Things in Faerie rarely looked the same twice, Emma knew; the last time they’d entered the Seelie Court through a hill, they’d found themselves in a narrow corridor. Now they rode under an elegant bronze gate boasting scrollwork of prancing horses. Nene and Fergus dismounted, and it was only after Emma had slid to the marble floor that she saw that both horses’ reins had been taken up by diminutive fluttering faeries with outspread wings of blue and red and gold.
The horses clopped off, led by the buzzing pixies. “I could use one of those to do my hair in the morning,” said Emma to Nene, who gave her an unreadable smile. It was unnerving how much Nene looked like Mark—the same curling white-blond hair and narrow bones.
Fergus narrowed his eyes. “My son is married to a diminutive pixie,” he said. “Please do not ask any intrusive questions about it.”
Julian raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He and Emma fell into step beside each other as they followed Nene and Fergus from the marble-clad room into an earth-packed corridor that twisted into the hill.
“I guess everything went according to your plan, didn’t it,” Emma said coldly, not looking at Julian. She could feel him beside her, though, the familiar warmth and shape of him. Her parabatai, who she would have known deafened and blindfolded. “If you’re lying about having the Black Volume, it’s going to go badly for both of us.”
“I’m not lying,” he said. “There was a copy shop near the London Institute. You’ll see.”
“We weren’t supposed to leave the Institute, Julian—”
“This was the best option,” said Julian. “You may be too sentimental to see it clearly, but this gets us closest to what we want.”
“How does it do that?” Emma hissed. “What’s the point of coming to the Seelie Queen? We can’t trust her, any more than we can trust Horace or Annabel.”
Julian’s eyes glittered like the precious stones set into the walls of the long tunnel. They gleamed in stripes of jasper and quartz. The ground underfoot had become polished tile, a milky green-white. “Not trusting the Queen is part of my plan.”
Emma wanted to kick a wall. “You shouldn’t have a plan that includes the Queen at all, don’t you get it? We’re all dealing with the Cold Peace because of her treachery.”
“Such anti-faerie sentiments,” Julian said, ducking under a gray curtain of lace. “I’m surprised at you.”
Emma stalked after him. “It’s nothing to do with faeries in general. But the Queen is a no-holds-barred bit—why hello, Your Majesty!”
Oh crap. It seemed that the gray curtain they’d passed through was the entrance to the Queen’s Court. The Queen herself was seated in the middle of the room, on her throne, regarding Emma coldly.
The chamber looked as it had before, as if a fire had swept through the room years ago and no one had truly cleaned up the damage. The floor was blackened, cracked marble. The Queen’s throne was tarnished bronze, the back of it rising high above her head in a fan-shaped scroll. The walls were gouged here and there, as if a massive beast had dug out clots of marble with its claws.
The Queen was flame and bone. Her bony clavicles rose from the bodice of her intricately figured blue-and-gold dress; her long bare arms were thin as sticks. All around her tumbled her rich, deep red hair in thick waves of blood and fire. From her narrow white face, blue eyes blazed like gas flames.
Emma cleared her throat. “The Queen is a no-holds-barred bit of sunshine,” she said. “That’s what I was going to say.”
“You will not greet me in that informal manner, Emma Carstairs,” she said. “Do you understand?”
“They were waylaid on the road and attacked,” said Nene. “We sent pixie messengers ahead to tell you—”
“I heard,” said the Queen. “That does not excuse rudeness.”
“I think the blond one was about to call the Queen a besom,” Fergus murmured to Nene, who looked as exasperated as faerie courtiers ever looked.
“So true,” said Emma.
“Kneel,” snapped the Queen. “Kneel, Emma Carstairs and Julian Blackthorn, and show proper respect.”
Emma felt her chin go up as if it had been pulled on a string. “We are Nephilim,” she said. “We do not kneel.”
“Because once the Nephilim were giants on earth, with the strength of a thousand men?” The Queen’s tone was gently mocking. “How the mighty have fallen.”
Julian took a step toward the throne. The Queen’s eyes raked him up and down, assessing, measuring. “Would you rather an empty gesture or something you truly want?” he asked.
