Queen of Air and Darkness

by Cassandra Clare

  He couldn’t see Kieran. Kieran was somewhere behind him; Mark could hear the guards shouting at him, almost drowned out by the sounds of music and laughter. Kieran. Cristina. His heart was a cold knot of fear for both of them as he was shoved through a filthy puddle and up a set of wooden steps.

  A flap of velvet canopy slapped him in the face; Mark sputtered as the guard holding him laughed. There were hands at his waist, unfastening his weapons belt.

  He kicked out reflexively and was shoved to the floor. “Kneel, half-breed,” snapped one of the guards. They released him, and Mark crouched where he was, on his knees, his chest throbbing with rage. Two guards stood behind him, holding spears level with the back of Mark’s neck. A few feet away, Kieran was in the same position, though he was bleeding from a cut lip. His expression was set in a bitter snarl.

  They were inside Oban’s pavilion. The walls were heavy hanging velvet, the floor expensive rugs that had been trampled and muddied by uncountable booted feet. Wooden tables held dozens of empty and half-empty bottles of wine; some had tipped over and spilled, filling the room with the reek of alcohol.

  “Well, well,” said a drawling voice. Mark looked up; in front of them was a red velvet sofa, and sprawled on it was an indolent-looking young man. Hair streaked black and purple tumbled around his pointed ears, and black kohl was smudged around glittering silver eyes. He wore a silver silk doublet and hose, and white lace spilled from his cuffs. “Little brother Kieran. How nice to see you.” His silver eyes flicked to Mark. “With some guy.” He flicked a dismissive hand in Mark’s direction and turned his smirk on Manuel. “Good work.”

  “I told you I saw them,” Manuel said. “They were at the revel.”

  “I admit it never occurred to me they would be stupid enough to set foot in the Unseelie Lands,” said Oban. “You win that point, Villalobos.”

  “They make an excellent gift,” said Manuel. He stood between the guards with their spears, his arms crossed over his chest. He was grinning. “Your father will be pleased.”

  “My father?” Oban tapped his fingers on the arm of the sofa. “You think I should deliver Kieran to my father? He’ll just kill him. Dull.”

  Mark darted a glance at Kieran through his eyelashes. Kieran was on his knees. He didn’t look frightened of Oban, but he’d never show it if he was.

  “A gift is more than just a gift,” said Manuel. “It’s a method of persuasion. Your father—mistakenly—thinks you weak, Prince. If you bring him Prince Kieran and the Shadowhunter half-breed, he’ll realize he should take you more seriously.” He lowered his voice. “We can convince him to kill the prisoners and move ahead with our plan.”

  Prisoners? What prisoners? Mark tensed. Could he mean Julian and Emma? But that wasn’t possible. They were with the Seelie procession.

  At least Cristina was safe. She had vanished, eluding the guards. The Angel knew where she was now. Mark chanced a sideways glance at Kieran: Wasn’t he panicking too? Wasn’t he terrified for Cristina as Mark was? He ought to be, considering the way they’d been kissing.

  Oban reached for the side table and scrabbled around among the bottles stacked on top of it, looking for one with alcohol still in it. “My father does not respect me,” he said. “He thinks my brothers are more worthy of the throne. Though they are not.”

  “I’m sure they think the same about you,” Mark muttered.

  Oban found a bottle and lifted it up to the light, squinting at the half inch of amber fluid still inside. “A wanted prisoner might change his mind, but it might not be enough.”

  “You do want to rise in your father’s favor, do you not?” said Manuel.

  Oban took a swig from his bottle. “Of course. Rather.”

  Mark had the feeling Manuel was rolling his eyes internally. “Then you need to demonstrate that he should take you seriously. The first time you went to him, he wouldn’t even hear you out.”

  “Fatuous old bag,” muttered Oban, tossing the empty bottle aside. It shattered.

  “If you bring him these prisoners, he will listen to you. I will go with you—I will tell him that together we tracked them down. I will make it clear that as a representative of the Cohort, I wish to work only with you as our contact in the Unseelie Court. It will make you seem important.”

  “Seem?” said Oban.

  Kieran made an inelegant snorting noise.

