Queen of Air and Darkness

by Cassandra Clare

  “Don’t worry,” said Diana. “I know exactly what to do.”

  * * *

  She was climbing a spiral staircase that seemed to reach toward the stars. Cristina didn’t remember how she had found the staircase, nor did she recall her destination. The staircase rose from darkness and soared into the clouds; she kept the material of her long skirts clutched in her hands so she wouldn’t trip over them. Her hair felt dense and heavy, and the scent of white roses thickened the air.

  The stairs ended abruptly and she stepped out in wonder onto a familiar rooftop: She was perched atop the Institute in Mexico City. She could see out over the city: El Ángel, shining gold atop the Monumento a la Independencia, Chapultepec Park, the Palacio de Bellas Artes lit up and glowing, the bell-shaped towers of the Guadalupe Basilica. The mountains rising behind it all, cupping the city as if in an open palm.

  A shadowy figure stood at the edge of the rooftop: slender and masculine, hands looped behind his back. She knew before he turned that it was Mark: No one else had hair like that, like gold hammered to airy silver. He wore a long belted tunic, a dagger thrust through the leather strap, and linen trousers. His feet were bare as he came toward her and took her in his arms.

  His eyes were shadowed, hooded with desire, his movements as slow as if they were both underwater. He drew her toward him, running his fingers through her hair, and she realized why it had felt so heavy: It was woven through with vines on which grew full-blown red roses. They fell around Mark as he cradled her with his other arm, his free hand running from her hair to her lips to her collarbones, his fingers dipping below the neckline of her dress. His hands were warm, the night cool, and his lips on hers were even warmer. She swayed into him, her hands finding their way to the back of his neck, where the fine hairs were softest, straying down to touch his scars. . . .

  He drew back. “Cristina,” he murmured. “Turn around.”

  She turned in his arms and saw Kieran. He was in velvet where Mark was in plain linen, and there were heavy gold rings on his fingers, his eyes shimmering and black-rimmed with kohl. He was a piece torn out of the night sky: silver and black.

  One of Mark’s arms went around Cristina. The other reached for Kieran. And Cristina reached for him too, her hands finding the softness of his doublet, gathering him toward both her and Mark, enfolding them in the dark velvet of him. He kissed Mark, and then bent to her, Mark’s arms around her as Kieran’s lips found hers. . . .

  “Cristina.” The voice pierced through Cristina’s sleep, and she sat up instantly, clutching her blankets to her chest, wide-eyed with shock. “Cristina Mendoza Rosales?”

  It was a woman’s voice. Breathless, Cristina looked around as her bedroom came into focus: the Institute furniture, bright sunlight through the window, a blanket loaned to her by Emma folded at the foot of the bed. There was a woman sitting on the windowsill. She had blue skin and hair the color of white paper. The pupils of her eyes were a very deep blue. “I got your fire-message,” she said as Cristina stared at her, dazed. What did I just dream?

  Not now, Cristina. Think about it later.

  “Catarina Loss?” Cristina had wanted to talk to the warlock, granted, but she hadn’t expected Catarina to just appear in her bedroom, and certainly not at such an awkward moment. “How did you get in here . . . ?”

  “I didn’t. I’m a Projection.” Catarina moved her hand in front of the bright surface of the window; sunlight streamed through it as if it were stained glass.

  Cristina tugged discreetly at her hair. No roses. Ay. “What time is it?”

  “Ten,” said Catarina. “I’m sorry—I really thought you’d be awake. Here.” She made a gesture with her fingers, and a paper cup appeared at Cristina’s bedside.

  “Peet’s Coffee,” Catarina said. “My favorite on the West Coast.”

  Cristina hugged the cup to her chest. Catarina was her new favorite person.

  “I really wondered if I’d hear from you.” Cristina took a sip of coffee. “I know it was a weird question.”

  “I wasn’t sure either.” Catarina sighed. “In a way, this is warlock business. Shadowhunters don’t use ley lines.”

  “But we do use warlocks. You’re our allies. If you are getting sick, then we owe it to you to do something.”

  Catarina looked surprised, then smiled. “I wasn’t—it’s good to hear you say that.” She glanced down. “It’s been getting worse. More and more warlocks are affected.”

