فصل 15

PART TWO

Thule

Chapter 15

FRIENDS LONG GIVEN

Kit had never thought he’d set foot in one Shadowhunter Institute. Now he had eaten and slept in two. If this kept up, it was going to become a habit.

The London Institute was exactly the way he would have imagined it, if he’d ever been asked to imagine it, which he admittedly hadn’t. Housed in a massive old stone church, it lacked the glossy modernity of its Los Angeles counterpart. It looked as if it hadn’t been renovated for eighty years—the rooms were painted in Edwardian pastels, which had faded over the decades into soft and muddied colors. The hot water was irregular, the beds were lumpy, and dust limned the surfaces of most of the furniture.

It sounded, from bits and snatches Kit had overheard, as if the London Institute had once had many more people in it. It had been attacked by Sebastian Morgenstern during the Dark War, and most of the former inhabitants had never returned.

The head of the Institute looked nearly as ancient as the building. Her name was Evelyn Highsmith. Kit got the sense that the Highsmiths were a big deal in Shadowhunter society, though not as big a deal as the Herondales. Evelyn was a tall, imperious, white-haired woman in her eighties who wore long 1940s-style dresses, carried a silver-headed walking stick, and sometimes talked to people who weren’t there.

Only one other person seemed to live in the Institute: Evelyn’s maid, Bridget, who was just as ancient as her mistress. She had bright dyed-red hair and a thousand fine wrinkles. She was always popping up in unexpected places, which was inconvenient for Kit, who was once again on the lookout for anything he might steal. It wasn’t a quest that was going well—most of what appeared valuable was furniture, and he couldn’t imagine how he was supposed to creep away from the Institute carrying a sideboard. The weapons were carefully locked away, he didn’t know how to sell candlesticks on the street, and though there were valuable first editions of books in the enormous library, most of them had been scribbled in by some idiot named Will H.

The dining room door opened and Diana came in. She was favoring one arm: Kit had found out that some Shadowhunter injuries, especially those that involved demon poison or ichor, healed slowly despite runes.

Livvy perked up at the sight of her tutor. The family had gathered for dinner, which was served at a long table in a massive Victorian dining room. Angels had once been painted on the ceiling, but they had long ago been nearly completely covered by dust and the stains of old burns. “Did you hear anything from Alec and Magnus?” Diana shook her head, taking the seat opposite Livvy. Livvy wore a blue dress that looked like it had been stolen from the set of a BBC period piece. Though they’d fled the L.A. Institute with none of their belongings, it turned out there were years’ worth of clothes stored in London, though none of them looked as if they’d been purchased after 1940. Evelyn, Kit, and the Blackthorn family sat around the table in an odd assortment of clothes: Ty and Kit in trousers and long-sleeved shirts, Tavvy in a striped cotton shirt and shorts, and Drusilla in a black velvet gown that had delighted her with its Gothic appeal. Diana had rejected all the garments and simply hand washed her own jeans and shirt.

“What about the Clave?” said Ty. “Have you talked to the Clave?”

“Are they ever useful?” Kit muttered under his breath. He didn’t think anyone had heard him, but someone must have, because Evelyn burst out laughing. “Oh, Jessamine,” she said to no one. “Come now, that isn’t in good taste at all.” The Blackthorns all raised their eyebrows at each other. No one commented, though, because Bridget had appeared from the kitchen, carrying steaming plates of meat and vegetables, both of which had been boiled to the point of tastelessness.

“I just don’t see why we can’t go home,” Dru said glumly. “If the Centurions defeated all the sea demons, like they said . . .” “It doesn’t meant Malcolm won’t come back,” said Diana. “And it’s Blackthorn blood he wants. You’re staying within these walls, and that’s final.” Kit had passed out during the horrible thing they called a Portal journey—the terrible whirl through absolutely icy nothingness—so he’d missed the scene that must have occurred when they’d appeared in the London Institute—minus Arthur—and Diana had explained they were there to stay.

