“I don’t look anything like Vanessa Ashdown,” Dru added hesitantly.
“He doesn’t know what she looks like,” said Kit. “He just knows she’s got a lot of money for him.”
“He probably thinks she isn’t thirteen,” said Dru. “He’s got to imagine she’s an adult, especially if she’s got a lot of money. Which incidentally, why do you have a lot of money?”
“You look a lot older than you are,” said Kit, ignoring her question. “And we thought . . .”
Ty got up and went into the hall. They both looked after him, Kit wondering if the mention of Livvy had sent him running. Whether any cracks were starting to appear in the wall of his belief that Livvy was coming back.
“Did I upset him?” Dru said in a small voice.
Before Kit could respond, Ty had returned. He was carrying what looked like a pile of gray cloth. “I’ve noticed people look at clothes a lot more than they look at other people’s faces. I thought maybe you could wear one of Mom’s suits.” He held out a slate-colored skirt and jacket. “I think you were similar sizes.”
Dru stood up and reached out for the clothes. “Okay,” she said, taking them into her arms carefully. Kit wondered how much she remembered of her mother. Did she have dim recollections, like he did, of a soft kind voice, the sound of singing? “Okay, I’ll do it. Where are we going?”
“Hollywood,” Kit said. “Tomorrow.”
Dru frowned. “Helen and Aline don’t know about this. And they said they’d be in the Sanctuary all tomorrow night. Something to do with Downworlders.”
“Good,” Kit said. “So they won’t be wondering where we are.”
“Sure—but how are we getting there?”
Ty smiled and tapped his side pocket, where his phone was. “Drusilla Blackthorn, meet Uber.”
* * *
For the third time, Emma and Julian paused in the shadow of a doorway to consult their map. The inside of the tower was nearly featureless—if it weren’t for the map, Emma suspected, they would have been wandering lost for days.
She winced and ached every time she moved. Julian had done his best to patch her up outside the tower, using torn strips from his shirt as bandages. They were so used to functioning with healing runes and the Silent Brothers’ skills, Emma thought, that they never expected to be working hurt, not for more than a brief amount of time. Pushing past the pain where the thorns had driven into her body was exhausting, and she found herself glad for the chance to rest for a moment while Julian stared at the map.
The inside of the tower resembled the inside of a seashell. The corridors twisted around and around in circles, ever narrowing as they ascended, keeping to the shadows. They had discussed whether to use Nene’s potion, but Julian had said they should save it until they absolutely needed it—right now, the corridors were crowded enough with faeries both Seelie and Unseelie that no one was taking too close a look at two hurrying figures in torn cloaks.
“The corridors split here,” Julian said. “One leads down, one up. The throne room isn’t marked on the map—”
“But we know it’s near the top of the tower,” said Emma. “The Queen’s probably already there. We can’t let the King get his hands on the Black Volume.”
“Then I guess we go that way,” Julian said, indicating the ascending corridor. “Keep going up, and hope for some kind of helpful signage on the way.”
“Sure. Because faeries are so big on helpful signage.”
Julian almost smiled. “All right. Keep your hood down.”
They headed up the steeply sloping corridor, their hoods pulled low. As they ascended, the crowds of faeries began to thin out, as if they were reaching rarefied air. The walls became lined with doors, each one more elaborately decorated than the one before, with chips of rare stones and inlaid gold. Emma could hear voices, laughter and chatter, from behind them; she guessed this was the area where the courtiers lived.
One doorway was half-obscured by a tapestry patterned in stars. Standing outside it were two guards dressed in unusual gold-and-black armor, their faces hidden by helmets. Emma felt a shiver of cold as they went by, passing into an area where the corridor narrowed, and narrowed again, as if they were truly winding closer to the heart of a seashell. The torches burned lower in their holders, and Emma squinted ahead, wishing for a Night Vision rune.
Julian clamped his hand down on her arm, drawing her into a shallow alcove. “Redcaps,” he hissed.