  “How is Magnus Bane?” said Cristina. She hadn’t known Magnus for long, but she’d liked him a great deal.

  She was startled to see tears in Catarina’s eyes. “Magnus is—well, Alec takes good care of him. But no, he’s not well.”

  Cristina set her coffee down. “Then please let us help. What would a sign of ley line contamination be? What can we look for?”

  “Well, at a place where the ley lines have been compromised, there would be increased demon activity,” said Catarina.

  “That’s something we can definitely check.”

  “I can look into it myself. I’ll send you a marked map via fire-message.” Catarina stood up, and the sunlight streamed through her transparent white hair. “But if you’re going to investigate an area with increased demon activity, don’t go alone. Take several others with you. You Shadowhunters can be so careless.”

  “We’re not all Jace Herondale,” said Cristina, who was usually the least careless person she knew.

  “Please. I’ve taught at Shadowhunter Academy. I—” Catarina began to cough, her shoulders shaking. Her eyes widened.

  Cristina slid out of bed, alarmed. “Are you all right—?”

  But Catarina had vanished. There wasn’t even a swirl of air to show where her Projection had been.

  Cristina threw on her clothes: jeans, an old T-shirt of Emma’s. It smelled like Emma’s perfume, a mixture of lemons and rosemary. Cristina wished with all her heart that Emma was here, that they could talk about last night, that Emma could give her advice and a shoulder to cry on.

  But she wasn’t and she couldn’t. Cristina touched her necklace, whispered a quick prayer to the Angel, and headed down the hall to Mark’s room.

  He’d been up as late as she was, so there was a high possibility he was still sleeping. She knocked on the door hesitantly and then harder; finally Mark threw it open, yawning and stark naked.

  “Híjole!” Cristina shrieked, and pulled her T-shirt collar up over her face. “Put your pants on!”

  “Sorry,” he called, ducking behind the door. “At least you’ve already seen it all.”

  “Not in good lighting!” Cristina could still see Mark through the gap in the door; he was wearing boxer shorts and pulling on a shirt. His head popped through the collar, his blond hair adorably ruffled.

  No, not adorable, she told herself. Terrible. Annoying.

  Naked.

  No, she wasn’t going to think about that, either. Am I awake? she wondered. She still felt wobbly about the dream she’d had. Dreams didn’t mean anything, she reminded herself. It probably had something to do with anxiety, and not Mark and Kieran at all.

  Mark reappeared in the doorway. “I’m so sorry. I—we often slept naked in the Hunt, and I forgot—”

  Cristina yanked her shirt back down. “Let’s not discuss it.”

  “Did you want to talk about last night?” He looked eager. “I can explain.”

  “No. I don’t,” she said firmly. “I need your help, and I—well, I couldn’t ask anyone else. Ty and the others are too young, and Aline and Helen would feel like they had to tell Jia.”

  Mark looked disappointed, but rallied. “This is something the Clave can’t know about?”

  “I don’t know. I just—at this point, I wonder if we can tell them anything.”

  “Can you at least tell me what this is about? Demons?”

  “For a change, yes,” said Cristina, and explained about the ley lines, the warlock sickness, and her talk with Catarina. “All we are doing
is going to see if there’s anything unusual to report on. We probably won’t even get out of the car.”

  Mark perked up. “You’ll be driving? It’ll just be the two of us?”

  “I will,” she said. “Be ready by seven tonight.” She started to walk away, then paused and glanced over her shoulder. She couldn’t help it. “Just do me a favor tonight. Wear some pants.”

  * * *

  When Kit came into the kitchen, Ty wasn’t there.

  He almost turned around and left, but the others had already seen him. Aline, in black jeans and a tank top, was at the stove, her hair tied up on top of her head, a frown of concentration on her face. Dru, Mark, Cristina, and Tavvy were at the table; Dru was fussing over Tavvy, but Cristina and Mark both greeted Kit with a wave.

  He sat down and was immediately overwhelmed by awkwardness. He’d never spent much time with any of the Blackthorns besides Ty and Livvy. Without either of them there, he felt as if he’d wandered into a party full of people he barely knew with whom he was expected to make small talk.

