Queen of Air and Darkness

by Cassandra Clare

  “He could see we were bloody and starving. And that there were only two of us. He didn’t ask questions. He told us about this place, the Bradbury Building. He was tapped into the resistance. It was tiny then, but there were two ex-Shadowhunters who had once hunted a demon here. They said it was an old, strong building full of salt and iron, easy to lock down. Plus because of the LAPD leasing space, there was a stockpile of weapons here.

  “We joined up with the others and helped them break in. Even Dru helped, though she still wasn’t talking. We started to reinforce the building and spread the word that those resisting Sebastian were welcome here. People came from New York, from Canada and Mexico, from all over. We slowly built up the population, made a haven for refugees.”

  “So Dru is still—?” Emma began eagerly, but Livvy went on.

  “Two years ago she went out with a scouting party. Never came back. It happens all the time.”

  “Did you look for her?” Julian said.

  Livvy turned a flat gaze on him. “We don’t go after people here,” she said. “We don’t do rescue missions. They get more people killed. If I disappeared, I wouldn’t expect anyone to come after me. I’d hope they wouldn’t be that stupid.” She set her glass down. “Anyway, now you know. That’s the story.”

  They stared at each other, the three of them, for a long moment. Then Julian stood up. He went around the table and lifted Livvy up and hugged her, so tightly that Emma saw her gasp in surprise.

  Don’t push him away, she thought, please, don’t.

  Livvy didn’t. She squeezed her eyes shut and grabbed onto Julian. They stood hugging each other for a long moment like two drowning people clinging to the same life raft. Livvy pressed her face against Julian’s shoulder and gave a single, dry sob.

  Emma stumbled to her feet and over to them, not inserting herself into the hug but gently stroking Livvy’s hair. Livvy raised her head from Julian’s shoulder and offered her a tiny smile.

  “We’re going to get back to our world,” Julian said. “Ty is alive there. Everyone’s alive there. We’ll take you with us. You belong there, not here.”

  Emma waited for Livvy to ask about her own fate in their world, but she didn’t. Instead she pulled a little away from Julian and shook her head—not angrily, but with immense sadness. “There are things I have to do here,” she said. “It’s not like we’re just walled up here waiting to die. We’re fighting, Jules.”

  “Jesus, Livs,” he said in a half-broken voice. “It’s so dangerous—”

  “I know,” she said, and patted his face lightly, the way she had sometimes when she was a very little girl, as if the familiar shape of his features was reassuring. Then she stepped away, breaking the hug. She smoothed her hair back and said, “I didn’t tell you about the Silent Brothers.”

  “The Silent Brothers?” Emma was puzzled.

  “When Idris fell, the Silent Brothers were killed, but before they died they sealed the Silent City, with the Mortal Cup and Mortal Sword inside it. No one could get in. Not even Sebastian. And he wants to, desperately.”

  “Why does he want the Mortal Instruments?” said Julian.

  “He has a version of the Cup that controls the Endarkened,” said Livvy. “But he wants to master us. He thinks if he can get the Mortal Instruments together, he can control what remains of the Nephilim—turn us from rebels into slaves.”

  “Sebastian said something on the beach,” Emma recalled, “about the Mortal Instruments.”

  “We have people on the inside, like Cameron,” said Livvy. “The rumor is that Sebastian is getting closer to figuring out a way into the City.” She hesitated. “That would be the end of us. All we can do is hope he doesn’t make it, or that the progress is slow. We can’t stop him.”

  Emma and Julian stared at each other. “What if we could find a warlock?” Emma suggested. “Someone who could help you get into the Silent City first?”

  Livvy hesitated. “I like your enthusiasm,” she said. “But the warlocks are all dead or demons.”

  “Hear me out,” Emma said. She was thinking of Cristina, in the Unseelie Court: It’s not the ley lines. It’s the blight. “You were talking about how the demons came into Idris through patches of blight. We have those in our world too, though demons aren’t coming through yet. And our warlocks are also getting sick—the oldest and most powerful first. They’re not turning into demons—not yet, anyway—but the illness is the same.”

