed where they had cracked long ago. The room smelled like something sweet—probably the smoke that rose from the candles placed on the wooden table in the room’s center. A hooded figure in a black robe, its face lost in shadow, sat where Zara had been sitting the last time they’d been here.

  “Hypatia?” said Ty, stepping forward.

  The figure raised a single, silencing finger. Both Kit and Ty hesitated as two gloved hands rose to push back the enveloping hood.

  Ty licked his dry lips. “You’re—not Hypatia.” He turned to Kit. “That’s not her.”

  “No,” Kit agreed. “Seems to be a green fellow with horns.”

  “I’m not Hypatia, but she did send me,” said the warlock. “We have met before, the three of us. In the Shadow Market in London.”

  Kit remembered quickly moving green-tinted hands. I have to say I never thought I’d have the pleasure of entertaining the Lost Herondale.

  “Shade,” he said.

  The warlock looked amused. “Not my real name, but it’ll do.”

  Ty was shaking his head. “I want to deal with Hypatia,” he said. “Not you.”

  Shade leaned back in his chair. “Most warlocks won’t touch necromancy,” he said quietly. “Hypatia isn’t any different; in fact, she’s smarter than most. She wants to run the Shadow Market herself one day, and she’s not going to endanger her chances.”

  Ty’s expression seemed to splinter, like the cracked face of a statue. “I never said anything about necromancy—”

  “Your twin sister just died,” said Shade. “And you reach out to a warlock with a desperate request. It doesn’t take a genius to guess what you want.”

  Kit put his hand on Ty’s shoulder. “We don’t have to stay here,” he said. “We can just leave—”

  “No,” said Shade. “Hear me out first, little Shadowhunters, if you wish for my help. I understand. Grief makes people mad. You search for a way to end it.”

  “Yes,” said Ty. “I want to bring my sister back. I will bring my sister back.”

  Shade’s dark eyes were flinty. “You want to raise the dead. Do you know how many people want to do that? It’s not a good plan. I suggest you drop it. I could help you out with something else. Have you ever wanted to move objects with your mind?”

  “Sure,” said Kit. “That sounds great.” Anything but this.

  “I have the Black Volume of the Dead,” said Ty. “Or at least, I have a copy.”

  He didn’t seem to recognize the absolute astonishment on Shade’s face, but Kit saw it. It increased both his pride in Ty and, at the same time, his apprehension.

  “Well,” said Shade finally. “That’s better than the real thing.”

  Odd thing to say, Kit thought.

  “So it’s not the spells we need help with,” said Ty. “We need your help in gathering spell components. Some are easy to get, but Shadowhunters aren’t welcome at the Shadow Market, so if you could go, I could give you money, or we have a lot of valuable weapons in the Institute—”

  Kit was pleased. “I thought about selling those once, myself.”

  Shade held up his gloved hands. “No,” he said. “I’ll help you, all right, but it won’t be fast, and it won’t be easy.”

  “Good,” said Ty, but Kit was instantly suspicious.

  “Why?” said Kit. “Why would you help us? You don’t approve—”

  “I don’t,” said Shade. “But if it isn’t me, it’ll be someone else, some other warlock with fewer scruples. At least I can make sure you do this as cleanly as possible. I can show you how to cast the spell properly. I can get you a catalyst—a clean energy source that won’t corrupt what you do.”

  “But you won’t go to the Shadow Market?” said Kit.

  “The spell only works if the spell caster collects the components themselves,” said Shade. “And you’ll be the one casting this spell, even if you need me to direct you. So whatever is between you two and the people of the Shadow Market—and I saw some of it myself, so I know it’s personal—clean it up.” His voice was gruff. “You’re clever, you can figure it out. When you’ve got what you need, come back to me. I’ll remain here in the cave for as long as you’re committed to this insane project. But send a note if you’re planning on dropping by. I like my privacy.”

  Ty’s face was alight with relief, and Kit knew what he was thinking: This was step one accomplished, one move closer to getting Livvy back. Shade looked at him and shook his head, his white hair gleaming in the candlelight. “Of course, if you reconsider, and I never hear from you again, that will be even better,” he added. “Consider this, children. Some lights were never meant to burn for long.”

  He closed his gloved fingers around the wick of the largest candle, extinguishing it. A plume of white smoke rose toward the ceiling. Kit glanced at Ty again, but he hadn’t reacted; he might not even have heard Shade. He was smiling to himself: not the blazing smile Kit had missed on the beach, but a quiet, private smile.

  If we go forward, I have to shoulder this alone, Kit thought. Any guilt, any apprehension. It’s only mine.

  He glanced away from the warlock before Shade could see the doubt in his eyes.

  Some lights were never meant to burn for long.