Emma peered around the wall. Indeed, two lines of redcaps stood guarding a tall archway. Redcaps were among the most vicious of faerie warriors. They wore scarlet uniforms dyed in the blood of those they had slain. Unusually for faeries, these guards were bearded, with weathered faces. They carried pikestaffs whose metal spearheads were crusted with dried blood.
“This must be it,” Julian whispered. “The throne room.”
He drew the chain with the vial on it over his head, snapped off the top, and swallowed the liquid inside. Emma hurried to do the same, and stifled a gasp. It burned, as if she had swallowed liquid fire. She saw Julian make a pained face before he dropped his empty vial in his pocket.
They stared at each other. Other than the burning in her throat and stomach, Emma felt the same. She could still see her own hands and feet, clear as day, and Julian hadn’t so much as started to get fuzzy around the edges. It wasn’t quite what she’d imagined.
“Nene did say we’d only be invisible to Unseelie faeries,” said Julian quietly after a long moment. His eyes suddenly narrowed. “Emma . . . ?”
“What?” she whispered. “What is it?”
Slowly he raised his hand and tapped his chest, where his parabatai rune was, beneath his clothes. Emma blinked. She could see a dark red glow emanating from the spot, as if his heart itself were glowing. The glow was moving, shifting, like a tiny sandstorm.
“Julian . . .” She glanced down. There was a glow surrounding her own rune too. It was uncanny enough to make her shiver, but she pushed the feeling away and stalked out into the corridor. A moment later Julian was at her side.
The line of redcaps was still there, in front of the dark archway. Emma began to move toward them, conscious of Julian beside her. She could see him clearly, and hear his footsteps, yet as they moved toward the throne room and slipped between the rows of redcaps, no one turned toward them. Not a single redcap appeared to hear or see them.
Emma could see the dark light as if it were strapped across Julian’s chest. But why would an invisibility potion make his parabatai rune glow? It didn’t make sense, but she didn’t have time to wonder about it—they were passing the last pair of redcaps. She felt like a mouse walking blithely in front of an oblivious cat.
A moment later they were over the threshold and inside the throne room of the King.
It was not what Emma had expected. Rather than glimmering gold and rich decor, the room was bare, the floor dark gray stone. The walls were windowless, except for the north wall: A massive glass rectangle looked out onto a blowing nighttime view. The room was scattered with heaps of tumbled boulders, some as big as elephants, many smashed into smaller pieces. It looked like the ruins of a giant’s playground.
There were no seats in the room except for the throne, which was itself a boulder into which a seat had been carved. Stone rose all around its back and sides, as if to shield the King, who sat motionless on the throne’s seat.
In his hands was Julian’s copy of the Black Volume.
As they entered, the King looked up, frowning, and for a moment of panic Emma thought that he could see them. His face was as awful as she remembered it: Divided exactly down the middle as if by a blade, it was half the face of a beautifully striking man, and half stripped skeletal bone. He wore a rich red velvet doublet, a cloak was fastened to his shoulders with rows of golden aiguillettes, and a golden crown bound his brow. A clear vial dangled on a chain around his throat, filled with some scarlet potion.
Reflexively, Emma and Julian ducked behind the ne
arest heap of broken stone just as four guards strode in, surrounding a woman in white with long dark hair. Behind her marched a young boy with a golden circlet around his head. Two guards accompanied him. They wore the unusual black-and-gold armor Emma had noted before, in the corridor.
She didn’t have much time to think about it, though, because as the woman in white moved into the room, she turned her head, and Emma recognized her.
It was Annabel Blackthorn.
Memory surged in the back of Emma’s throat, a bitter wave. Annabel on the dais in the Council Hall. Annabel, her eyes wild, driving the shards of the Mortal Sword into Livvy’s chest. Annabel covered in blood, the dais swimming with it, Julian holding Livvy in his arms.
Beside Emma, Julian sucked in a harsh, choking breath. He had gone rigid. Emma grabbed his shoulder. It felt like granite: unyielding, inhuman.
His hand was at his belt, on the hilt of a shortsword. His eyes were fixed on Annabel. His whole body was tense with barely leashed energy.
