Queen of Air and Darkness (The Dark Artifices #3)

by Cassandra Clare

  “I just don’t understand how he convinced people that this was a good idea,” Helen said.

  Jia had begun to pace. Her shadow wobbled up and down the wall like a puppet being pulled back and forth on a stage. “Horace should never have been a politician. He should have had a career in the theater. He played upon everyone’s worst fears. He sent a spy into Faerie and when he came to harm, claimed he was an innocent, murdered child. He claimed Kieran Kingson drove Samantha Larkspear mad—”

  “Mark told me she went out of her mind because she fell into the pool in the Hollow Place while the Cohort was tormenting Kieran,” said Helen indignantly. “She tried to murder him.”

  Jia looked bleakly amused. “Should I ask where Kieran is now?”

  “Back in Faerie,” said Aline. “Now, you should tell me where Horace is now so I can punch him harder than he’s ever been punched in his life.”

  “Punching him won’t help,” said Jia. This was a conversation she and Aline had often. “I have to think about how to take constructive steps to undo the damage he’s done.”

  “Why did he arrest the Scholomance kids?” Helen said. “According to Mark, Rayan and Divya and Diego were the most decent of the Centurions.”

  “To make an example of them. ‘This is what happens if you help Downworlders,’ ” said Jia.

  “We can’t actually register people,” said Aline. “It’s inhumane. That’s what I’m going to tell the Clave.”

  Jia’s Projection fizzed angrily at the edges. “Don’t you dare,” she said. “Haven’t you heard what I just said? Dearborn has it in for Helen because of her faerie blood. You’ll wind up in jail if you do, and someone more compliant will be installed in your place. You have to at least look like you’re going along with it.”

  “How do we do that?” Helen had always been a little afraid of her Consul mother-in-law. She always imagined that Jia couldn’t possibly be pleased that Aline had chosen to marry a woman, much less a half-faerie one. Jia had never indicated by word or deed that she was disappointed in Aline’s choice, but Helen felt it just the same. Still, she couldn’t help but speak up now. “Downworlders are meant to come to the Sanctuary and we have to turn in the registrations to the Clave.”

  “I know, Helen,” Jia said. “But you can’t ignore the orders. Horace will be watching to make sure the L.A. Institute meets its quota. I just got you two back from exile. I’m not losing you again. You’re clever. Find a creative way to undermine the registration mandate without ignoring it.”

  Despite everything, Helen felt a little shock of happiness. You two, Jia had said. As if she had missed not just Aline but Helen, too.

  “There is one bright spot,” Jia said. “I was with Sister Cleophas when the news came through, and she was furious. The Iron Sisters are definitely on our side. They can be formidable when they choose. I don’t think Horace will enjoy having them as enemies.”

  “Mom,” Aline said. “You and Dad have to get out of Idris. Come here for a while. It’s not safe there.”

  Helen took Aline’s hand and squeezed, because she knew what the answer would be. “I can’t just leave,” Jia said, sounding not like Aline’s mother but like the Consul of the Clave. “I can’t abandon our people. I swore an oath to protect Nephilim, and that means weathering this storm and doing everything I can to reverse what Horace has done—to get those children out of the Gard prison—” Jia looked over her shoulder. “I must go. But remember, girls—the Council is basically good, and so are the hearts of most people.”

  She vanished.

  “I wish I believed that,” said Aline. “I wish I understood how my mother could believe that, after all this time as Consul.”

  She sounded angry at Jia, but Helen knew that wasn’t what was going on. “Your mom is smart. She’ll be safe.”

  “I hope so,” said Aline, looking down at her hand and Helen’s, intertwined on the desk. “And now we need to figure out how to register people without actually registering them. A plan that doesn’t involve punching Horace. Why do I never get to do the things I want to do?”

  Despite everything, Helen laughed. “Actually, I have an idea. And I think you might like it.”

