Emma crawled hastily across the bed toward him. She knelt in the center of the coverlet and reached to touch his shoulder. He turned his head to look at her, wincing a little, as if he were looking at the sun.
“Julian,” she said. “I was angry at you. I missed you. But I didn’t stop loving you.” She brushed the back of her hand lightly against his cheek. “As long as you exist and I exist, I will love you.”
“Emma.” He moved to kneel on the bed opposite her. She was a head shorter than him in this position. He touched her hair, drawing it forward over her shoulder. His eyes were shadow dark. “I don’t know what will happen when we get back,” he said. “I don’t know if asking for exile from Dearborn will work. I don’t know if we’ll be separated. But if we are, I’ll think of what you just said and it will carry me through whatever happens. In the dark, in the shadows, in the times when I am alone, I will remember.”
Her eyes stung. “I can say it again.”
“No need.” He touched her cheek lightly. “I’ll always remember what you looked like when you said it.”
“Then I wish I’d worn something a little sexier,” she said with a shaky laugh.
His eyes darkened—that desire-darkening that only she ever got to see. “Believe me, there is nothing hotter than you in one of my shirts,” he said. He touched the collar of the shirt lightly. Goose bumps exploded across her skin. His voice was low and rough. “I’ve always wanted you. Even when I didn’t know it.”
“Even during our parabatai ceremony?”
She half-expected him to laugh, but instead his finger traced the material of her shirt, along her collarbone to the notch at the base of her throat. “Especially then.”
“Julian . . .”
“Entreat me not to leave thee,” he whispered, “or to return from following after thee.” He flicked open the top button of her shirt, baring a small patch of skin. He looked up at her and she nodded, dry-mouthed: Yes, I want this, yes.
“Whither thou goest, I will go.” His fingers glided downward. Another button flicked open. The swell of her breasts was visible; his pupils expanded, darkened.
There was something heretical about it, something that carried the frisson of the ultimately forbidden. The words of the parabatai ceremony were not meant to convey desire. Yet every word shivered through Emma’s nerves, as if the wings of angels brushed her skin.
She reached for his shirt, drew it up over his head. Smoothed her hands down his chest to the dip of his waist, the ridged muscles in his abdomen. Traced each scar. “And where thou lodgest, I will lodge.”
His fingers found another button, and another. Her shirt fell open with a whisper of cloth. Slowly, he pushed it off her shoulders, letting it slip down her arms. His eyes were ravenous but his hands were gentle; he stroked her bare shoulders and bent to kiss the places the shirt had revealed, tracing a path between her breasts as she arched backward in his arms. He murmured against her skin. “Thy people shall be my people. Thy God, my God.”
She tumbled backward, pulling Julian on top of her. His weight pressed her down into the softness of the bed. He curled his hands beneath her body and kissed her long and slow. She traced her fingers through his hair as she had always loved to do, the silky curls tickling her palms.
They shed their clothes unhurriedly. Each new piece of skin revealed was cause for another reverent touch, another slow kiss. “Whither thou diest, will I die,” Julian whispered against her mouth.
She unbuckled his jeans and he kicked them away. She could feel him hard against her, but there was no haste: His fingers traced the curves of her, the dips and hollows of her body, as if he were describing a portrait of her in gilt and ivory with each brush of his hands.
She wrapped her legs around him to keep him close to her. His lips grazed her cheek, her hair, as he moved inside her; his gaze never broke with hers, drawing them both upward. They rose as one in fire and sparks, every moment brighter; and when at last they broke and fell together, they were stars collapsing in gold and glory.
Afterward, Emma curled into and against Julian, breathless. He was flushed, sheened with sweat, as he gathered her hair in one hand, winding it through his fingers. “If aught but death part thee and me, Emma,” he said, and pressed his lips to the strands.
Emma closed her eyes as she whispered, “Julian. Julian. If aught but death part thee and me.”
* * *
Julian sat on the edge of the bed, looking into the darkness.
His heart was full of Emma, but his mind was in turmoil. He was glad he had told her the truth about the Queen’s words, about his determination to seek exile. He had meant to say more.