He’s going to kill her. Emma knew it the way she knew each of his next moves in a fight, the rhythm of his breath in battle. She tugged at him, pulling him around to face her, though it was like trying to move a boulder.
“No.” She spoke in a harsh whisper. “You can’t. Not now.”
Julian was breathing hard, as if he’d been running. “Let me go, Emma.”
“She can see us,” Emma hissed. “She’s not a faerie. She will see us coming, Julian.”
He looked at her with wild eyes.
“She’ll raise the alarm, and we’ll be stopped. If you try to kill Annabel now, we’ll both be caught. And we’ll never get the Black Volume back.”
“She needs to die for what she did.” Two harsh red dots burned on his cheekbones. “Let me kill her and the King can keep the goddamn book—”
Emma caught at his cloak. “We’ll both die here if you try!”
Julian was silent, his fingers closing and unclosing at his side. The red glow above his parabatai rune flared like fire, and black lines chased through it, as if it were glass about to shatter.
“Would you really choose revenge over Tavvy and Dru and Ty?” Emma shook him, hard, and let go. “Would you want them to know that you did?”
Julian sagged back against a rock. He shook his head slowly, as if in disbelief, but the red glow around him had dimmed. Maybe the mention of the Blackthorn kids had been a low blow, Emma thought, but she didn’t care; it was worth it to keep Julian from flinging himself headlong into suicide. Her legs were still shaking as she turned around to peer at the throne room through a gap in the rocks.
Annabel and the boy had approached the throne. Annabel looked nothing like she had before—she wore a dress of bleached linen, gathered under her bosom, falling to brush her ankles. Her hair fell down her back in a smooth river. She looked quiet and ordinary and harmless. She held the hand of the boy in the crown carefully, as if ready to shield him from harm if necessary.
They were still surrounded by Unseelie guards in gold and black. The King smiled at them with half his face, a horrible smile. “Annabel,” said the King. “Ash. I have had this day some interesting tidings.”
Ash. Emma stared at the boy. So this was the Seelie Queen’s son. He had silver-fair hair and deep green eyes like forest leaves; he wore a high-collared velvet tunic and the golden band around his forehead was a smaller version of the King’s. He was probably no more than Dru’s age, thin in a way that didn’t look healthy, and there was a bruise on his cheek. He carried himself with the same straight posture Kieran did. Princes probably weren’t supposed to slump.
He looked familiar in a way she couldn’t quite place. Was it just that he resembled his mother?
“This day I have had a visit from the Queen of the Seelie Court,” said the King.
Ash lifted his head sharply. “What did my mother want?”
“As you know, she has long bargained for your return, and only today she has brought me what I asked for.” The King sat forward and spoke with relish. “The Black Volume of the Dead.”
“That’s impossible,” said Annabel, her pale cheeks flushing. “I have the Black Volume. The Queen is a liar.”
The King tapped two gloved fingers against his bony cheek. “Is she,” he mused. “It is something of an interesting philosophical question, isn’t it? What is a book? Is it the binding, the ink, the pages, or the sum of the words contained?”
Annabel frowned. “I don’t understand.”
The King drew the copy of the Black Volume from where it had rested at his side. He held it up so that Annabel and Ash could see it. “This is a copy of the Black Volume of the Dead,” he said. “The book that is also called the Dark Artifices, for it contains within it some of the most formidable magic ever recorded.” He caressed the front page. “The Queen says it is an exact duplicate. It was made with the assistance of a wizard of great power called OfficeMax, of whom I know nothing.”
“Jesus Christ,” Julian muttered.
“The Queen has left it with me for the span of a single day,” said the King, “that I might decide whether I wish to trade Ash for it. I have sworn to return it to her at the rising of the sun tomorrow morning.”
“The Queen is deceiving you.” Annabel drew Ash closer to her side. “She would trick you into trading Ash for this—this flawed copy.”
“Perhaps.” The King’s eyes were hooded. “I have yet to make my decision. But you, Annabel, you also have your decisions to make. I have observed that you’ve become very close to Ash. I suspect you would miss him if you were parted. Is that not true?”