  “Did you sleep well?” Cristina asked him. It was hard to feel awkward around Cristina—she seemed to radiate kindness. Kit managed it, though. Johnny Rook had defrauded plenty of extremely kind people in his life and Kit doubted he lacked the capacity to do the same.

  He mumbled something in response and poured himself some orange juice. Had he slept well? Not really. He’d spent half the night awake worrying about going to the Shadow Market with Ty, and the other half being oddly excited about going to the Shadow Market with Ty.

  “Where’s Helen?” Dru said in a low voice, eyeing Aline. Kit had been wondering the same. She’d looked pretty stressed out the previous day. He wouldn’t blame her if she realized what she’d taken on and ran screaming into the desert.

  “The Conclave is meeting today,” said Mark. “Helen’s attending.”

  “But isn’t Aline the one who’s supposed to be running the Institute?” Dru looked puzzled.

  “Helen thought the Conclave should get used to her,” said Mark. “Be reminded she’s a Shadowhunter like any other Shadowhunter. And that she’s a Blackthorn, especially since they might wind up talking about things like whether Diana needs to be replaced as our tutor—”

  “I don’t want another tutor!” Tavvy exclaimed. “I want Diana!”

  “But surely she is only going to be away a few more days?” said Cristina anxiously. “At the most?”

  Mark shrugged. “All of us bouncing around here without a tutor or a schedule is the kind of thing that makes Conclaves nervous.”

  “But Tavvy’s right,” Dru said. “We’re already studying with Diana. We don’t need to start with someone else. Isn’t that right, Kit?”

  Kit was so startled to be addressed that his juice glass almost flew out of his hand. Before he could answer, Aline interrupted them by stalking over to the table holding a frying pan. Fantastic smells wafted from it. Kit’s mouth began to water.

  “What’s that?” Tavvy asked, his eyes big.

  “This,” said Aline, “is a frittata. And you’re all going to eat it.” She slammed it down onto a metal trivet in the center of the table.

  “Don’t like frittata,” said Tavvy.

  “Too bad,” said Aline, crossing her arms and glaring at each of them in turn. “You made Helen cry yesterday, so you’re going to eat this frittata—which, by the way, is goddamn delicious—and you’re going to like it. It’s what’s for breakfast, and since I’m not Helen, I don’t care if you starve or eat Cheetos for every single meal. Helen and I both have a lot of work to do, the Clave isn’t giving us an inch, all she wants is to be with you guys, and you are not going to make her cry again. Understood?”

  Dru and Tavvy both nodded, wide-eyed.

  “I’m very sorry, Aline,” said Cristina in a small voice.

  “I didn’t mean you, Cristina.” Aline rolled her eyes. “And where’s Ty? I’m not repeating this lecture again.” She glared at Kit. “You’re the one glued to his side. Where is he?”

  “Probably sleeping,” said Kit. He guessed Ty had stayed up late, researching dark magic. Not that he’d say that out loud.

  “Fine. Tell him what I said when he wakes up. And put the frying pan in the freaking sink when you’re done with breakfast.” Aline grabbed her jacket off the back of a chair, slid her arms into the sleeves, and stalked out of the room.

  Kit braced himself for either Tavvy or Dru to start to cry. Neither of them did. “That was pretty cool,” said Dru, helping herself to some frittata, which turned out to be a mixture of eggs, sausage, cheese, and caramelized onions. “I like the way she stood up for Helen.”

  “You yelled at Helen the other day,” Mark pointed out.

  “She’s my sister,” said Dru, heaping frittata on Tavvy’s plate.

  Mark made an exasperated noise. Cristina took a bite of frittata and closed her eyes in pleasure.

  “I bet you used to yell at your dad,” Dru said to Kit. “I mean, every family fights sometimes.”

  “We weren’t really a yelling family. Mostly my dad would either ignore me or spend his time trying to teach me to pick locks.”

  Dru’s face lit up. She still looked wan and tired, and very young in her oversize T-shirt, but when she smiled, she reminded Kit of Livvy. “You can pick locks?”

  “I can show you how, if you want.”

  She dropped her fork and clapped her hands together. “Yes! Mark, can I go learn how to pick locks now?”

  “We have Open runes, Dru,” Mark said.

  “So? What if I was kidnapped by a tentacle demon and I dropped my stele and I was handcuffed to a chair? What then?”