As long as you exist and I exist, I will love you. The words had filled his heart and broken it. The danger of loving Emma had become like a battle scar: a source of pride, a memory of pain. He hadn’t been able to say the rest: But what if the spell comes back when we go home? What if I stop understanding what it means to love you?
She had been so brave, his Emma, and so beautiful, and he had wanted her so badly his hands had been shaking as he unbuttoned her shirt, as he reached into the nightstand drawer. She was asleep now, the blankets drawn up around her, her shoulder a pale crescent moon. And he was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding the jeweled dagger Emma had brought up earlier from the weapons closet downstairs.
He turned it over in his hand. It was small, with a sharp blade, and red stones in the pommel. He could hear the Queen’s voice in his head. In the Land of Faerie, as mortals feel no sorrow, neither can they feel joy.
He thought of the way he and Emma had always written on each other’s skin with their fingers, spelling words no one else could hear.
He thought of the great hollow that he had carried around inside him after the spell, without knowing he carried it, like a mundane possessed by a demon that clung to his back and fed on his soul, never knowing where the misery came from.
Once you no longer feel empathy, you become a monster. You may not be under the spell here, Julian Blackthorn, but what about when you return? What will you do then, when you cannot bear to feel what you feel?
He stretched out his arm and brought the blade down.
21
NO RAYS FROM HEAVEN
Diana came at dawn and pounded on their door. Emma woke groggy, her hair tangled and her lips sore. She rolled over to find Julian lying on his side, fully dressed in a long-sleeved black shirt and army-green pants. He looked freshly showered, his hair too wet to be curly, his mouth tasting like toothpaste when she leaned over to kiss him. Had he even slept at all?
She staggered off to shower and dress. With every piece of clothing she put on, she felt another layer of anticipation, waking her up more surely than caffeine or sugar ever could. Long-sleeved shirt. Padded vest. Canvas pants. Thick-soled boots. Daggers and chigiriki through her belt, throwing stars in her pockets, a longsword in a scabbard on her back. She bound her hair into a braid and, with some reluctance, picked up a gun and tucked it into the holster attached to her belt.
“Done,” she announced.
Julian was leaning against the wall by the door, one booted foot braced behind him. He flicked a piece of hair out of his eyes. “I’ve been ready for hours,” he said.
Emma threw a pillow at him.
It was nice to have their banter back, she thought, as they headed downstairs. Strange how humor and the ability to joke were tied to emotions; a Julian who didn’t feel was a Julian whose humor was a dark and bitter one.
The mess hall was crowded and smelled like coffee. Werewolves, vampires, and former Shadowhunters sat at long tables, eating and drinking from chipped and mismatched bowls and mugs. It was an oddly unified scene, Emma thought. She couldn’t imagine a situation in her world where a big group of Shadowhunters and Downworlders would be seated together for a casual meal. Maybe Alec and Magnus’s Downworlder-Shadowhunter Alliance ate together, but she had to admit she knew shamefully little about them.
“H
ey.” It was Maia, showing them to a long table where Bat and Cameron were sitting. Two bowls of oatmeal and mugs of coffee had been put out for them. Emma glared at the coffee as she sat down. Even in Thule, everyone assumed she drank the stuff.
“Eat,” said Maia, sliding into a chair next to Bat. “We all need the energy.”
“Where’s Livvy?” said Julian, taking a bite of oatmeal.
“Over there.” Cameron pointed with his spoon. “Running around putting out fires as usual.”
Emma tried the oatmeal. It tasted like cooked paper.
“Here.” Maia handed her a small chipped bowl. “Cinnamon. Makes it taste better.”
As Emma took the bowl, she noticed that there were other tattoos on Maia’s arm alongside the lily—a fletched arrow, a lick of blue flame, and a sage leaf.
“Do those mean something?” she asked. Julian was chatting with Cameron, something Emma couldn’t have imagined happening in her world. She was a little surprised it was happening here. “Your tattoos, I mean.”
Maia touched the small illustrations with light fingers. “They honor my fallen friends,” she said quietly. “The sage leaf is for Clary. The arrow and flame are for Alec and Magnus. The lily . . .”