The Queen’s blue eyes flashed. “You are suggesting you have something I truly want? Think carefully. It is not easy to guess what a monarch desires.”
“I have the Black Volume of the Dead,” Julian said.
The Queen laughed. “I had heard you had lost that,” she said. “Along with the life of your sister.”
Julian whitened, but his expression didn’t change. “You never specified which copy of the Black Volume you wanted.” As the Queen and Emma both stared, he reached into his pack and pulled out a bound white manuscript. Holes were punched into the left side, the whole thing held together with thick plastic ties.
The Queen sat back, her flame-red hair brilliant against the dark metal of her throne. “That is not the Black Volume.”
“I think you will find if you examine the pages that it is,” said Julian. “A book is the words it contains, nothing more. I took photos of every page of the Black Volume with my phone and had it printed and bound at a copy shop.”
The Queen tilted her head, and the thin gold circle binding her brow flashed. “I do not understand the words of your mortal spells and rituals,” she said. Her voice had risen to a sharp pitch. Behind her sometimes mocking, sometimes laughing eyes, Emma thought she caught a glimpse of the true Queen, and what would happen if one crossed her, and she felt chilled. “I will not be tricked or mocked, Julian Blackthorn, and I do not trust your mischief. Nene, take the book from him and examine it!”
Nene stepped forward and held out her hand. In the shadowy corners of the room, there was movement; Emma realized the walls were lined with faerie guards in gray uniforms. No wonder they’d allowed her and Julian to enter still carrying their weapons. There must be fifty guards here, and more in the tunnels.
Let Nene have the book, Julian, she thought, and indeed, he handed it over without a murmur. He watched calmly as Nene looked it over, her eyes flicking over the pages. At last she said, “This was made by a very skilled calligrapher. The brushstrokes are exactly as I remember.”
“A skilled calligrapher named OfficeMax,” Julian muttered, but Emma didn’t smile at him.
The Queen was silent for a long time. The tapping of her slipper-shod foot was the only sound in the room as they all waited for her to speak. At last she said, “This is not the first time you have presented me with a perplexing issue, Julian Blackthorn, and I suspect it will not be the last.”
“It shouldn’t be perplexing,” said Julian. “It’s the Black Volume. And you said if we gave you the Black Volume, you would help us.”
“Not quite,” said the Queen. “I recall making promises, but some may no longer be relevant.”
“I am asking you to remember that you promised us aid,” said Julian. “I am asking you to help us find Annabel Blackthorn here in Faerie.”
“We’re already here to find her,” Emma said. “We don’t need this—this—person’s help.” She glared at the Queen.
“We have a map that barely works,” said Julian. “The Queen will have spies all over Faerie. It could take us weeks to find Annabel. We could wander in Faerie forever while our food runs out. The Queen could lead us right to her. Nothing happens in this realm she doesn’t know about.”
The Queen smirked. “And what do you want of Annabel when you find her? The second Black Volume?”
“Yes,” said Julian. “You can keep this copy. I need to take the original Black Volume back with me to Idris to
prove to the Clave that it’s no longer in the hands of Annabel Blackthorn.” He paused. “And I want revenge. Pure and simple revenge.”
“There is nothing simple about vengeance, and nothing pure,” said the Queen, but her eyes glittered with interest.
If the Queen knew so much, why didn’t she just go kill Annabel and take the Black Volume? Emma wondered. Because of the involvement of the Unseelie Court? But she kept her mouth shut—it was clear she and Julian were in no way in agreement on the Queen.
“Before, you wished for an army,” said the Queen. “Now you only want me to find Annabel for you?”
“It’s a better bargain for you,” said Julian, and Emma noticed that he hadn’t said “yes.” He wanted more than this from the Queen.
“Perhaps, but I will not be the final word on this volume’s merit,” said the Queen. “I must have an expert agree first. And you must remain in the Court until that is done.”
“No!” Emma said. “We will not stay an unspecified amount of time in Faerie.” She spun on Julian. “That’s how they get you! Unspecified amounts of time!”