Diana had contacted the Clave to tell them about Malcolm’s threats—but Zara had been there first. Apparently she’d assured the Council that the Centurions had it all under control, that they were more than a match for Malcolm and his army, and the Clave had been only too happy to take her word for it.

And as if Zara’s assurance had in fact effected a miracle, Malcolm didn’t turn up again, and no demons visited the Western Seaboard. Two days had passed, and there had been no news of disaster.

“I hate Zara and Manuel being in the Institute without us there to watch them,” said Livvy, throwing her fork down. “The longer they’re there, the better claim they have for the Cohort taking it over.” “Ridiculous,” said Evelyn. “Arthur runs the Institute. Don’t be paranoid, girl.” She pronounced it gel.

Livvy flinched. Though everyone, even Dru and Tavvy, had finally been brought up to speed on the situation—including Arthur’s illness and the facts about where Julian and the others really were—it had been decided it was better for Evelyn not to know. She wasn’t an ally; there was no reason she’d side with them, though she seemed patently uninterested in Council politics. In fact, most of the time she didn’t seem to be listening to them at all.

“According to Zara, Arthur’s been locked in his office with the door shut since we left,” said Diana.

“I would be too, if I had to put up with Zara,” said Dru.

“I still don’t see why Arthur didn’t come with you,” sniffed Evelyn. “He used to live in this Institute. You’d think he wouldn’t mind paying a visit.” “Look on the bright side, Livvy,” Diana said. “When Julian and the others return from—from where they are—they’re most likely to go straight to Los Angeles. Would you want them to find an empty Institute?” Livvy poked at her food and said nothing. She looked pale and drawn, purple shadows under her eyes. Kit had gone down the corridor the night after they’d arrived in London, wondering if she wanted to see him, but he’d heard her crying through her door when he put his hand on the knob. He’d turned around and left, a strange, pinching feeling in his chest. No one crying like that wanted anyone to come near them, especially not someone like him.

He got the same pinching feeling when he looked across the table at Ty and remembered how the other boy had healed his hand. How cool Ty’s skin had been against his. Ty was tense in his own way—the move to the London Institute had constituted a major disruption in his daily routine and it was clearly bothering him. He spent a lot of time in the training room, which was almost identical in layout to its Los Angeles counterpart. Sometimes when he was especially stressed, Livvy would take his hands in hers and rub them matter-of-factly. The pressure seemed to ground him. Still, at the moment Ty was tense and distracted, as if he’d folded in on himself somehow.

“We could go to Baker Street,” Kit said, without even knowing he was going to say it. “We are in London.” Ty looked up at that, his gray eyes aglow. He had shoved his food away: Livvy had told Kit that Ty took a long time to warm up to new foods and new flavors. For the moment, he was almost solely eating potatoes. “To 221B Baker Street?” “When everything with Malcolm is cleared up,” Diana interrupted. “No Blackthorns out of the Institute until then, and no Herondales, either. I didn’t like the way Malcolm glared at you, Kit.” She stood up. “I’ll be in the parlor. I need to send a fire-message.” As the door closed behind her, Tavvy—who was staring at the air next to his chair in a way Kit found frankly alarming—giggled. They all turned to look in surprise. The youngest Blackthorn hadn’t been laughing much lately.

He supposed he didn’t blame the kid. Julian was all Tavvy had in the way of a father. Kit knew what missing your father was like, and he wasn’t seven years old.

“Jessie,” Evelyn scolded, and for a moment Kit actually looked around, as if the person she was addressing was in the room with them. “Leave the child alone. He doesn’t even know you.” She glanced around the table. “Everyone thinks they’re good with children. Few know when they are not.” She took a bite of carrot. “I am not,” she said, around the food. “I have never been able to stand children.” Kit rolled his eyes. Tavvy looked at Evelyn as if he was considering throwing a plate at her.

“You might as well take Tavvy to bed, Dru,” said Livvy hastily. “I think we’re all done with dinner here.” “Sure, why not? It’s not like I didn’t find clothes for him this morning or put him to bed last night. I might as well be a servant,” Dru snapped, then snatched Tavvy out of his chair and stalked out of the room, dragging her younger brother behind her.

