She glanced around. “I don’t see—”
“Look down,” he said, and she did.
She remembered thinking that her boots had crunched oddly on the sand. Now she realized that it was because it wasn’t sand. A bleak moonscape stretched around them in a twenty-foot radius. The succulent plants and sagebrush were withered, gray-white as old bones. The sand looked as if it had been blasted with wildfire, and the skeletons of jackrabbits and snakes were scattered among the rocks.
“It is the blight,” said Mark. “The same blight we saw in Faerie.”
“But why would it be here?” Cristina demanded, bewildered. “What do ley lines have to do with the blight? Isn’t that faerie magic?”
Mark shook his head. “I don’t—”
A chorus of shrieking howls ripped through the air. Cristina spun, kicking up a cloud of dust, and saw shadows rising out of the desert all around them. Now Cristina could see them more closely: They resembled birds only in that they were winged. What looked like feathers were actually trailing black rags that swathed their gaunt white bodies. Their mouths were so stuffed with crooked, jagged teeth that it looked as if they were grotesquely smiling. Their eyes were popping yellow bulbs with black dot pupils.
“But the Sensor,” she whispered. “It didn’t go off. It didn’t—”
“Run,” Mark said, and they ran, as the Harpyia demons soared screeching and laughing into the sky. A rock thumped to the ground near Cristina, and another barely missed Mark’s head.
Cristina longed to turn and plunge her balisong into the nearest demon, but it was too hard to aim while they were both running. She could hear Mark cursing as he dodged rocks the size of baseballs. One slammed painfully into Cristina’s hand as they reached the truck and she jerked the door open; Mark climbed in the other side, and for a moment they sat gasping as rocks pounded down onto the truck’s cab like hailstones.
“Diana is not going to be happy about her car,” said Mark.
“We have bigger problems.” Cristina jammed the keys into the ignition; the truck started with a jerk, rolled backward—and stopped. The sound of the rocks pounding the metal roof had ceased as well, and the silence seemed suddenly eerie. “What’s going on?” she demanded, stomping down on the gas.
“Get out!” Mark shouted. “We have to get out!”
He grabbed hold of Cristina’s arm, hauling her over the center console. They both tumbled out of the passenger-side door as the truck lifted into the air, Cristina landing awkwardly half on top of Mark.
She twisted around to see that Harpyia demons had seized the truck, their claws puncturing the metal sides of the bed and digging into the window frames. The vehicle sailed into the air, the Harpyia demons shrieking and giggling as they hauled it up into the sky—and dropped it.
It spun end over end and hit the ground with a massive crash of metal and glass, rolling sideways to lie upended on the sand. One of the Harpyia had ridden it down as if it were a surfboard and still crouched, snarking and cackling, on the frame of the upside-down truck.
Cristina leaped to her feet and stalked toward the truck. As she got closer, she could smell the stink of spilling gasoline. The Harpyia, too stupid to realize the danger, turned its dead-white, grinning face toward her. “The rocks are our place,” it hissed at her. “Poisoned. The best place.”
“Cállate!” she snapped, unsheathed her longsword, and sliced off its head.
Ichor exploded upward in a spray even as the Harpyia’s body folded up and winked out of existence. The other demons howled and dived; Cristina saw one of them dive-bombing Mark and screamed his name; he leaped onto a rock and slashed out with his whip. Ichor opened a glowing seam across the Harpyia’s chest and it thumped to the sand, chittering, but another Harpyia was already streaking across the sky. Mark’s whip curled around its throat and he jerked hard, sending its head bumping like a tumbleweed among the rocks.
Something struck Cristina’s back; she screamed as her feet left the ground. A Harpyia had sunk its claws into the back of her gear jacket and was lifting her into the air. She thought of stories about how eagles flew high into the sky with their prey and then released them, letting their bodies smash open on the earth below. The ground was already receding below her with terrifying speed.
With a scream of fear and anger, she slashed up and backward with her sword, slicing the Harpyia’s claws off at the joint. The demon shrieked and Cristina tumbled through the air, her sword falling out of her hand, reaching out as if she could catch onto something to slow her fall—
Something seized her out of the sky.