  “It will make him understand how important you are,” Manuel corrected smoothly. “Your father will realize the value you bring to him. The hostages are the key to a parley between Nephilim and the Unseelie Folk that has no precedent in our history. When every Shadowhunter sees you meet and achieve a mutually beneficial peace, all will realize that you and Horace Dearborn are the greatest of leaders, able to achieve the alliance your forefathers could not.”

  “What?” said Mark, unable to stay silent. “What are you talking about?”

  “Might it not bring real war?” Oban had found another bottle. “War seems like a bad idea.”

  With exasperated patience, Manuel said, “There will be no war. I told you.” He glanced at Kieran and then at Mark. “War is not the object here. And I think the King wants Kieran dead more than you think.”

  “Because the people love him,” said Oban, in a maudlin tone. “They wanted him to be King. Because he was kind.”

  “Kindness is not a kingly quality,” said Manuel. “As the people will discover when your father hangs Kieran from a gibbet high above the tower gardens.”

  Mark jerked backward, and nearly impaled himself on a spear. “You—”

  “Kindness may not be a kingly quality, but mercy is,” interrupted Kieran. “You don’t have to do this, Oban. Manuel is not worth your effort, and his schemes are so many lies.”

  Oban sighed. “You are tediously predictable, youngest son.” He dropped the bottle he was holding, and the scarlet liquid in it ran out onto the floor like blood. “I want the throne, and I shall have the throne, and Manuel will help me get it. That is all I care about. That is all that matters.” A smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Unlike you, I have not come to love and pursue shadows, but only what is real.”

  Remember, Mark thought. Remember that none of this is real.

  Oban flicked a hand toward the two of them as Manuel smirked almost audibly. “Chain them together and find them horses. We ride for the Unseelie Court this night.”

  * * *

  Barnabas was already at the 101 Coffee Shop in Hollywood when Drusilla arrived. He was sitting at a tan booth and forking up a plate of delicious-looking huevos rancheros. He sported a black cowboy hat and a bolo tie that seemed to be choking him, but he looked pleased with himself.

  Dru stopped to glance at her reflection in the windows that ran along one side of the diner. The other side was a kitschy rock wall; in the corner there was a jukebox and dozens of framed photos of what Dru guessed were the owner’s family and friends.

  It was dark outside, and the window gave her back a clear picture of herself. Dark hair pulled up and smooth, gray business suit, classic heels (stolen from Emma’s closet). She wore red lipstick and no other makeup; Kit had assured her that less was more. “You don’t want to look like a clown,” he’d said, tossing her powder blush in Racy Rose over his shoulder as if it were a grenade.

  Somewhere out there in the shadows, Kit and Ty were watching, ready to jump to her defense if anything went wrong. Knowing that made her feel less worried. Hoisting her briefcase in her hand, she sauntered across the diner past ivory-and toffee-colored leather seats, and slid into the booth across from Barnabas.

  His snake’s eyes flicked up to observe her. Up close, he didn’t look well. His scales were dull, and his eyes rimmed with red. “Vanessa Ashdown?”

  “That’s me,” Dru said, setting the briefcase down on her place mat. “In the flesh.”

  His forked tongue slithered out of his mouth. “And plenty of it. No worries, I like a woman with curves. Most of you Shadowhunters are so bony.”<
br />
  Blech, Dru thought. She tapped the briefcase. “Business, Mr. Hale.”

  “Right.” His tongue vanished, to her relief. “So, toots. You’ve got proof that Hypatia Vex has been passing secrets to Shadowhunters?”

  “Right in here.” Dru smiled and pushed the briefcase toward him.

  He unsnapped it and flicked it open, then frowned. “This is money.”

  “Yes.” She gave him a bright smile and tried not to glance around to see if anyone was coming to back her up. “It’s the money we’ve earmarked for Hypatia in exchange for secrets.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Normally, I’m happy to see a big box of money, don’t get me wrong. But I was kind of hoping for photos of her handing evidence to some Blackthorns.”

  “Why Blackthorns?” Drusilla said.

  “Because,” said Barnabas. “They’re smarmy little rats.” He sat back. “You gotta give me something better than this, Vanessa.”

  “Well, look closer at the money.” Dru played for time. “Because, ah, it’s not ordinary money.”