Livvy put her head into her hands. Ty looked over at her and said, “You don’t have to take care of everyone, you know.” Livvy sniffled and looked sideways at her twin. “It’s just—without Jules here, I’m the oldest. By a few minutes, anyway.” “Diana’s the oldest,” said Ty. Nobody mentioned Evelyn, who had placed a pair of spectacles on her nose and was reading a newspaper.

“But she’s got so much more to do than look after us—I mean, look after the little things,” said Livvy. “I never really thought about it before, all the stuff Julian does for us, but it’s so much. He always holds it together and takes care of us and I don’t even get how—” There was a sound like an explosion overhead. Ty’s face drained. It was clear he was hearing a noise he’d heard before.

“Livvy,” Ty said. “The Accords Hall—”

The noise sounded less like an explosion now, and more like thunder, a rushing thunder that was taking over the sky. A sound like clouds being ripped apart as if cloth were tearing.

Dru burst into the room, Tavvy just behind her. “It’s them,” she said. “You won’t believe it, but you have to come, quickly. I saw them flying—I went up to the roof—” “Who?” Livvy was on her feet; they all were, except Evelyn, who was still reading the paper. “Who’s on the roof, Dru?” Dru swept Tavvy up into her arms.

“Everyone,” she said, her eyes shining.

The roof of the Institute was shingle, stretching out wide and flat to a waist-high wrought-iron railing. The finials of the railings were tipped with iron lilies. In the distance, Kit could see the glimmering dome of St. Paul’s, familiar from a thousand movies and TV shows.

The clouds were heavy, iron-colored, surrounding the top of the Institute like clouds around a mountain. Kit could barely see down to the streets below. The air was acrid with summer thunder.

They had all spilled up onto the roof, everyone but Evelyn and Bridget. Diana was here, her arm carefully cradled. Ty’s gray eyes were fixed on the sky.

“There,” Dru said, pointing. “Do you see?”

As Kit stared, the glamour peeled away. Suddenly it was as if a painting or a movie had come to life. Only movies didn’t give you this, this visceral tangle of wonder and fear. Movies didn’t give you the smell of magic in the air, crackling like lightning, or the shadows cast by a host of impossibly soaring creatures against the sky above it. They didn’t give you starlight on a girl’s blond hair as she slid shrieking in excitement and happiness from the back of a flying horse and landed on a roof in London. They didn’t give you the look on the Blackthorns’ faces as they saw their brothers and friends coming back to them.

Livvy leaped at Julian, hurling her arms around his neck. Mark flung himself from his horse and half-tumbled down to find himself being hugged tightly by Dru and Tavvy. Ty came more quietly, but with the same incandescent happiness on his face. He waited for Livvy to be done nearly strangling her brother and then stepped in to take Julian’s hands.

And Julian, who Kit had always thought of as an almost frightening model of control and distance, grabbed his brother and yanked him close, his hands twisting in the back of Ty’s shirt. His eyes were shut, and Kit had to look away from the expression on his face.

He had never had anyone but his father, and he was sure beyond any words that his father had never loved him like that.

Mark came up to his brothers then, and Ty turned to look at him. Kit heard him say: “I wasn’t sure you would come back.” Mark laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder, and spoke gruffly. “I’ll always come back to you, Tiberius. I am sorry if I ever led you to believe anything else.” There were two other arrivals as well among the Blackthorns, who Kit didn’t recognize: a gorgeously scowling boy with blue-black hair that waved around his angular face, and a wide-shouldered, massive man wearing an alarming helmet with carved antlers protruding from either side. Both of them sat astride their horses silently, without dismounting. A faerie escort, perhaps, to keep the others safe? But how had the Blackthorns and Emma managed to secure a favor like that?

Then again, if anyone could manage to secure such a thing, it would be Julian Blackthorn. As Kit’s father used to say about various criminals, Julian was the kind of person who could descend into Hell and come out with the devil himself owing him a favor.