She gasped as a hand caught her elbow, and she was yanked sideways to land awkwardly atop something warm and alive. A flying horse. She gasped and scrabbled for purchase, digging into the creature’s mane as it dipped and dived.
“Cristina! Stay still!”
It was Kieran shouting. Kieran was behind her, one arm lashing around her waist to pull her against him. What felt like an electric charge shot through her. Kieran was wild-eyed, his hair deep blue-black, and she realized suddenly that the horse was Windspear, even as the stallion shot downward through the crowd of Harpyia toward Mark.
“Kieran—look out—” she cried, as the Harpyia demons turned their attention to Windspear, their popping yellow eyes swiveling like flashlights.
Kieran flung his arm out, and Cristina felt the sharp electric charge go through her again. White fire flashed and the Harpyia demons recoiled as Windspear landed lightly in front of Mark.
“Mark! To me!” Kieran shouted. Mark looked over at him and grinned—a Hunter’s grin, a battle grin, all teeth—before decapitating a last Harpyia with a jerk of his whip. Splattered with blood and ichor, Mark leaped onto the horse behind Kieran, latching his arms around Kieran’s waist. Windspear sprang into the air and the Harpyia followed, their grinning mouths open to show rows of sharklike teeth.
Kieran shouted something in a Faerie language Cristina didn’t know, and Windspear tilted up at an impossible angle. The horse shot upward like an arrow, just as the truck below them finally exploded, swallowing the Harpyia demons in a massive corona of flames.
Diana’s going to be really angry about her truck, Cristina thought, and slumped down against Windspear’s mane as the faerie horse circled below the clouds, turned, and flew toward the ocean.
* * *
Kit had never been up on the roof of the Los Angeles Institute before. He had to admit it had a better view than the London Institute, unless you were a sucker for skyscrapers. Here you could see the desert stretching out behind the house, all the way to the mountains. Their tops were touched by light reflected from the city on the other side of the range, their valleys in deep shadow. The sky was brilliant with stars.
In front of the house was the ocean, its immensity terrifying and glorious. Tonight the wind was like light fingers stroking its surface, leaving trails of silver ripples behind.
“You seem sad,” said Ty. “Are you?”
They were sitting on the edge of the roof, their legs dangling into empty space. This was probably the way he was supposed to live his high school years, Kit thought, climbing up onto high places, doing dumb and dangerous things that would worry his parents. Only he had no parents to worry, and the dangerous things he was doing were truly dangerous.
He wasn’t worried for himself, but he was worried for Ty. Ty, who was looking at him with concern, his gray gaze skating over Kit’s face as if it were a book he was having trouble reading.
Yes, I’m sad, Kit thought. I’m stuck and frustrated. I wanted to impress you at the Shadow Market and I got so caught up in that I forgot about everything else. About how we really shouldn’t be doing this. About how I can’t tell you we shouldn’t be doing this.
Ty reached out and brushed Kit’s hair away from his face, an absent sort of gesture that sent a shot of something through Kit, a feeling like he’d touched a live electrical fence. He stared, and Ty said, “You ought to get your hair cut.
Julian cuts Tavvy’s hair.”
“Julian’s not here,” said Kit. “And I don’t know if I want him cutting my hair.”
“He’s not bad at it.” Ty dropped his hand. “You said your dad had stuff hidden all over Los Angeles. Is there anything that could help us?”
Your dad. As if Julian was Ty’s father. Then again, he was in a way. “Nothing necromantic,” said Kit.
Ty looked disappointed. Still dizzy from the electric-fence shock, Kit couldn’t stand it. He had to fix it, that look on Ty’s face. “Look—we tried the straightforward approach. Now we have to try the con.”
“I don’t really get cons,” said Ty. “I read a book about them, but I don’t understand how people let themselves get tricked like that.”
Kit’s eyes dropped to the gold locket around Ty’s neck. There was still blood on it. It looked like patches of rust. “It’s not about making people believe what you want them to believe. It’s about letting them believe what they want to believe. About giving them what they think they need.”