  * * *

  “I can’t believe the Centurions left such a mess,” Helen said.

  For years, Helen had promised Aline that she would take her on a full tour of the Institute and show her all her favorite places from her childhood.

  But Helen’s mind was only partly on showing Aline around.

  Some of it was on the destruction wrought by the Centurions inside the Institute—towels left everywhere, stains on the tables, and old food rotting in the fridge in the kitchen. Some of it was on the message she’d paid a faeri
e to take to her aunt Nene in the Seelie Court. But most of it was on her family.

  “Those jerks aren’t what’s really bothering you,” said Aline. They were standing on an overlook some distance from the Institute. From here you could see the desert, carpeted with wildflowers and green scrub, and the ocean as well, blue and gleaming below. There had been ocean at Wrangel Island, cold and icy and beautiful, but in no way welcoming. This was the sea of Helen’s childhood—the sea of long days spent splashing in the waves with her sisters and brothers. “You can tell me anything, Helen.”

  “They hate me,” Helen said in a small voice.

  “Who hates you?” Aline demanded. “I’ll kill them.”

  “My brothers and sister,” said Helen. “Please don’t kill them, though.”

  Aline looked stunned. “What do you mean, they hate you?”

  “Ty ignores me,” said Helen. “Dru snarls at me. Tavvy despises that I’m not Julian. And Mark—well, Mark doesn’t hate me, but his mind seems far away. I can’t drag him into this.”

  Aline crossed her arms and stared thoughtfully at the ocean. This was one of the things Helen loved about her wife. If Helen said something was the case, Aline would consider it from all angles; she was never dismissive.

  “I told Julian to tell all the kids I was happy on Wrangel Island,” said Helen. “I didn’t want them to worry. But now—I think they believe I spent all these years not caring about being separated from them. They don’t know how much I missed them. They don’t know how horrible I feel that Julian had to shoulder all that responsibility, for all those years. I didn’t know.”

  “The thing is,” said Aline, “they don’t just see you as replacing Julian as the person who takes care of them. You also stepped into their lives just as Livvy left them.”

  “But I also loved Livvy! I also miss her—”

  “I know,” Aline said gently. “But they’re just children. They’re grief stricken and lashing out. They don’t know this is why they feel angry. They just feel it.”

  “I can’t do this.” Helen tried to keep her voice steady, but it was nearly impossible. She hoped the strain would be covered by the sound of the waves crashing below them, but Aline knew her too well. She could sense when Helen was upset, even when she was trying hard not to show it. “It’s too hard.”

  “Baby.” Aline moved closer, wrapping her arms around Helen, brushing her lips softly with her own. “You can. You can do anything.”

  Helen relaxed into her wife’s arms. When she’d first met Aline, she’d thought the other girl was taller than she was, but she’d realized later it was the way Aline held herself, arrow straight. The Consul, her mother, held herself the same way, and with the same pride—not that either of them was arrogant, but the word seemed a shade closer to what Helen imagined than simple confidence. She remembered the first love note Aline had ever written her. The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history. Later, she’d found out it was an Oscar Wilde quote, and had said to Aline, smiling, You’ve got a lot of nerve.

  Aline had looked back at her steadily. I know. I do.

  They both had, always, and it had stood them in good stead. But this wasn’t a situation where nerve mattered so much as patience. Helen had expected her younger brothers and sister to love her; she had needed it, in a way. Now she realized she had to show them her love first.

  “In a way, their anger means good things,” said Aline. “It means they know you’ll always love them, no matter what. Eventually they’ll stop testing you.”

  “Is there any way to speed up ‘eventually’?”

  “Would thinking about it as ‘someday’ help?”

  Helen sniffled a laugh. “No.”

  Aline stroked her shoulder gently. “It was worth a try.”

  * * *

  There were a dozen or more guards posted when Emma and Julian returned to the house. It was a bright day, and sun sparkled off the swords slung over their shoulders and the water in the canal.

  As they went up the stairs, Dane Larkspear was slouching against one side of the doorway, his whippety face pale under a shock of black hair. He winked at Emma as Julian, ignoring him, reached for his stele. “Nice to see you.”

  “Can’t say the same,” said Emma. “Where’s your evil twin? And I mean that literally. She’s your twin, and she’s evil.”

  “Yeah, I got that,” said Dane, rolling his eyes. “Samantha’s at the Scholomance. And you’ve got guests.”

  Emma tensed. “In the house? Isn’t the point of guards to keep them out?”

  Dane chuckled. “Please. The point of us is to keep you in.”

  Julian scrawled an unlocking rune on the door and gave Dane a dark look. “Fifteen against two?”

  Dane’s smirk got wider. “Just showing you who’s in power,” he said. “We control the odds. I don’t feel bad about that at all.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Julian said, and stalked into the house.