  “And?” Julian said. He was looking at her with thoughtful respect. Emma had always been praised for her fighting skills, but only Julian had been there to reassure her she was smart and capable, too. She realized suddenly how much she’d missed that.

  “In our world, there’s one warlock who is immune to the sickness,” said Emma. “Tessa Gray. If she’s immune here, too, she might be able to help us.”

  Livvy was staring. “There are rumors of the Last Warlock, but I’ve never seen Tessa here in Los Angeles. I don’t even know if she’s still alive.”

  “I have a way to contact her.” Emma held up her hand. “This ring. Maybe it will work here. It’s worth a shot.”

  Livvy looked from the ring to Emma. She spoke slowly. “I remember that ring. You used to wear it. Brother Zachariah gave it to you while we were in Manhattan, but it was lost when you—when Emma was lost.”

  A spark of hope flared in Emma’s heart. “He gave it to me in my world too,” she said. “It could work here if Tessa still has the other one.”

  Livvy didn’t say anything. Emma had a feeling she’d long ago given up believing things were worth a shot.

  “Let me just try,” Emma said, and swung her left hand hard against one of the concrete pillars. The glass bauble in the ring smashed, and the metal of the ring darkened, suddenly splotched with markings like rust or blood. The prongs that had held the glass disappeared—the ring was now just a metal band.

  Livvy exhaled. “Real magic,” she said. “I haven’t seen that in a long time.”

  “Seems like a good sign,” said Julian. “If Tessa is still here, she might have powers that still work.”

  It seemed like a spiderweb-thin string to hang hope on, Emma thought. But what else did they have?

  Livvy went over to one of the desks and returned with Emma’s phone. “Here you go,” she said a little reluctantly.

  “Keep it if you want it,” Emma said; she knew Julian was looking at her, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Really—”

  “The battery’s dying anyway,” Livvy said, but there was something else in her voice, something that said it hurt to look at the pictures of a life that had been taken from her. “Ty grew up so handsome,” she added. “The girls must be all over him. Or the boys,” she added with a sideways smile that faded quickly. “Anyway. You take it.”

  Emma put the phone into her pocket. As Livvy turned away, Emma thought she caught sight of the edge of a black Mark just under the collar of Livvy’s T-shirt. She blinked—weren’t there no Marks here?

  It looked like the curlicue of a mourning rune.

  Livvy flopped back down on the couch. “Well, there’s no point waiting here,” she said. “It’ll just make us tense. You guys go and get some sleep. If nothing happens by tomorrow afternoon, we can regroup.”

  Emma and Julian made for the exit. At the door, Julian hesitated. “I was wondering,” he said. “Is this place any better by daylight?”

  Livvy had been studying her hands, with their patterns of scars. She raised her eyes and for a moment they blazed, familiar Blackthorn blue.

  “Just you wait,” she said.

  * * *

  Pajamas didn’t seem to be a thing in Thule. After showering, Julian sat on the bed in a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, staring at the painted metal window with its false silver stars. He was thinking of Mark. When Mark had been a captive of the Wild Hunt, every night he had counted out his brothers’ and sisters’ names on the points of light wheeling above.

  In Thule you couldn’t
see the stars. What had Livvy done? How had she remembered them all? Or had it been less painful to try to forget? Mark had thought his siblings were alive and happy without him. Livvy knew they were dead or in thrall. Which was worse?

  “She didn’t ask,” he said as Emma came out of the bathroom in her tank top and a pair of boxer briefs. “Livvy—she didn’t ask about our world. Nothing at all.”

  Emma sank onto the bed beside him. She had pulled her hair back in a braid; he could feel the warmth of her and smell the soap on her skin. His insides tightened. “Can you blame her? Our world’s not perfect. But it isn’t this. It isn’t a whole world of birthdays she missed, and growing up she didn’t get to see, and comfort she never got.”

  “She’s alive here, though,” Julian said.

  “Julian.” Emma touched his face lightly. He wanted to lean into the touch but held himself back with a body-tensing effort. “She’s surviving here.”