“I will watch over the two of you,” said Nene unexpectedly. “For the sake of Mark. I will watch over you and make sure no harm comes to you.”
The Queen shot Nene an unfriendly look before returning her gaze to Emma and Julian. “What do you say?”
“I’m not sure,” Julian said. “We paid a high price for this book in blood and loss. To be told to wait—”
“Oh, very well,” said the Queen, and in her eyes Emma saw an odd light of eagerness. Perhaps she was more desperate for the book than Emma had thought? “As a sign of my good faith, I will give you part of what I promised. I will tell you, Julian, how certain bonds might be broken. But I will not tell her.” She gestured at Emma. “That was not part of the bargain.”
Emma heard him inhale sharply. Julian’s feelings for her might be deadened, she thought, but for whatever reason he still wanted this desperately. The knowledge of how their bond might be dissolved. Perhaps it was an atavistic want, as he had described his desire to protect Ty—a deep-rooted need for survival?
“Nene,” said the Queen. “Please escort Emma to the room she inhabited the last time she was a guest of the Court.”
Fergus groaned. It had been his bedroom Emma and Julian had slept in previously.
Nene approached the Queen, placed the copy of the Black Volume at her feet, and backed away to stand at Emma’s side.
The Queen smiled with her red lips. “Julian and I will remain here, and speak in private,” she said. “Guards, you may leave me. Leave us.”
“I don’t need to,” Emma said. “I know what this is about. Breaking all parabatai bonds. We don’t need to hear about it. It’s not going to happen.”
The Queen’s gaze was scornful. “Little fool,” she said. “You probably think you are protecting something sacred. Something good.”
“I know it’s something you wouldn’t understand,” Emma said.
“What would you say,” said the Queen, “if I said to you: There is a corruption at the heart of the bond of parabatai. A poison. A darkness in it that mirrors its goodness. There is a reason parabatai cannot fall in love, and it is monstrous beyond all you could imagine.” Her mouth shimmered like a poisoned apple as she smiled. “The parabatai rune was not given to you by the Angel but by men, and men are flawed. David the Silent and Jonathan Shadowhunter created the rune and the ceremony. Do you imagine that carries no consequences?”
It was true, and Emma knew it. The parabatai rune was not in the Gray Book. But neither was the Alliance rune Clary had created, and that was regarded as a universal good.
The Queen was twisting the truth to suit herself, as she always did. Her eyes, fixed on Emma’s, were shards of blue ice. “I see you do not understand,” she said. “But you will.”
Before Emma could protest, Nene took her arm. “Come,” she murmured. “While the Queen is still in a good mood.”
Emma glanced at Julian. He hadn’t moved from where he was, his back rigid, his gaze fixed firmly on the Queen. Emma knew she should say something. Protest, tell him not to listen to the Queen’s trickster words, tell him that there was no way, no matter what was at stake, that they could justify the shattering of every parabatai bond in the world.
Even if it would free them. Even if it would give Julian back to her.
She couldn’t force the words out. She walked out of the Queen’s chamber beside Nene without another word.
10
MANY A MARVELLOUS SHRINE
The sight of the Shadow Market sent a punch of familiarity through Kit’s chest. It was a typical Los Angeles night—the temperature had dropped as soon as the sun set, and a cool wind blew through the empty lot where the Market was, making the dozens of faerie bells that hung from the corners of white-canopied booths chime.
Ty had been full of suppressed excitement all the way there in the back of the Uber car, which he’d dealt with by pushing up the sleeve of Kit’s shirt and giving him several runes. Kit had three of them: Night Vision, Agility, and one called Talent, which Ty told him would make him more persuasive. Now they were standing at the circumference of the Market, having been dropped off in Kendall Alley. They were both dressed as mundanely as possible, in jeans, zip-front jackets, and Frye boots.
But Ty was still visibly a Shadowhunter. He held himself like one, and he walked like one and looked like one, and there were even runes visible on the delicate skin of his neck and wrists. And bruises, too—all over the sides of his hands, the kind no mundane boy would have any business getting unless he was in an illegal fight club.