Diana was hugging Emma and then Cristina, tears shining on her face. Feeling awkwardly out of place at the reunion, Kit made his way to the edge of the railing. The clouds had cleared away, and he could see Millennium Bridge from here, lit up in rainbow colors. A train rattled over another bridge, casting its reflection into the water.

“Who are you?” said a voice at his elbow. Kit started and turned around. It was one of the two faeries he had noticed earlier, the scowling one. His dark hair, up close, looked less black than like a mixture of deep greens and blues. He brushed a bit of it away from his face, frowning; he had a full, slightly uneven mouth, but far more interesting were his eyes. Like Mark’s, they were two different colors. One was the silver of a polished shield; the other was a black so dark his pupil was barely visible.

“Kit,” said Kit.

The boy with the ocean hair nodded. “I’m Kieran,” he said. “Kieran Hunter.”

Hunter wasn’t a real sort of faerie name, Kit knew. Faeries didn’t generally give their true names, as names held power; Hunter just denoted what he was, the way nixies called themselves Waterborn. Kieran was of the Wild Hunt.

“Huh,” said Kit, thinking of the Cold Peace. “Are you a prisoner?”

“No,” said the faerie. “I’m Mark’s lover.”

Oh, Kit thought. The person he went into Faerie to save. He tried to stifle a look of amusement at the way faeries talked. Intellectually, he knew the word “lover” was part of traditional speech, but he couldn’t help it: He was from Los Angeles, and as far as he was concerned, Kieran had just said, Hello, I have sex with Mark Blackthorn. What about you?

“I thought Mark was dating Emma,” Kit said.

Kieran looked confused. A few of the curls of his hair seemed to darken, or perhaps it was a trick of the light. “I think you must be mistaken,” he said.

Kit raised an eyebrow. How close was this guy actually to Mark, after all? Maybe they’d just had a meaningless fling. Though why Mark would then have dragged half his family to Faerie to save him was a mystery.

Before he could say anything, Kieran turned his head, his attention diverted. “That must be the lovely Diana,” he said, gesturing toward the Blackthorns’ tutor. “Gwyn was most enraptured with her.” “Gwyn’s the big guy? Antler helmet?” said Kit. Kieran nodded, watching as Gwyn dismounted his horse to speak with Diana, who looked quite tiny against his bulk, though she was a tall woman.

“Providence has brought us together again,” Gwyn said.

“I don’t believe in providence,” said Diana. She looked awkward, a little alarmed. She was holding her injured arm close against her. “Or an interventionist Heaven.” “ ’There are more things in heaven and earth,’ ” said Gwyn, “ ’than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ ” Kit snorted. Diana looked flabbergasted. “Are you quoting Shakespeare?” she said. “I would have thought at least it would have been A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” “Faeries can’t stand A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” muttered Kieran. “Gets everything wrong.”

Gwyn’s lips twitched at the corners. “Speaking of dreams,” he said. “You have been in mine, and often.” Diana looked stunned. The Blackthorns had quieted their loud reunion and were watching her and Gwyn with unabashed curiosity. Julian was even smiling a little; he was holding Tavvy, who had his arms hooked around his brother’s neck like a clinging koala.

“I would that you would meet me, formally, that I might court you,” said Gwyn. His large hands moved aimlessly at his sides, and Kit realized with a shock that he was nervous—this big, muscled man, the leader of the Wild Hunt, nervous. “We could together slay a frost giant, or devour a deer.” “I don’t want to do either of those things,” said Diana after a moment.

Gwyn looked crestfallen.

“But I will go out with you,” she said, blushing. “Preferably to a nice restaurant. Bring flowers, and not the helmet.” The Blackthorns burst into giggling applause. Kit leaned against the wall with Kieran, who was shaking his head in bemusement. “And thus was the proud leader of the Hunt felled by love,” he said. “I hope there will be a ballad about it someday.” Kit watched Gwyn, who was ignoring the applause as he readied his horses to leave.