A thunderous expression had come across Annabel’s face, but for a moment Emma was more interested in Ash’s. There was a look in his eyes that made him seem more familiar to her than ever. A sort of coldness, astonishing in someone so young.
“But you need Ash,” said Annabel. “You’ve said so a dozen times. You require him as your weapon.” She spoke with contempt. “You have already worked magics upon him since you took him from his mother’s Court. If you give him back—”
The King leaned back in his stone seat. “I will not give him back. The Queen will see reason. It will take some time for the Black Volume to work its will upon Ash. But when it has, we will no longer need the Portal. He will be able to spread blight and destruction with his very hands. The Queen hates Shadowhunters as much as I do. Within a month, their precious land of Idris will look like this—”
He gestured at the window set in the wall. Suddenly the view through the glass changed—in fact, there was no glass. It was as if a hole had been torn in the world, and through it Emma could see a view of a blowing desert and a gray sky scorched with lightning. The sand was stained red with blood, and broken trees stood scarecrow-like against the acidic horizon.
“That’s not our world,” Julian murmured. “It’s another dimension—like Edom—but Edom was destroyed—”
Emma couldn’t stop staring. Human figures, half-covered by the sand; the white of bone. “Julian, I can see bodies—”
The King waved his hand again, and the Portal turned dark. “As Thule is now, so Idris will be.”
Thule? The word was familiar. Emma frowned.
“You think you’ll be able to convince the Queen to endanger her child just for power,” said Annabel. “Not everyone is like you.”
“But the Queen is,” said the Unseelie King. “I know it, because Ash would not be the first.” He grinned a skeleton grin. “Annabel Blackthorn, you have toyed with me because I have allowed it. You have no true power here.”
“I know your name,” Annabel gasped. “Malcolm told it to me. I can force you—”
“You will die the moment the name leaves your lips, and Ash will die after,” said the King. “But because I do not wish bloodshed, I will give you one night to decide. Give me the true Black Volume, and you may remain here with Ash and be his guardian. If not, I shall join forces with the Queen instead and drive you from my lands, and you will nev
er see Ash again.”
Ash pulled away from Annabel’s restraining hands. “What if I say no? What if I refuse?”
The King turned his red gaze on the boy. “You are a perfect candidate for the Dark Artifices,” he said. “But in the end, do you truly think I would stop at harming Sebastian Morgenstern’s brat?”
The name was like a blow. Sebastian Morgenstern. But how—
“No!” Annabel screamed. “Don’t you touch him!”
“Guards,” said the King, and the guards snapped to attention. “Take the woman and the boy away. I am done with them.”
Julian scrambled to his feet. “We have to follow them—”
“We can’t,” Emma whispered. “The potion is wearing off. Look. The red light is almost gone.”
Julian glanced down. The scarlet glow above his heart had dimmed to an ember.
The guards had closed about Annabel and Ash and were marching them from the chamber. Emma caught hold of Julian’s hand and together they crept out from behind the boulders.
The guards were escorting Annabel and Ash out the arched doorway. For a moment, Emma and Julian paused in the center of the throne room, directly in the line of the King’s view.
He was staring straight ahead of him. In the untouched side of his face, Emma thought she could see a bit of Kieran—a Kieran split down the middle, half-tortured and inhuman.
She felt Julian’s hand tighten on hers. Every one of her nerves was screaming that the King could see them, that at any moment he would call for his guards, that they would die here before Emma even got a chance to lift a blade.
She told herself she would at least try to plunge her dagger into the King’s heart before she died.
Julian tugged her fingers. Incredibly, he had the map in his other hand; he jerked his chin toward the arch beneath which Ash and Annabel had vanished.
There was no more time. They raced through the archway.
* * *
There was little point struggling; there were at least three faerie guards on each side of Mark, and their grip on his arms was merciless. He was dragged through the revel, still dizzy from the potion in his blood. Shapes seemed to loom up on either side of him: spinning dancers, blurred as if seen through the prism of a teardrop. The King of Cats, regarding him with glimmering tabby eyes. A row of horses, rearing away from the sparks of a fire.
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