  * * *

  The clearing overlooked the road below, visible as a white ribbon through the trees. The moon overhead was caught in the branches, casting enough illumination that Cristina could see the glade clearly: Surrounded by thick hawthorn trees, the grass underfoot was springy and cool, damp with dew. She had spread out Mark’s blanket roll and he lay asleep on it, curled partly on his side, his cheeks flushed.

  Cristina sat beside him, her legs stretched out before her in the dew-wet grass. Kieran was nearby, leaning against the trunk of a hawthorn. In the distance, Cristina could hear the sounds of the revel, carried on the clear air.

  “This,” said Kieran, his gaze fixed on the road below, “was not how I was expecting the events following our arrival in Faerie to transpire.”

  Cristina brushed Mark’s hair back from his face. His skin was fever hot; she suspected it was a side effect of whatever the cat faerie had given him to drink. “How long do you think Mark will be unconscious?”

  Kieran turned to press his back against the tree. In the darkness, his face was a map of black-and-white shadow. He had fallen into silence the moment they had reached the glade and gotten Mark settled. Cristina could only imagine what he had been dwelling on. “Another hour or so, most likely.”

  Cristina felt as if a lead weight were pressing against her chest. “Every moment we wait brings us farther away from Emma and Julian,” she said. “I do not see how we could possibly catch up with them now.”

  Kieran stretched his hands out in front of them. Long-fingered faerie hands, almost double-jointed. “I could summon Windspear again,” he said a little haltingly. “He is swift enough to reach them.”

  “You do not sound as if you like that idea much,” Cristina observed, but Kieran only shrugged.

  He drew away from the tree and came toward Mark, bending to tuck a corner of the blanket over Mark’s shoulder. Cristina watched him consideringly. Windspear was a prince’s steed, she thought. Windspear would catch attention, here in Faerie. He might alert the kingdom to Kieran’s presence, put him in danger. But Kieran seemed willing to summon him regardless.

  “Not Windspear,” she said. “Even if we had him—what would we do, try to pluck them from the procession out of the air? We would be noticed, and think of the danger—to Mark, to Jules and Emma.”

  Kieran smoothed the blanket over Mark’s shoulder and stood up. “I do not know,” he said. “I do not have answers.” He pulled his cloak around him. “But you are right. We cannot wait.”

  Cristina glanced up at him. “We cannot leave Mark, either.”

  “I know. I think you should let me go alone. You remain here with Mark.”

  “No!” Cristina exclaimed. “No, you’re not going alone. And not without the artifact. It’s our only way out.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Kieran. He bent down to lift his bag, swinging it over his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me.”

  “Of course it matters!” Cristina started to her feet and winced; her legs were stinging with pins and needles. She hurried after Kieran nonetheless, limping a little.

  Moving swiftly, Kieran had reached the edge of the glade when she caught up with him. She seized hold of his arm, her fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeve. “Kieran, stop.”

  He stopped, though he didn’t look back at her. He was staring out at the road and the revel beyond. In a remote voice, he said, “Why do you prevent me?”

  “To go alone on that road is dangerous, especially for you.”

  Kieran didn’t seem to hear her. “When I touched the pool at the Scholomance, I felt the confusion and pain that I caused to you,” he said.

  Cristina waited. He said nothing else. “And?”

  “And?” he echoed in disbelief. “And I cannot bear it! That I
hurt you like that, hurt you and Mark like that—I cannot stand it.”

  “But you must,” said Cristina.

  Kieran’s lips parted in astonishment. “What?”

  “This is the nature of having a soul, Kieran, and a heart. We all stumble around in the dark and we cause each other pain and we try to make up for it the best we can. We are all confused.”

  “Then let me make up for it.” Gently but firmly, he pried her hand from his sleeve. “Let me go after them.”

  He started down the hill, but Cristina followed, blocking his way. “No—you must not—”

  He tried to step around her. She moved in front of him. “Let me—”

  “I will not let you risk yourself!” she cried, and caught at the front of his shirt with her hands, the fabric rough under her fingers. She heard him exhale with surprise.