  “And there’s a difference?”

  She gave him a long look before dropping her hand and settling back against the pillows. “You know there is.”

  She lay on her side, tendrils of pale hair escaping from her braid, gold against the white pillows. Her eyes were the color of polished wood, her body curved like a violin. Julian wanted to grab his sketch pad, to draw her, the way he always had when his feelings for her grew too intense. His heart exploding paint and colors because he could not speak the words.

  “Do you want me to sleep on the floor?” he asked. His voice was husky. Nothing he could do about that.

  She shook her head, still looking at him with those enormous eyes. “I was thinking,” she said. “If Shadowhunter magic is gone here . . . If seraph blades don’t work, or angelic magic . . .”

  “Then our parabatai bond is probably broken,” he finished. “I thought of that too.”

  “But we can’t be sure,” she said. “I mean, I guess we could try to do something, to make something happen, the way we burned that church. . . .”

  “Probably not a good idea to experiment with arson.” Julian could feel his heart beating. Emma was leaning closer to him. He could see the smooth curve of her collarbone, the place where her tanned skin grew paler. He dragged his gaze away.

  “We could try the other thing,” she said. “You know. Kissing.”

  “Emma—”

  “I feel it when we kiss.” Her pupils were enormous. “I know you do too. The bond.”

  It was like having helium pumped into his blood. He felt light as air. “You’re sure? You absolutely want this?”

  “Yeah.” She settled back farther into the pillows. She was looking up at him now, her stubborn chin tilted up, her elbows on the bed. Her legs sprawled out, long and glorious. He slid closer to her. He could see her pulse beating in her throat. Her lips parted, her voice low: “I want this.”

  He moved over her, not touching her yet, his body a whisper from hers. He saw her eyes darken. She wriggled under him, her legs sliding against his.

  “Emma,” he rasped. “What happened to that bra? You know, the enormous one?”

  She grinned. “I went without.”

  The air in the room felt suddenly superheated. Julian tried to breathe normally, despite knowing that if he slid his hands up under Emma’s tank top he would encounter only soft skin and bare curves.

  But she hadn’t asked him to do that. She’d asked for a kiss. He propped himself over her, a hand on either side of her head. Slowly, he lowered himself: exquisitely slowly, until their mouths were an inch apart. He could feel her warm breath against his face. Still, their bodies were barely touching. She moved restlessly under him, her fingers digging into the coverlet.

  “Kiss me,” she murmured, and he bent to brush his lips over hers—just a brush, the lightest of touches. She chased his lips with her own; he turned his face to the side, tracing the same warm, light touch along her jaw, her cheek. When he reached her mouth again she was gasping, her eyes half-closed. He drew her lower lip into his mouth, running his tongue along it, tracing the curve, the sensitive corners.

  She gasped again, pressing her back deeper into the cushions, her body arching. He felt her breasts brush against his chest, sending a shot of heat directly to his groin. He dug his fingers into the mattress, willing himself to keep control. To give her only and exactly what she’d asked for.

  A kiss.

  He sucked and licked at her bottom lip, traced the bow shape of the upper. Licked along the seam of the two until her lips parted and he sealed his mouth to hers, all heat and wetness and the taste of her, mint and tea. She wrapped her hands around his biceps, arching up against him as they kissed on and on. Her body was soft and warm; she was moaning into his mouth, dragging her heels up the backs of his calves, her hands sliding to his shirt, fingers curling under—

  She broke away. She was breathing as if she’d been running a marathon, her lips damp and pink from kissing, her cheeks flaming. “Holy f—” she began, then coughed and blushed. “Have you been practicing?”

  “No,” Julian said. He was proud of himself for managing an entire syllable. He decided to try out a sentence. “I have not.”

  “Okay,” Emma breathed. “Okay. No one’s on fire, no parabatai weirdness in evidence. That’s about as much testing as I’m up for right now.”

  Julian rolled carefully onto his side. “But I can still sleep on the bed, right?”

  Her lips curled into a smile. “I think you’ve earned that, yeah.”