It wouldn’t have mattered if he could have covered them up, though. Shadowhunters seemed to bleed their angel heritage through their pores. Kit wondered if he himself did yet.
“I don’t see any gates,” Ty said, craning his head.
“The gates are—metaphysical. Not exactly real,” Kit explained. They were walking toward the section of the Market where potions and charms were sold. A booth covered in tumbling roses in shades of red and pink and white sold love charms. One with a green-and-white awning sold luck and good fortune, and a pearly gray stand hung with curtains of lace, providing privacy, sold more dangerous items. Necromancy and death magic were both forbidden at the Market, but the rules had never been strictly enforced.
A phouka was leaning against the post of a nearby streetlamp, smoking a cigarette. Behind him, the lanes of the Market looked like small, glowing streets, enticing Kit with calls of “Come buy!” Voices clamored, jewelry clinked and rattled, spice and incense perfumed the air. Kit felt a longing mixed with anxiety—he cut a quick sideways glance toward Ty. They hadn’t entered the Market yet; was Ty thinking about how much he’d hated the London Market, how it had made him sweat and panic with too much noise, too much light, too much pressure, too much everything?
He wanted to ask Ty if he was all right, but he knew the other boy wouldn’t want it. Ty was staring at the Market, tense with curiosity. Kit turned to the phouka.
“Gatekeeper,” he said. “We request entrance to the Shadow Market.”
Ty’s gaze snapped to attention. The phouka was tall, dark, and thin, with bronze and gold strands threaded through his long hair. He wore purple trousers and no shoes. The lamppost he leaned against was between two stalls, neatly blocking the way into the Market.
“Kit Rook,” said the phouka. “What a compliment it is, to still be recognized by one who has left us to dwell among the angels.”
“He knows you,” muttered Ty.
“Everyone in the Shadow Market knows me,” said Kit, hoping Ty would be impressed.
The phouka stubbed out his cigarette. It released a sickly sweet smell of charred herbs. “Password,” he said.
“I’m not saying that,” said Kit. “You think it’s funny to try to make people say that.”
“Say what? What’s the password?” Ty demanded.
The phouka grinned. “Wait
here, Kit Rook,” he said, and melted back into the shadows of the Market.
“He’s going to get Hale,” said Kit, trying to hide the signs of his nerves.
“Can they see us?” Ty said. He was looking into the Shadow Market, where clusters of Downworlders, witches and other assorted members of the magical underworld, moved among the clamor. “Out here?”
It was like standing outside a lighted room in the dark, Kit thought. And though Ty might not express it that way, Kit suspected he felt the same.
“If they can, they’d never show it,” he said.
Ty turned toward him suddenly. His gaze slipped over Kit’s ear, his cheekbone, not quite meeting his eyes. “Watson—”
“Kit Rook and Ty Blackthorn,” snapped a voice out of the shadows. It was Barnabas Hale, head of the Market. “Actually, I’m assuming you’re not actually Kit Rook and Ty Blackthorn, because they’d never be stupid enough to show up here.”
“That seemed like a compliment,” said Ty, who looked honestly surprised.
“Sure, maybe it’s not us,” said Kit. “Maybe someone just got the specifications for the candygram you ordered wildly off.”
Hale frowned in annoyance. He looked as he always had: short and scaly-skinned, with a snake’s slit-pupiled eyes. He wore a pin-striped suit that Kit assumed must have been heavily altered to fit. Most humans weren’t three feet tall and three feet wide.
The phouka had returned with Hale. Silently, he leaned against the lamppost again, his dark eyes glittering.
“Prove you’re Kit Rook,” said Hale. “What’s the password?”
“I’m still not saying it. I’m never going to say it,” said Kit.
“What is it?” Ty demanded.
“Just let us in,” said Kit. “We don’t want any trouble.”
Hale barked a laugh. “You don’t want trouble? You two? You’ve got to be kidding me. Do you know what kind of mayhem you caused in London? You wrecked property, attacked vendors, and you”—he pointed at Ty—“destroyed a great deal of fey stock. I hate you both. Go away.”
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