“Lily Chen,” Emma said, thinking of Raphael’s expression when she’d said Lily’s name.
“Yes,” Maia said. “We became friends in New York after the Battle of the Burren.”
“I’m so sorry about your friends.”
Maia sat back. “Don’t be sorry, Emma Carstairs,” she said. “You and Julian have brought us hope. This—today—this is the first move we’ve made against Sebastian, the first thing we’ve done that hasn’t been just about surviving. So thank you for that.”
The backs of Emma’s eyes stung. She looked down and took another bite of oatmeal. Maia was right—it was better with cinnamon.
“Do you not want your coffee?” Diana said, appearing at their table. She was dressed entirely in black from head to toe, two bullet belts lashed around her waist. “I’ll drink it.”
Emma shuddered. “Take it away. I’d be grateful.”
A group of people dressed in black like Diana, carrying guns, marched out the door in formation. “Snipers,” Diana said. “They’ll be covering us from above.”
“Diana, we will be going on ahead now,” said Raphael, appearing out of nowhere in that irritating way vampires had. He hadn’t bothered with any kind of military clothes; he wore jeans and a T-shirt and looked about fifteen.
“You’re scouting?” Emma said.
“That’s my excuse for not traveling with you humans, yes,” said Raphael.
It was somewhat mysterious, Emma thought, that Magnus and Alec had liked this guy enough to name their kid after him. “But I was so looking forward to playing I Spy,” she said.
“You would have lost,” said Raphael. “Vampires excel at I Spy.”
As he stalked away, he paused to talk to someone. Livvy. She patted him on the shoulder, and to Emma’s surprise he didn’t glare—he nodded, an almost friendly nod, and went to join his group of vampire scouts. They headed out the door as Livvy approached Emma and Julian’s table.
“Everybody’s ready,” she said. She looked a lot like she had when they’d first seen her in Thule. Tough and ready for anything. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail; she bent over to kiss Cameron on the cheek and patted Julian’s shoulder. “Jules, you and Emma come with me. We’ve got fog today.”
“Fog doesn’t seem so bad,” Emma said.
Livvy sighed. “You’ll see.”
* * *
Emma did see. Fog in Thule was like everything else in Thule: surprisingly horrible.
They left the Bradbury in a small group: Emma, Julian, Livvy, Cameron, Bat, Maia, Divya, Rayan, and a few other rebels Emma didn’t know by name. And the fog had hit them like a wall: thick columns of mist rising from the ground and drifting through the air, turning everything more than a few feet ahead into a blur. It smelled like burning, like the smoke from a deep fire.
“It’ll make your eyes sting, and your throat, too, but it doesn’t hurt you,” Livvy said as they split up into smaller groups, spreading out across Broadway. “Sucks for the snipers, though. No visibility.”
She was walking with Emma and Julian in the gutter next to the pavement. They followed Livvy, since she seemed to know where she was going. The fog cut the dim light of the dying sun almost completely; Livvy had taken out a flashlight and was aiming the beam into the mist ahead.
“At least there won’t be any cars,” Livvy said. “Sometimes the Endarkened try to run you over if they think you’re unsworn. But no one drives around in the fog.”
“Does it ever rain?” asked Emma.
“Believe me,” said Livvy, “you do not want to be here when it rains.”
Her tone suggested both that Emma shouldn’t inquire further and that it probably rained knives or rabid frogs.
The white fog seemed to shroud sound as well as sight. They padded along, their footsteps muffled, following Livvy’s flashlight beam. Julian seemed lost in thought; Livvy glanced at him, and then at Emma. “I have something I want you to take,” she said in a voice so low Emma had to lean in to hear it. “It’s a letter I wrote for Ty.”
She slipped the envelope into Emma’s hand; Emma tucked it into her inside pocket after glancing at the scrawled name on the envelope. Tiberius.
“Okay.” Emma looked straight ahead. “But if you aren’t coming back through the Portal with us, you have to tell Julian.”
“The Portal’s not really a sure thing, is it?” Livvy said mildly.