“You don’t look like the other Blackthorns,” said Kieran after a moment. “Your eyes are blue, but not like the ocean’s blue. More of an ordinary sky.” Kit felt obscurely insulted. “I’m not a Blackthorn,” he said. “I’m a Herondale. Christopher Herondale.” He waited. The name Herondale seemed to produce an explosive reaction in most denizens of the supernatural world. The boy with the ocean hair, though, didn’t bat an eye. “Then what are you doing here, if you are not family?” he asked.

Kit shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t belong, that’s for sure.”

Kieran smiled a sideways faerie smile. “That makes two of us.”

They eventually gathered in the parlor, the warmest room in the house. Evelyn was already there, muttering by the fire burning in the grate; even though it was late summer, London had a damp, chill edge to it. Bridget brought sandwiches—tuna and sweet corn, chicken and bacon—and the newcomers tucked into them as if they were wildly starving. Julian had to eat awkwardly with his left hand, balancing Tavvy on his lap with the other.

The parlor had aged better than a lot of the other rooms in the Institute. It had cheerful flowered wallpaper, only slightly discolored, and gorgeous antique furniture someone had clearly picked out with care—a lovely rolltop desk, a delicate escritoire, plush velvet armchairs and sofas grouped around the fireplace. Even the fire screen was made of delicate wrought iron, patterned with wing-spread herons, and when the fire shone through it, the shadow of the birds was cast against the wall as if they were flying by.

Kieran alone didn’t seem thrilled with the sandwiches. He poked at them suspiciously and then pulled them apart, eating only the tomatoes, while Julian explained what had happened in Faerie: their journey to the Unseelie Court, the meeting with the Queen, the blight on the Unseelie Land. “There were burned places, white as ash, like the surface of the moon,” Mark said, eyes dark with distress. Kit tried his best to hang on to the story, but it was like trying to ride a roller coaster with faulty brakes—phrases like “scrying glass,” “Unseelie champion,” and “Black Volume of the Dead” kept hurling him off track.

“How much time passed for them?” he whispered finally to Ty, who was wedged in beside him and Livvy on a love seat too small for the three of them.

“It sounds like a few less days than passed for us,” said Ty. “Some time slippage, but not much. Cristina’s necklace seems to have worked.” Kit whistled under his breath. “And who’s Annabel?”

“She was a Blackthorn,” said Ty. “She died, but Malcolm brought her back.”

“From the dead?” said Kit. “That’s—that’s necromancy.”

“Malcolm was a necromancer,” pointed out Ty.

“Shut up.” Livvy elbowed Kit, who was lost in thought. Necromancy wasn’t just a forbidden art at the Shadow Market, it was a forbidden topic. The punishment for raising the dead was death. If the Shadowhunters didn’t catch you, other Downworlders would, and the way you died would not be pretty.

Bringing back the dead, Johnny Rook had always said, warped the fabric of life, the same way making humans immortal did. Invite in death, and death would stay. Could anyone bring back the dead and have it work? Kit had asked him once. Even the most powerful magician?

God, Johnny had said, after a long, long pause. God could do that. And those who raise the dead may think they are God, but soon enough they will find out the lie they have believed.

“The head of the Los Angeles Institute is dead?” Evelyn exclaimed, dropping the remains of her sandwich on a likely very expensive antique table.

Kit didn’t really blame her for her surprise. The Blackthorns didn’t act like a family in grief over the death of a beloved uncle. Rather they seemed stunned and puzzled. But then, they had behaved around Arthur almost as if they were strangers.

“Is that why he wanted to stay behind in Los Angeles?” Livvy demanded, her cheeks flushed. “So he could sacrifice himself—for us?” “By the Angel.” Diana had her hand against her chest. “He hadn’t replied to any of my messages, but that wasn’t unusual. Still, for Zara not to notice—” “Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t,” said Livvy. “But it’s better for her plans if he’s out of the way.” “What plans?” said Cristina. “What do you mean, Zara’s plans?”