  “Just in case I wasn’t feeling really crappy about this situation already,” Emma muttered, and followed Julian. She was wary—she hadn’t liked the way Dane had said the word “guests.” She closed the front door slowly, hand on the hilt of the dagger in her weapons belt.

  She heard Julian call her name. “In the kitchen,” he said. “It’s all right, Emma.”

  Usually she trusted Julian more than she trusted herself. But things were different now. She went carefully toward the kitchen, only dropping her hand from the dagger when she saw Isabelle seated on the kitchen table, her long legs crossed. She was wearing a short velvet coat and a long tulle skirt. The bright glint of silver jewelry shone on her wrists and ankles.

  Simon was seated at one of the kitchen chairs, elbows on the table, sunglasses pushed up on his head. “Hope you don’t mind,” he said. “The guards let us in.”

  “Not at all,” said Julian, leaning against one of the counters. “I’m just surprised they agreed.”

  “Friendly persuasion,” said Isabelle, and smiled a smile that was mostly teeth. “The Cohort doesn’t have all the power yet. We still know a lot of people in high places.”

  “Where were you?” Simon inquired. “The guards wouldn’t tell us anything.”

  “The Inquisitor wanted to talk to us,” said Emma.

  Simon frowned. “Dearborn? You mean he wanted to interrogate you?”

  “Not exactly.” Emma took off her jacket and slung it over a chair back. “He had a favor he wanted us to do. But what are you doing here?”

  Isabelle and Simon exchanged a glance. “We have some bad news,” Simon said.

  Emma stared harder at both of them. Izzy looked tired, Simon tense, but that wasn’t surprising. She could only imagine how she looked herself.

  “My brothers and sisters—” Julian began, his voice tight, and Emma glanced at him; she remembered what he’d said about climbing up the pyre after Ty; it was atavistic, the need to protect him, there was no conscious thought to it.

  “Nothing like that,” said Simon. “Jace and Clary didn’t come back at the appointed time.”

  Speechless, Emma sank into a chair opposite Simon.

  “That’s interesting,” Julian said. “What do you think happened?”

  Simon looked at him oddly. Isabelle nudged him with her knee, and through her surprise and worry Emma heard her mutter something about how Julian’s sister just died, he was probably still in shock.

  “Maybe they’re just late because of the time being different in Faerie,” said Emma. “Or did they get one of the medallions?”

  “They’re not affected by the time magic in Faerie, because of their angel blood,” said Isabelle. “That’s why the Clave chose to send them. Their runes still work, even in the blighted lands.” She frowned. “What medallions?”

  “Oh.” Emma exchanged a look with Julian. “The Clave has medallions that prevent time slippage in Faerie. Dearborn gave us one.”

  Isabelle and Simon exchanged
a bewildered glance. “What? Why would they give you—?”

  “The favor that Dearborn asked us to do,” said Julian. “It involved traveling to Faerie.”

  Simon straightened up. His face had gone tight-jawed, in a way that reminded Emma that he wasn’t just Isabelle Lightwood’s mild-mannered fiancé. He was a hero in his own right. He’d faced down the Angel Raziel himself. Few besides Clary could say that. “He did what?”

  “I’ll explain,” said Julian, and he did, with a dry economy uncolored by emotion. Nevertheless, when he was done, both Isabelle and Simon looked furious.

  “How dare he,” said Simon. “How can he think—”

  “But he’s the Inquisitor now. He’d know Clary and Jace haven’t come back,” interrupted Isabelle. “The Clave knows it’s dangerous, especially now. Why would he send you?”

  “Because Annabel escaped into Faerie, and he thinks Annabel is our problem,” said Emma.

  “It’s ridiculous; you guys are just kids,” Simon said.

  Isabelle kicked him lightly. “We did a lot when we were kids.”

  “Because we had to,” said Simon. “Because we had no choices.” He turned back to Emma and Julian. “We can get you out of here. We can hide you.”

  “No,” Julian said.

  “He means that we don’t have choices either,” said Emma. “There’s too much chance of the Black Volume being put to terrible use, either by Annabel or the Unseelie King. There’s no telling who might get hurt, and we have the best chance of finding the book. No one else has dealt with Annabel for centuries—in a weird way, Julian knows her the best.”

  “And we can look for Jace and Clary. It’s not like Horace is going to send anyone else to find them,” said Julian.

  Isabelle looked flinty. “Because he’s a jerk, you mean?”

  “Because he doesn’t like the support they have, or the way people look up to them and Alec and you guys,” said Julian. “The longer they’re gone, the better for him. He wants to consolidate power—he doesn’t need heroes coming back. I’m sure Jia will try to help, but he won’t make it easy for her. He can always throw delays in her path.”