  “That won’t happen,” said Mark.

  “It could happen,” said Tavvy.

  “It really couldn’t. Tentacle demons can’t operate handcuffs.” Mark looked exasperated.

  “Please?” Dru begged him with her eyes.

  “I—suppose it would do no harm,” Mark said, clearly out of his depth. He glanced sideways at Cristina, as if seeking her approval, but she looked quickly away. “Just don’t commit any actual crimes with your newfound knowledge, Dru. The last thing we need is something else for the Clave to be annoyed about.”

  * * *

  “That water is eldritch magic,” Kieran said. He was leaning heavily against Diego’s side as they made their way as quickly as possible down the corridors of the Scholomance. Divya and Rayan had remained behind at the doors of the Hollow Place, to keep the Cohort from chasing after Kieran and Diego. “I heard them laugh about it, as they dragged me down the halls, blindfolded.” There was a haughty bitterness in his voice, still the tones of a prince. Beneath it was a layer of rage and shame. “I did not believe they knew of what they spoke, but they did.”

  “I am sorry,” Diego said. He put a hand on the faerie prince’s shoulder, tentatively. It seemed as if he could feel Kieran’s heartbeat thrumming even through bone and muscle. “I was meant to protect you. I failed.”

  “You did not fail,” Kieran said. “If it were not for you, I would have died.” He sounded uncomfortable. Faeries weren’t fond of apologies or debts. “We cannot go back to your room,” Kieran added as they turned another corner. “They will look for us there.”

  “We have to hide,” said Diego. “Somewhere we can get you bandaged up. There are dozens of empty rooms—”

  Kieran pulled away. He was walking like a drunk, unsteadily. “Bandages are for those who deserve to heal,” he said.

  Diego looked at him, worried. “Is the pain bad?”

  “It is not my pain,” said Kieran.

  A scream echoed down the halls. A tortured female scream, abruptly cut off.

  “The girl who fell in the waters,” said Kieran. “I tried to reach her sooner—”

  Samantha. Diego might not have liked her, but no one deserved pain that would make you scream like that.

  “Maybe we should get out of the Scholomance,” said Diego. The main entrance was through
the side of the mountain but was always guarded. There were other ways out, though—even a glass corridor that snaked through the waters of the lake to the other side.

  Kieran raised his chin. “Someone is coming.”

  Diego reached for Kieran with one hand and his dagger with the other, then froze as he recognized the figure in front of him. Black hair, set jaw, scowling eyebrows, eyes fixed on Kieran.

  Martin Gladstone.

  “You won’t be leaving the Scholomance,” Gladstone said. “Not any time soon.”

  “You don’t understand,” said Diego. “The others—Zara’s group—they tried to kill Kieran—”

  Gladstone raked contemptuous eyes over Diego and his companion. “So you really had the gall to bring him here,” he said, clearly meaning Kieran. “The faerie is a member of an enemy army. A high-ranking one at that.”

  “He was going to testify against the Unseelie King!” said Diego. “He was going to risk himself—risk the King’s anger—to help Shadowhunters!”

  “He never quite got that chance, did he,” sneered Gladstone. “So we don’t know what he would have done.”

  “I would have testified,” said Kieran, leaning against the wall. “I bear my father no love.”

  “Faeries can’t lie,” said Diego. “Can you not listen?”

  “They can trick and deceive and manipulate. How did he get you to aid him, Diego Rocio Rosales?”

  “He did not ‘get’ me to do anything,” said Diego. “I know who I trust. And if you kill Kieran, or let those bastards hurt him, you will be breaking the Accords.”

  “Interesting escalation,” said Gladstone. “I have no intention of killing or harming Kingson. Instead you will be sequestered in the library until the Inquisitor can arrive and deal with you both.”

  * * *

  Emma and Julian had been walking for some hours when Emma realized that they were being followed.

  It had actually been a fairly pleasant walk along a tramped path in the woods. Julian was easy enough to talk to when Emma tried not to think about the spell, or how he felt about her, or about how he felt, period. They avoided the topics of Livvy and the parabatai curse, and talked instead about the Clave and what its next plans might be, and how Zara might figure into them. Julian walked ahead, holding the map, consulting it when enough light rayed down through the trees to make the map readable.