  “I can scooch all the way to the edge,” he offered.

  “Don’t push it, Julian,” she said, and rolled against him, her body curling into his. He put his arms tentatively around her, and she burrowed closer, closing her eyes.

  “Emma?” he said.

  No answer.

  He couldn’t believe it. She was asleep. Breathing softly and regularly, her small cold nose pressed into his collarbone. She was asleep, and he felt like his whole body was burning up. The shuddering waves of pleasure and desire that had rolled over him just from kissing her still stunned him.

  That had felt good. Almost euphorically good. And not just because of what had bloomed inside his own cells, his own skin. It had been Emma, the noises she’d made, the way she’d touched him. It wasn’t the parabatai bond, but it was their bond. It was the pleasure he’d given her, mirrored back at him a thousandfold. It was everything he hadn’t been able to feel since the spell.

  The Queen’s voice came, unwanted, silvery as a bell and flawed with malice:

  You are in the cage, boy.

  He shivered and drew Emma closer.

  19

  THE JEWELLED DEAD

  Emma dreamed of fire and thunder, and was woken by the sound of splintering wood. At least, it sounded like the wood was splintering. When she sat up, groggy and confused, Julian’s arm still around her waist, she realized it was someone knocking very, very hard at the bedroom door.

  Julian moved, groaning softly in his sleep; Emma extricated herself and padded over to throw the door open, expecting Cameron or Livvy.

  It was Diana.

  The sight of her acted like a shot of caffeine. She was all in black, from her black motorcycle boots to her leather pants and jacket. Her hair was secured in a tight, curly ponytail at the back of her head. She looked intimidating, but Emma didn’t care much: She gave a little yelp and threw her arms around Diana, who made a loud noise of surprise.

  “Whoa there, stranger,” she said. “What’s going on?”

  “Sorry.” Julian had appeared and gently peeled Emma away. “In our world, you’re our tutor.”

  “Oh, right. Your alternate dimension. Livvy told me about it when I got back from my pharmacy run.” Diana raised her eyebrows. “Wild.”

  “Do you not know us at all here?” Emma asked with some disappointment.

  “Not since you were little kids. I saw you in the Accords Hall during the Dark War, before they Portaled all the children away. You were good little fighters,” she added. “T
hen I heard you got Endarkened. I didn’t expect I’d see you again unless you were pointing the business end of a gun at me.”

  “Well,” Emma said. “Good surprise, huh?”

  Diana looked darkly amused. “Come on. You can tell me what I’m like in your world while I take you to the lobby.”

  They threw on clothes—boots, long-sleeved shirts, bomber jackets. Emma wondered where the rebels got their supplies. Her black pants felt like they were made out of canvas or something else similarly thick and itchy. The boots were cool, though, and she had to admit she liked the way Julian wore his faded shirt and army pants. They clung to his lean, muscular body in a way that made her try not to think about the previous night.

  As they left the room, Julian tore a page from his sketchbook and tucked it into his jacket pocket. “For luck,” he said.

  They joined Diana in the hallway, their boots clomping loudly on the polished wood. “In our world,” Emma said, as they headed down a set of stairs, “you’re dating a faerie.”

  Diana frowned. “A faerie? Why would I be dating a traitor?”

  “Things are a little more complicated at home.”

  “Things are pretty complicated here, kid,” Diana said as they reached the ground floor. “Come on through.”

  They passed under a brick archway and into a massive room full of furniture that looked as if it had been scrounged from different offices. There were modern steel-and-leather couches, and vintage patchwork and velvet ones. Armchairs made of cotton and chintz, some in good shape and some torn up; cheap chipboard tables on metal legs, laid end to end to create a sort of boardroom effect.

  There was a crowd in the room: Emma saw Livvy and Cameron, Bat and Maia, and a few familiar faces—Divya Joshi and Rayan Maduabuchi, one or two of the older Los Angeles Conclave members. They were all staring at the east wall of the room—ordinary brick and sandstone, it was currently burning with huge, fiery letters, reaching from one end of the wall to the other.