  She had to tilt her head back to look into his eyes; they glittered, black and silver and remote as the moon. “Why not?” he demanded.

  She could feel the warmth of him through the linen of his shirt. There had been a time she might have thought him fragile, unreal as moonbeams, but she knew now that he was strong. She could see herself reflected in his dark eye; his silver eye was a mirror to the stars. There was a weariness to his face that spoke of pain, but a steadfastness, too, more beautiful than symmetry of features. No wonder Mark had fallen in love with him in the Hunt. Who would not have?

  “Perhaps you are not confused,” she said in a whisper. “But I am. You confuse me very much.”

  “Cristina,” he whispered. He touched her face lightly; she leaned into the warmth of his hand, and his fingers slipped across her cheek to her mouth. He outlined the shape of her lips with his fingertips, his eyes half-closed. She reached up to wrap her arms around his neck.

  He pulled her against him, and their mouths came together so swiftly she could not have said who kissed who. It was all fire: the taste of him on her mouth, and his skin smooth where she touched it, sliding her fingers under the collar of his cloak. His lips were fine-grained, soft but firm; he sipped at her mouth as if drinking fine wine. Her hands found his hair and buried themselves in the soft locks.

  “My lady,” he whispered against her mouth, and her body thrilled to the sound of his voice. “Lady of Roses.”

  His hands slipped down her body, over her curves and softness, and she was lost in the heat and fire of it, in the feeling of him against her, so different from Mark but just as wonderful. He gripped her waist and pulled her tight to him and a shock went through her: He was so warm and human, and not remote at all. “Kieran,” she breathed, and she heard Mark’s voice in her head, saying his name: Kier, Kieran, my dark one, and she remembered Mark and Kieran kissing in the desert and felt a flutter of excitement deep in her bones.

  “What’s going on?”

  It was Mark’s voice—not just in her head, but cutting through the night, through the fog of desire. Cristina and Kieran jerked away from each other, almost stumbling, and Cristina stared at Mark, a silver-and-gold silhouette in the darkness, blinking at them.

  “Mark,” Kieran said, a catch in his voice.

  Suddenly the clearing was full of light. Mark threw up an arm, flinching away from the sudden unnatural brilliance.

  “Mark!” Kieran said again, and this time the catch in his voice was alarm. He moved toward Mark, drawing Cristina after him, his hand in hers. They stumbled together into the center of the clearing just as a contingent of faerie guards burst from the trees, their torches blazing like banners against the night.

  They were led by Manuel Villalobos. Cristina stared in shock. He wore their same livery: a tunic with the symbol of the broken crown hovering over a throne. His sandy hair was tousled, his grin slightly manic. A medallion like the one Cristina always wore glimmered at his throat.

  “Prince Kieran,” he said as the guards surrounded Kieran, Mark, and Cristina. “How delighted your brother Oban will be to see you.”

  Kieran had his hand on the hilt of his sword. He spoke flatly. “That will be a first. He has never been delighted to see me before.”

  “What are you doing here, Manuel?” Cristina said.

  Manuel turned to her with a sneer. “I’m here on business. Unlike you.”

  “You don’t know why I’m here,” she snapped.

  “Apparently, to whore for a faerie and his half-breed lover,” said Manuel. “Interesting activities for a Shadowhunter.”

  Mark’s sword flashed out. He lunged at Manuel, who leaped back, snapping an order to the prince’s guards. They swarmed forward; Cristina barely had time to get her balisong free and slash it forward, slicing a long cut across the chest of a guard with purple-and-blue-streaked hair.

  Mark and Kieran were already fighting, each with a sword in hand. They were beautifully fast and deadly; several guards fell, shouting in pain, and Cristina added two more to the pile of wounded.

  But there were far too many of them. Through the blaze of torches and flash of blades, Cristina could see Manuel lounging against the trunk of a tree. As she caught his eye, he grinned and made an obscene gesture at her. He clearly wasn’t worried about who was going to win this.