It was time for another long explanation, this time of things Kit already knew about. Evelyn had fallen asleep in front of the fireplace and was snoring. Kit wondered how much the silver top of her cane was worth. Was it real silver, or just plated?

“By the Angel,” said Cristina, when the explanation was done. Julian said nothing; Emma said something unprintable. Mark leaned forward, a flush on his cheeks.

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “Zara and her father want to run the Los Angeles Institute so they can push their anti-Downworlder agenda. The new Laws would likely apply to me and to Helen. Certainly to Magnus, Catarina—every Downworlder we know, no matter how loyal.” “I know of their group,” said Diana. “They don’t believe in loyal Downworlders.”

“What is their group?” Emma asked.

“The Cohort,” said Diana. “They are a well-known faction in the Council. Like all groups who exist primarily to hate, they believe that they speak for a silent majority—that everyone despises Downworlders as they do. They believe opposition to the Cold Peace is moral cowardice, or at best, whining from those who feel inconvenienced by it.” “Inconvenienced?” said Kieran. There was no expression in his voice, just the word, hanging there in the room.

“They are not intelligent,” said Diana. “But they are loud and vicious, and they have frightened many better people into silence. They do not number an Institute head among them, but if they did . . .” “This is bad,” Emma said. “Before, they would have had to prove Arthur wasn’t fit to run an Institute. Now he’s dead. The spot’s open. All they have to do is wait for the next Council meeting and put their candidate forward.” “And they’re in a good place for it.” Diana had risen to her feet and begun to pace. “The Clave is enormously impressed with Zara Dearborn. They believe she and her Centurions beat back the sea demon threat on their own.” “The demons vanished because Malcolm died—again, and this time hopefully for good,” said Livvy furiously. “None of it’s because of Zara. She’s taking credit for what Arthur did!” “And there’s nothing we can do about it,” said Julian. “Not yet. They’ll figure out Arthur is dead or missing soon enough—but even abandonment of his post would be cause to replace him. And we can’t be seen to know how or why he died.” “Because the only reason we do know is thanks to the Seelie Queen,” said Emma in a low voice, eyeing the sleeping Evelyn.

“Annabel is the key to our finding the Black Volume,” said Julian. “We need to be the only ones looking for her right now. If the Clave finds her first, we’ll never get the book to the Queen.” “When we agreed with the Queen’s plan, though, we didn’t know about the Cohort,” said Mark, looking troubled. “What if there isn’t time to find the book before the Cohort makes their move?” “We’ll just have to find the book faster,” said Julian. “We can’t face the Dearborns in an open Council. What’s Zara done wrong, according to the Clave? Arthur wasn’t qualified to run an Institute. Many Council members do hate Downworlders. She wants to run an Institute so she can pass an evil law. She wouldn’t be the first. She’s not breaking the rules. We are.” Kit felt a faint shudder go up his spine. For a moment, Julian had sounded like Kit’s father. The world isn’t the way you want it to be. It’s the way it is.

“So we’re just supposed to pretend we don’t know what Zara’s up to?” Emma frowned.

“No,” said Diana. “I’m going to go to Idris. I’m going to speak to the Consul.”

They all looked at her, wide-eyed—all except Julian, who didn’t seem surprised, and Kieran, who was still glaring at his food.

“What Zara is proposing would mean Jia’s daughter would be married to one of the Downworlders being registered. Jia knows what that would lead to. I know she’d meet with me. If I can reason with her—” “She let the Cold Peace pass,” said Kieran.