“We’re going to get back,” Emma said. “Somehow.”
Livvy inclined her head, acknowledging Emma’s determination. “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
“Look,” Julian said. He seemed to sharpen around the edges as he came closer to them, no longer blurred by the fog. “We’re there.”
Angels Flight loomed up above them, its bulk cutting through the mist. The railway itself had been fenced off long ago, back when people cared about things like safety, but the fencing had been trampled down, and torn strips of chain link lay scattered on the pavement. Two wooden trolley cars lay on their sides halfway up the hill, toppled from the tracks like broken toys. An ornate orange-and-black archway with the words ANGELS FLIGHT towered over the railway entrance.
Standing in front of one of the pillars holding up the archway was Tessa.
She wasn’t disguised as Jem today. Nor was she dressed like a Shadowhunter or a Silent Brother. She wore a plain black dress, her hair loose and straight. She looked about Clary’s age.
“You’re here,” she said.
Livvy had stopped in her tracks; she held out a hand indicating Julian and Emma should stop as well. She flicked off her flashlight as several dozen figures emerged from the mist. Emma tensed, then relaxed as she recognized them—Diana. Bat. Cameron. Raphael. Maia. And dozens more rebels, clad in black and green.
They stood in silence in two long rows. Military formation. None of them moved.
Tessa looked at Livvy wonderingly. “Are all of these people your people?”
“Yes,” Livvy said. She was regarding Tessa with a mix of distrust and hope. “These are my people.”
Tessa smiled, a sudden and wonderful smile. “You’ve done well, Livia Blackthorn. You’ve honored your family name.”
Livvy seemed taken aback. “My family?”
“Long have there been Blackthorns,” said Tessa, “and long have they lived with honor. I see much honor here.” She glanced in the direction of the rebels, and then turned—seeming unconcerned with the show of force at her back—and raised her hands in front of her.
There was indrawn breath from the rebels as Tessa’s fingers sparked with yellow fire. A door—two doors—evolved under her hands, filling the archway. Each was a massive slab of stone. Across them both had been crudely carved a phrase in Latin. Nescis quid serus vesper vehat.
“Who knows what nightfall brings?” Julian translated, and a shiver went up Emma’s spine.
Tessa brushed the yellow flames of her fingers across the doors, and a loud grinding sound cut through the muffling fog. The doors shuddered and began to slide apart, dust showering down from years of disuse.
A hollow, booming cry echoed from the darkness as the doors slid open completely. Deep blackness was all that was visible beyond the entrance: Emma could not see the stairs she knew led down into the Silent City. She could see only shadow.
Emma and Julian stepped forward, Emma peering into the blackness of the Silent City’s entrance, just as Tessa sank to the ground.
They darted to her side. She pushed herself upright against a pillar, her face as white as the mist. “I’m all right, I’m all right,” she said, though up close, the sides of her mouth and eyes were threaded with scarlet, as if the small blood vessels there had burst with strain. “We should hurry. It isn’t wise to leave the Silent City open—”
She tried to struggle to her feet and sank back down again with a gasp.
Livvy handed her flashlight to Emma and knelt down beside Tessa. “Cameron! Diana! Go with Emma and Jules into the Bone City. Maia, I need a medic.”
There was a flurry of activity. As Cameron and Diana came to join them, Emma tried to argue that she should be the one to stay with Tessa, but Livvy was adamant. “You did the parabatai ceremony,” she said. “You know the Silent City. There’s no reason its architecture here should be any different.”
“Hurry,” Tessa said again as Maia bent down beside her with a first-aid kit. “The Instruments are in the Star Chamber.” She coughed. “Go!”
Emma flipped Livvy’s flashlight on and darted through the entrance of the City, Julian beside her, Cameron and Diana taking the rear. The noise of the street above vanished almost immediately, muffled by the fog and the heavy stone walls. The Silent City was more silent than it had ever been, she thought. The beam of the flashlight bounced off the walls, illuminating chipped stone, and, as they made their way deeper underground, polished white and yellow bone.
Queen of Air and Darkness (The Dark Artifices #3) Page 47