Ty raised his eyes; though they didn’t meet Kit’s, Kit could read the expression in them, the dawning awareness. Does he realize? Kit thought, in mingled relief and apprehension.
Ty sprang to his feet. “I have to send a fire-message to Hypatia Vex,” he said.
This was not at all what Kit had expected him to say. “Why? She already said no to helping us.”
“She did. But Shade says she’s always wanted to run the Shadow Market herself.” Ty smiled sideways, and in that moment, despite their difference in coloring, he looked like Julian. “It’s what she thinks she needs.”
* * *
The sky was a road and the stars made pathways; the moon was a watchtower, a lighthouse that led you home.
Being on Windspear’s back was both utterly strange and utterly familiar to Mark. So was having his arms around Kieran. He had flown through so many skies holding Kieran, and the feeling of Kieran’s body against his, the whipcord strength of him, the faint ocean-salt scent of his skin and hair, was mapped into Mark’s blood.
At the same time he could hear Cristina, hear her laughing, see her as she bent to point out landmarks flashing by beneath them. She had asked Kieran if they could fly over the Hollywood sign and he had obliged; Kieran, who made a point of being disobliging.
And Mark’s heart stirred at her laugh; it stirred as he touched Kieran; he was between them again, as he had been in London, and though agitation prickled his nerves at the thought, he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t glad to have Kieran back again.
Kieran brought Windspear down in the lot behind the Institute. Everything was still, broken only by the sound of chirping cicadas. It was hard to believe that ten minutes previously they had been in a fight to the death with Harpyia demons.
“Are you all right?” Cristina said with a frown, as she slid from the horse’s back. “You don’t look well.”
With a start, Mark realized she was talking to Kieran. And that she was right. Kieran had arrived at the Vasquez Rocks almost crackling with energy. It was a kind of wild, numinous magic Mark associated with the royal family but had never seen Kieran employ before.
But the energy seemed to have left him; he leaned a hand against Windspear’s side, breathing hard. There was blood on his hands, his collar and skin; his face was drained of color.
Mark stepped forward, hesitated. He remembered Kieran telling him that they were done. “I didn’t know you were hurt at the rocks, Kier,” he said.
“No. This happened at the Scholomance.”
“Why did you leave?” Cristina asked.
“There’s something I need to tell you.” Kieran winced, and slapped Windspear on the flank. The horse whickered and trotted into the shadows, melting into the darkness.
“First we must get you upstairs.” Cristina glanced at Mark as if she expected him to step forward to help Kieran. When he didn’t, she moved to Kieran’s side, curving his arm around her shoulder. “We must see how badly you are wounded.”
“It is important—” Kieran began.
“So is this.” Cristina moved forward with Kieran leaning on her. Mark could no longer stand it; he swung around to Kieran’s other side, and together they went into the house, Kieran limping between them.
“Thank you, Mark,” Kieran said in a low voice. When Mark chanced a glance sideways, he saw no anger in Kieran’s eyes, but hadn’t Kieran been angry the last time they had been together? Had Kieran forgotten Mark had wronged him? It was not in the nature of princes to forget wrongs or forgive them.
Cristina was saying something about water and food; Mark’s mind was in a whirl, and for a moment, when they stepped into the kitchen, he blinked around in confusion. He’d thought they were going to one of their rooms. Cristina helped Mark get Kieran settled into a chair before going to the sink to get damp towels and soap.
“I must speak to you of what I have learned,” Kieran was saying; he was perched on the chair, all long limbs and dark, odd clothes and burning eyes. His hair shimmered deep blue. He looked like a faerie out of place in the human world, and it stabbed Mark through with a painful sympathy mixed with a fear that he might look like that himself.
“Let me see your face.” Cristina brushed Kieran with gentle fingers; he leaned into her touch, and Mark could not blame him.
“What’s going on?” Light blazed up in the kitchen; it was Helen, carrying a rune-stone in one hand. “Is someone hurt?”
Mark and Cristina exchanged startled looks; Kieran looked between Mark and Helen, his lips parting in realization.
“Were you waiting up for us?” Mark demanded. “It’s past midnight.”