“She had no choice,” said Diana. “If she’d had warning of what was coming, I’d like to think it would have turned out differently. This time, she’ll have that warning. Besides—we have something to offer her now.” “That’s right,” said Julian, gesturing at Kieran. “The end of the Cold Peace. A faerie messenger from the Queen of Seelie.” Evelyn, who had been napping by the fire, bolted upright. “That is enough.” She glared daggers at Kieran. “I can accept a Blackthorn into this house, even one with a questionable bloodline. I will always accept a Blackthorn. But a full-blood faerie? Listening to the business of Nephilim? I will not allow it.” Kieran looked briefly startled. Then he rose to his feet. Mark began to rise too. Julian stayed exactly where he was. “But Kieran is part of our plan—” “Stuff and nonsense. Bridget!” she called, and the maid, who had clearly been lurking in the corridor, stuck her head into the room. “Please lead the princeling to one of the spare bedrooms. I will have your word, faerie, that you will not depart it until you are allowed.” Kieran looked at Cristina. “What is your desire, my lady?”

Kit was baffled. Why was Kieran, a prince of the gentry, taking orders from Cristina?

She blushed. “You don’t need to swear you won’t leave the room,” she said. “I trust you.”

“Do you?” Emma said, sounding fascinated, as Kieran gave a stiff bow and departed.

Bridget’s muttering could be heard by all as she led Kieran out the door. “Faeries in the Institute,” she muttered. “Ghosts is one thing, warlocks is another thing, but never in all my born days—” Drusilla looked puzzled. “Why is Kieran here?” she said, as soon as he was gone. “I thought we hated him. Like, mostly hated him. I mean, he did save our lives, but he’s still a jerk.” There was a murmur of voices. Kit remembered something he’d overhead Livvy say to Dru a day or two ago. More pieces of the Kieran puzzle: Livvy had been angry that Mark would go to Faerie to help someone who had hurt him. Had hurt Emma and Julian. Kit didn’t know exactly what had happened, but it had clearly been bad.

Emma had moved to sit on the couch beside Cristina. She’d arrived wearing a pale gossamer dress that looked like something Kit would have seen in the Shadow Market. It made her look delicate and graceful, but Kit remembered the steel in her, the way she’d sliced apart the praying mantis demons in his house with all the calm of a bride cutting slices of wedding cake.

Julian was quietly listening to his family talk. Even though he wasn’t looking at Emma, an almost visible energy crackled between them. Kit remembered the way Emma had said this isn’t Julian’s kind of place to his father—one of the first things he’d heard her say, in the Market—and the way her voice had seemed to hug the syllables of his name.

Parabatai were strange. So close, and yet it wasn’t a marriage, yet it was more than a best friendship. There was no real analogue in the mundane world. And it drew him, the idea of it, of being connected to someone like that, the way all the dangerous and beautiful things of the Shadowhunter world drew him.

Maybe Ty . . .

Julian stood up, setting Tavvy down in an armchair. He stretched out his arms, cracking the sinews in his wrists. “The thing is, we need Kieran,” he said.

Evelyn snorted. “Imagine needing a faerie lord,” she said. “For anything.”

Julian whispered something in Tavvy’s ear. A moment later he was on his feet. “Miss Highsmith,” he said. “My little brother is exhausted, but he says he doesn’t know where his bedroom is. Can you show him?” Evelyn looked irritably from Julian to Tavvy, who smiled angelically at her, showing off his dimples. “Can’t you escort the child?” “I’ve only just arrived,” said Julian. “I don’t know where the room is.” He added his own smile to Tavvy’s. Julian could radiate charm when he wanted to; Kit had nearly forgotten.

Evelyn looked around to see if there were any volunteers to take over for her; no one moved. Finally, with a disgusted snort, she snapped her fingers at Tavvy, said, “Well, come on then, child,” and stalked from the room with him in tow.

Julian’s smile turned crooked. Kit couldn’t help the feeling that Julian had used Evelyn to get rid of Kieran, and Tavvy to get rid of Evelyn, and done it so handily no one could ever prove it.

If Julian had ever wanted to turn his hand to cons and crime, Kit thought, he would have excelled at it.

“We need Kieran to bargain with the Clave,” said Julian, as if nothing had happened. “When we found him in Faerie, his father was about to have him killed. He escaped, but he’ll never be safe as long as the Unseelie King sits on the throne.” He ran his hands through his hair restlessly; Kit wondered how Julian kept it all in his head: plans, plots, concealments, truths.