  Looking bored, Barnabas picked up a stack of twenties. Dru tensed. Kit had told her to keep Barnabas talking, but it wasn’t like she could distract him by telling him the plot of Bloody Birthday or about the new cute thing Church had done.

  “There ain’t nothing special about this money,” Barnabas began, and broke off as the door of the diner flew open and a tall warlock woman with dark skin and bronze hair strode into the room. She wore a glimmering pantsuit and toweringly high heels. She was followed by two other Downworlders—a muscled male werewolf and a pallid, dark-haired vampire.

  “Damn,” said Barnabas. “Hypatia—what—?”

  “I heard you were selling secrets to Shadowhunters, Hale,” said Hypatia. “Look at that—caught with your hand in the bag.” She winked at Dru. The pupils of her eyes were shaped like golden stars.

  “How could you?” demanded the vampire. “I thought it was all lies, Barnabas!” She sniffed and glanced at Dru. “You were really buying secrets off him? Who are you, anyway?”

  “Drusilla,” said Dru. “Drusilla Blackthorn.”

  “A Blackthorn?” said Barnabas, outraged.

  “And he was definitely selling secrets,” said Dru. “For instance, he just told me he dug up a copy of the Red Scrolls of Magic from under Johnny Rook’s booth as soon as he died. And he’s been keeping it to himself.”

  “Is that true?” rumbled the werewolf. “And you call yourself the head of the Shadow Market?”

  “You little—” Barnabas launched himself across the table at Dru. She slid out of the booth fast and collided with someone’s torso with an oomph. She looked up. It was Ty, a shortsword in his hand, pointed directly at Barnabas’s chest.

  He put one arm protectively around Dru, his gaze never wavering from the warlock. “Leave my sister alone,” he said.

  “That’s right,” said Kit. He waved from the next booth. “I forgot my weapons. But I do have this fork.” He wiggled it. “You are so forked,” he said to Barnabas.

  “Oh, shut up,” Barnabas said. But he looked defeated; the werewolf had already grabbed him, pulling his arms behind his back. Hypatia was clearing the briefcase and money off the table.

  She winked her starry eyes at Ty and Dru. “Time for you Shadowhunters to go,” she said. “This marks the end of your little Downworlder deal. And tell your new Inquisitor that we don’t want anything to do with him or his bigoted rules. We’ll go where we want, when we want.”

  Ty lowered his sword slowly. Kit dropped his fork, and the three of them strode out of the diner. Once on the pavement, Dru took a deep, relieved breath of air—it was a warm night, and the moon was high and glowing over Franklin Avenue. She felt shivery with excitement—she’d done it! She’d tricked a famous warlock. Pulled off a con. She was a con woman now!

  “I think Hypatia meant what she said to us,” Kit said, glancing back through the windows of the coffee shop. Hypatia and the other Downworlders were escorting a struggling Barnabas toward the back door. “All that stuff about telling the Inquisitor—that wasn’t part of the con. That was a real message.”

  “As if we could get word to the Inquisitor,” said Ty. He touched his hand absently to the locket at his throat. “That was good. You did a really good job, Dru.”

  “Yep. You kept your cool,” said Kit. He glanced up and down the street. “I’d suggest we go get milk shakes or something to celebrate, but this is kind of a scary neighborhood.”

  “Shadowhunters don’t worry about scary neighborhoods,” said Dru.

  “Have you learned nothing from the way Batman’s parents died?” said Kit, feigning shock.

  Ty smiled. And for the first time since Livvy had died, Dru laughed.

  * * *

  With Aline and Tavvy’s help, Helen had set up a large table inside the Sanctuary. Two chairs sat behind it, and the table was covered in the accoutrements of bureaucracy: pens and blank forms that had been sent by the Clave, file folders and rubber stamps. It was all drearily mundane, in Helen’s opinion.

  A long line of werewolves, warlocks, vampires, and faeries stretched through the room and out the front doors. They had set up their “Registry Station” atop the Angelic Power rune etched on the floor, blocking the doors that led into the Institute.

  The first Downworlder to step up to their makeshift office was a werewolf. He had an enormous mustache that reminded Helen of seventies cop movies. He was glowering. “My name is Greg—”

  “Your name is Elton John,” Aline said, writing it down.