“I was . . . not.” Helen looked down at her sweatpants guiltily. “I wanted a sandwich.” She squinted at Kieran. “Did you trade in Diana’s truck for a faerie prince?”
Kieran was still looking at her with that same realization and Mark knew what he must be seeing: someone who was so clearly Mark’s sister, so clearly the Helen that Mark had spoken about with such pain for so many years in the Hunt.
He rose to his feet and crossed the room to Helen. He lifted her free hand and kissed the back of it.
“The beloved sister of my beloved Mark. It is a joy to behold you well and reunited with your family.”
“I like him,” Helen said to Mark.
Kieran lowered her hand. “May I share my sorrow at the passing of your sister Livia,” he said. “It is a shame to see such a bright and beautiful star untimely extinguished.”
“Yes.” Helen’s eyes glistened. “Thank you.”
I don’t understand. Mark felt as if he were in a dream. He had imagined Kieran meeting his family, but it had not been like this, and Kieran had never been so gracious, even in Mark’s imagination.
“Perhaps we should all sit down,” Helen said. “I think I’d better hear about what happened tonight on your ‘normal patrol.’ ” She raised an eyebrow at Mark.
“I must first tell you of what befell at the Scholomance,” said Kieran firmly. “It is imperative.”
“What happened?” Cristina said. “I thought it would be safe for you there—”
“It was, for a short time,” said Kieran. “Then the Cohort returned from Idris and discovered me. But that story must wait. I came to bring you news.” He glanced around at their expectant faces. “The Inquisitor of the Clave has sent Emma and Julian on a secret mission to Faerie. They are not expected either to return or to survive.”
Mark felt numb all over. “What do you mean?”
“It is a dangerous mission—and someone has been sent after them to make sure they don’t complete it—” Gasping, Kieran slumped back in his chair, looking terribly pale.
Mark and Cristina both reached to steady him at the same time. They looked at each other in some surprise over Kieran’s bowed head.
“Kieran, you’re bleeding!” Cristina exclaimed, taking her hand away from his shoulder. It was stained red.
“It is nothing,�
� Kieran said roughly. Not a lie, precisely—Mark was sure he believed it, but his ashen face and feverish eyes told another story.
“Kier, you’re unwell,” said Mark. “You must rest. You cannot do anyone any good in this condition.”
“Agreed.” Cristina stood up, her hand still red with Kieran’s blood. “We must see to your wounds at once.”
* * *
“You have changed, son of thorns,” said the Queen.
She had been silent for some minutes while the room emptied of guards and observers. Even then, Julian did not entirely believe that they were alone. Who knew what sprites or cluricauns might hide among the shadows?
Julian had been pacing, impelled by a restlessness he couldn’t explain. Then again, he could explain little of what he felt these days. There were impulses he followed, others he avoided, angers and dislikes and even hopes, but he could not have explained the emotion that led him to kill Dane, or what he felt afterward. It was as if the words he needed to describe what he had felt had disappeared from his mental vocabulary.
He remembered someone had once told him that the last words of Sebastian Morgenstern had been I’ve never felt so light. He felt light himself, having put down a weight of constant fear and longing he had grown so used to carrying he no longer noticed it. But still, deep down, the thought of Sebastian chilled him. Was it wrong to feel lightness?
He was conscious now of impatience, and a knowledge, though it was distant, that he was playing with fire. But the knowledge did not come accompanied either by fear or by excitement. It was distant. Clinical.
“We are alone,” said the Queen. “We could amuse ourselves.”
Now he did look at her. Her throne had changed, and so had she. She seemed to be draped along the cushions of a red chaise, her coppery hair tumbling around her. She was radiantly beautiful, the gaunt outlines of her face filled in with youth and health, her brown eyes glowing.
The Queen’s eyes are blue. Emma’s are brown.
But it didn’t change what he was seeing; the Queen’s eyes were the color of tiger’s-eye stones and shimmered as she gazed at him. Her dress was white satin, and as she slowly drew up one leg, sliding her toe along her opposite calf, it fell open at the slit, revealing her legs up to her hips.
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