“And the Queen wants the King off the throne,” said Emma. “She’s willing to help us replace him with Kieran’s brother, but Kieran had to promise to convince him.” “Kieran’s brother would be better than the King they have right now?” asked Dru.

“He would be better,” Emma confirmed. “Believe it or not.”

“Kieran will also testify in front of the Council,” said Julian. “He will bring the Queen’s message that she’s willing to ally with us to defeat the King. He can confirm for the Council what the King is doing in the Unseelie Lands—” “But you could tell them that,” said Kit.

“If we wanted to risk the wrath of the Clave for having ventured into Faerie,” Julian said. “Not to mention that while we might get out of that, there will be no forgiveness for our having entered into a bargain with the Seelie Queen.” Kit had to admit Julian was right. He knew how much trouble the Blackthorns had nearly gotten in for bargaining with the faerie convoy who had returned Mark to them. The Seelie Queen was a whole other level of forbidden. It was like getting a slap on the wrist for running a red light and then coming back the next day and blowing up the whole street.

“Kieran’s your get-out-of-jail-free card,” he said.

“It’s not just about us,” said Emma. “If the Council will listen to him, it could end the Cold Peace. In fact, it would have to. They’ll have to believe him—he can’t lie—and if the Queen is willing to fight the Unseelie King with the Clave, I don’t think they’ll be able to turn that down.” “Which means we have to keep Kieran safe,” said Julian. “We also have to do what we can not to antagonize him.” “Because he’s doing this for Mark?” said Dru.

“But Mark broke up with him,” said Livvy, and then looked around, alarmed. Her ponytail brushed Kit’s shoulder. “Is that something I wasn’t supposed to say?” “No,” Mark said. “It’s the truth. But—Kieran doesn’t remember. When the Unseelie Court tortured him, he lost some of his memories. He doesn’t recall bringing the envoy to the Institute, or Emma and Julian being whipped, or what danger he put us all in with his haste and anger.” He looked down at his intertwined hands. “And he must not be told.” “But—Emma,” said Livvy. “Are we supposed to pretend that she and Mark aren’t . . . ?”

Kit leaned close to Ty. Ty smelled like ink and wool. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“Neither do I,” Ty whispered back. “It’s very complicated.”

“Mark and I,” Emma, said, looking very steadily at Mark. “We broke up.”

Kit wondered if Mark had known that. He wasn’t able to hide the look of astonishment on his face. “It just didn’t work out,” Emma went on. “So it’s all right, whatever Mark needs to do.” “They’re broken up?” Livvy whispered. Ty shrugged, baffled. Livvy had gone tense and was glancing from Emma to Mark, clearly worried.

“We have to let Kieran think he and Mark are still dating?” said Ty, looking bewildered. Kit felt the whole thing was beyond him as well, but then Henry VIII had beheaded several of his wives for apparently governmental reasons. The personal, the political, and the romantic were often oddly entwined.

“Concealing these things from Kieran isn’t ideal,” said Julian, hands in his pockets. “And I hate to ask you guys to lie. Probably it’s best to avoid the subject. But there’s literally no other way to make sure he actually shows up in front of the Clave.” Mark sat, running his fingers through his blond hair in a distracted manner. Kit could hear him saying, “I’m all right, it’s fine,” to Cristina. He felt a surge of odd sympathy—not for Mark, but for Kieran. Kieran, who didn’t know that his boyfriend wasn’t really his boyfriend, that he was sleeping in a house full of people who, however friendly they might seem, would lie to him to get something they needed.

He thought of the coldness he’d seen in Julian back at the Shadow Market. Julian, who would sacrifice Kieran, and perhaps his own brother in a way, to get what he wanted.

Even if it was a good thing to want. Even if it was the end of the Cold Peace. Kit looked at Julian, gazing at the parlor fire with fathomless eyes, and suspected that there was more to it.

That where Julian Blackthorn was concerned, there would always be more to it.