  “No,” said the werewolf. “It’s Greg. Greg Anderson.”

  “It’s Elton John,” said Aline, grabbing a stamp. “You’re thirty-six and you’re a chimney sweep who lives in Bel Air.” She stamped the paper in red ink—REGISTERED—and handed it back.

  The werewolf took the paper, blinking in puzzlement. “What are you doing?”

  “It means the Clave won’t be able to find you,” explained Tavvy, who was sitting under the table, playing with a toy car. “But you’re registered.”

  “Technically,” said Helen, willing him to accept the ruse. If he didn’t, they’d have trouble with the others.

  Greg looked at the paper again. “Just my opinion,” he said, “but the guy behind me looks like Humphrey Bogart.”

  “Humphrey it is!” said Aline, waving her stamp. “Do you want to be Humphrey Bogart?” she asked the next Downworlder, a skinny, tall warlock with a sad face and poodle ears.

  “Who doesn’t?” said the warlock.

  Most of the Downworlders were wary as they worked their way through the rest of the line, but cooperative. There were even some smiles and thanks. They seemed to understand that Aline and Helen were attempting to undermine the system, if not why.

  Aline pointed at a tall blond faerie in the line, wearing a gossamer dress. “That one’s Taylor Swift.”

  Helen smiled as she handed a werewolf a stamped form. “How much trouble are we going to get into for this?”

  “Does it matter?” said Aline. “We’re going to do it anyway.”

  “True enough,” said Helen, and reached for another form.

  * * *

  Take me to him. Take me.

  There was quiet and silence—and then light, and a thousand sharp, pricking pains. Cristina yelped and struggled free of what felt like a tangle of briars, tumbling sideways and thumping hard onto grassy earth.

  She sat up, looking ruefully down at her hands and arms, dotted with dozens of tiny pinpricks of blood. She had landed in a rosebush, which was more than a little ironic.

  She got to her feet, brushing herself off. She was still in Faerie, but it seemed to be daytime here. Golden sunlight burnished a thatched-roof cottage of pale yellow stone. A turquoise-blue river ran past the small house, lined with blue and purple lupin flowers.

  Cristina wasn’t sure what she had expected, but it hadn’t been this pastoral bliss. She dabbed gently at the blood on her hands and arms, gav
e up, and glanced up and down the small, winding trail that cut through the tall grass. It led from the front door of the cottage, across the meadow, and vanished into the hazy distance.

  Cristina marched up to the cottage door and knocked firmly. “Adaon!” she called. “Adaon Kingson!”

  The door swung open as if Adaon had been waiting on the other side. The last time Cristina had seen him, he had been decked out in the regalia of the Unseelie Court, with the broken crown insignia on his chest. Now he wore a plain linen tunic and breeches. His deep brown skin looked warm in the sunlight. It was the first time she had been able to see his resemblance to Kieran.

  Maybe it was because he looked furious.

  “How is it possible that you are here?” he demanded, looking around as if he couldn’t believe she had come alone.

  “I sought help,” she said. “I was in Faerie—”

  He narrowed his eyes. He seemed to be staring suspiciously at a bluebird. “Come inside immediately. It is not safe to speak outside.”

  The moment she was inside the cottage, Adaon closed the door and set himself to fastening a number of intricate-looking, complicated locks. “Faerie is a dangerous place right now. There are all sorts of ways you could have been tracked or followed.”

  They were inside a small wood-paneled entryway. An arched doorway led through to the rest of the cottage. Adaon was blocking it, arms crossed in front of his chest. He was glowering. After a moment’s hesitation, Cristina held out the artifact to him. “I could not have been tracked. I used this.”

  If she’d hoped Adaon would look relieved, he didn’t. “Where did you get that?”

  “It is a family heirloom,” Cristina said. “It was given freely as a gift by a family of hadas who an ancestor of mine aided.”

  Adaon scowled. “It is a token of Rhiannon. Treat it with care.” He stalked out of the entryway and into a small living room, where a well-scrubbed wooden table stood in a shaft of sunlight pouring through wide, leaded windows. A small kitchen was visible: A vase on the table held a riot of colorful flowers and stacked bowls of painted pottery.