  Mark shouted. Three guards had grabbed Kieran, who was struggling as they twisted his arms behind his back. Two more were advancing on Mark, and another leaped for Cristina; she sank her balisong into his shoulder and pushed past his falling body toward Mark and Kieran.

  “Bind them!” Manuel called. “Prince Oban would take them to the King for questioning! Do not harm them.” He grinned. “The King wants to do that himself.”

  Cristina’s eyes met Mark’s as the two guards seized him. He shook his head at her frantically, shouting through the clamor:

  “Cristina! Take the artifact! Go!”

  Cristina shook her head—I can’ t leave you, I can’t—but her eyes fell on Kieran, who was looking at her with naked hope and pleading. Reading the meaning in his gaze, she leaped for her pack where it lay on the ground.

  Several of Oban’s guards dashed toward her, weapons outstretched, as Manuel cried out for them to stop her. She thrust her hand into the bag and seized the artifact. With all her will, she concentrated her mind on the one person she thought could help them.

  Take me to him. Take me.

  The glade flashed out of existence just as the guards closed in.

  14

  THE VIOL, THE VIOLET, AND THE VINE

  The search for Dru took a little longer than Kit had expected. She wasn’t in the library, or in her bedroom, or down by the beach. They found her eventually in the TV room, sorting through a pile of old videotapes with names like Scream and Scream Again and Bloody Birthday.

  The look she gave them when they came in wasn’t friendly. Her eyes were swollen, Kit saw, as if she’d been crying recently. He wondered if it was about Emma and Julian being in trouble in Faerie, or Jaime, or some combination of both. She’d seemed heartbroken when he’d fled.

  “What?” she said. “Helen and Aline are with Tavvy, if you came to tell me to watch him.”

  “Actually,” said Ty, sitting down on a piano bench, “we need your help with something else.”

  “Let me guess.” Dru dropped the videotape she was holding and Kit held himself back from commenting on the fact that he didn’t think anyone under eighty owned videotapes anymore. “Dishwashing? Laundry? Lying down in front of the Institute so you can use me for a step?”

  Ty furrowed his eyebrows. “What—”

  Kit cut in quickly. “It’s nothing like that. It’s a mission.”

  Dru hesitated. “What kind of mission?”

  “A secret mission,” said Ty.

  She tugged on a braid. Both of her braids were short, and stuck out almost horizontally on either side of her head. “You can’t just ignore me until you want me to do something,” she said, though she sounded torn.

  Ty started to protest. Kit interrupted, holding up a hand to quell them both. “We did want to ask you to join in befo
re,” he said. “Ty didn’t want to put you in danger.”

  “Danger?” Dru perked up. “There’s going to be danger?”

  “So much danger,” said Kit.

  Dru narrowed her eyes. “What are we talking about here, exactly?”

  “We need to get on better terms with the Shadow Market,” said Ty. “Since we can’t go to Faerie, we want to see if there’s anything we can do to help Emma and Julian from this side. Any information we can get.”

  “I would like to help Emma and Jules,” Dru said slowly.

  “We think there are answers in the Market,” said Kit. “But it’s run by this really awful warlock, Barnabas Hale. He’s agreed to a meeting with Vanessa Ashdown.”

  “Vanessa Ashdown?” Dru looked stunned. “She’s in on this?”

  “No, she’s not,” said Ty. “We lied to him about who wanted to see him so we could get the meeting.”

  Dru snorted. “You don’t look like Vanessa. Either of you.”

  “That’s where you come in,” said Kit. “Even if we weren’t pretending to be Vanessa Ashdown, he’d never stay if we showed up at the meeting place, because he hates us.”

  Dru smiled a little. “Don’t you mean he hates you?” she said to Kit.

  “He also hates me,” Ty said proudly. “Because Livvy and I were with Kit at the Shadow Market in London.”

  Dru sat up. “Livvy would have done this for you, right, if she was here?”

  Ty didn’t say anything. He had raised his eyes to the ceiling, where the fan spun lazily, and was staring at it as if his life depended on it.

  “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 . . .”