فصل 20

Chapter 20

EVERMORE

Diana sat in her small room above the weapons shop and flipped through the file Jia had given her.

She hadn’t been in this room since the end of the Dark War, but it felt comfortable and familiar—the blanket her grandmother had made folded at the foot of the bed, the first blunt wooden daggers her father had given her to practice with on the wall, her mother’s shawl across the back of a chair. She wore a pair of bright red satin pajamas she’d found in an old trunk and felt amusingly dressed up.

Her amusement faded quickly, though, as she examined the pages inside the cream-colored file. First was Zara’s story about how she’d killed Malcolm, which had been signed off on by Samantha and Dane as witnesses. Not that Diana would have believed Samantha or her brother if they’d said the sky was blue.

Zara was claiming that the Centurions had chased Malcolm away the first time he’d attacked, and that the next night she’d fearlessly patrolled the borders of the Institute until she’d found him lurking in the shadows and bested him in a one-on-one swordfight. She claimed his body had then disappeared.

Malcolm was hardly a lurk-in-the-shadows type, and from what Diana had seen on the night he’d returned, his magic was still working. He’d never fight Zara with a blade when he could blast her with fire.

But none of that was hard evidence that she was lying. Diana frowned, turning the pages, and then sat up straight. There was more here than just the report on Malcolm’s death. There were pages and pages about Zara. Dozens of reports of her achievements. All together like this, it was an impressive package. And yet . . .

As Diana read through, taking careful notes, a pattern started to emerge. Every success of Zara’s, every triumph, took place when no one was around to witness it except those in her inner circle—Samantha, Dane, or Manuel. Often others would arrive in time to see the empty demon nest, or the evidence of a battle, but that was all.

There were no reports of Zara ever being wounded or hurt in any battle. Diana thought of the scars she’d gotten through her life as a Shadowhunter and frowned more deeply. And more deeply yet when she reached Marisol Garza Solcedo’s year-old report—Marisol claimed to have saved a group of mundanes from an attacking Druj demon in Portugal. She was knocked unconscious. When she awoke, she said, Zara’s destruction of the Druj was being celebrated.

The report had been submitted, along with a signed statement by Zara, Jessica, Samantha, Dane, and Manuel, stating that Marisol was imagining things. Zara, they said, had killed the Druj after a fierce fight; again, Zara had no wounds.

She takes credit for what other people do, Diana thought. Her window rattled, wind probably. I ought to go to bed, she thought. The clock in the Gard, new since the Dark War, had rung the early hours of dawn some time ago. But she kept reading, fascinated. Zara would hang back, wait for the battle to be over, and announce the victory as her own. With her group backing her up, the Clave accepted her claims at face value.

But if it could be proved that she hadn’t killed Malcolm—in some way that kept Julian and the others protected—then perhaps the Cohort would be disgraced. Certainly the Dearborns’ bid to seize the Los Angeles Institute would fail— Her window rattled again. She looked up and saw Gwyn on the other side of the glass.

She stood up with a yelp of surprise, sending her papers flying. Get a grip, she told herself. There was no way that the leader of the Wild Hunt was actually outside her window.

She blinked, and looked again. He was still there, and as she moved toward the window, she saw that he was hovering in the air just below her sill, on the back of a massive gray horse. He wore dark brown leather, and his antlered helmet was nowhere to be seen. His expression was grave and curious.

He gestured for her to open the window. Diana hesitated, then reached to undo the latch and fling up the sash. She didn’t have to let him in, she reasoned. They could just talk through the window.

Cool air rushed into her room, and the smell of pine and morning air. His bicolored eyes fixed on her. “My lady,” he said. “I had hoped you would accompany me on a ride.” Diana tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Why?”

“For the pleasure of your company,” Gwyn said. He peered at her. “I see you are richly attired in silk. Are you expecting another guest?” She shook her head, amused. Well, the pajamas were nice.

“You look beautiful,” he said. “I am fortunate.”

She supposed he wasn’t lying. He couldn’t lie.

“You couldn’t have arranged this meeting in advance?” she asked. “Sent me a message, maybe?” He looked puzzled. He had long eyelashes and a square chin—a pleasant face. A handsome face. Diana often tried not to think about those things, as they only caused trouble, but now she couldn’t help it. “I only discovered you were here in Idris this dawn,” he said.

“But you’re not allowed to be here!” She looked nervously up and down empty Flintlock Street. If anyone saw him . . .

He grinned at that. “As long as my horse’s hooves do not touch Alicante ground the alarm will not be raised.” Still, she felt a bubble of tension in her chest. He was asking her on a date—she couldn’t pretend otherwise. And though she wanted to go, the fear—that old fear that walked hand in hand with distrust and grief—held her back.

He reached out a hand. “Come with me. The sky awaits.”

She looked at him. He wasn’t young, but he didn’t look old, either. He seemed ageless, as faeries did sometimes, and though he seemed solid and thoughtful in himself, he carried with him the promise of the air and the sky. When else will you ever have a chance to ride a faerie horse? Diana asked herself. When else will you ever fly?

“You’re going to be in so much trouble,” she whispered, “if they find out you’re here.” He shrugged, hand still outstretched. “Then you had better come quickly,” he said.

She began to climb out the window.

Breakfast was late; Kit managed to snag a few hours of sleep and a shower before wandering into the dining room to find everyone else already sitting down.

Well, everyone but Evelyn. Bridget was serving tea, pinched-faced as always. Alec and Magnus each had a child on their lap, and introduced them to Kit: Max was the small, blue warlock who was spilling brown sauce down the front of Magnus’s designer shirt, and Rafe was the brown-eyed child who was tearing his toast into pieces.

Kieran was nowhere to be seen, which wasn’t unusual at meals. Mark was seated beside Cristina, who was quietly drinking coffee. She looked neat and self-contained as always, despite the red mark on her wrist. She was an interesting mystery, Kit thought, a non-Blackthorn like himself, but inextricably tied to the Blackthorns nevertheless.

And then there were Livvy and Ty. Ty had the buds of his earphones in. Livvy looked tired but entirely healthy. Only a slight shadow under Ty’s eyes let Kit know he hadn’t dreamed the whole of last night.

“What we found at Blackthorn Hall was an aletheia crystal,” Ty was saying as Kit sat down. “In the past the crystals were used by the Clave to hold evidence. The evidence of memories.” There was a babble of curious voices. Cristina’s rose above the others—it was an impressive talent of hers, to make herself heard without ever shouting. “Memories of what?” “A sort of trial,” said Livvy. “In Idris, with the Inquisitor there. Lots of familiar families—Herondales, Blackthorns, of course, Dearborns.” “Any Lightwoods?” asked Alec.

“One or two looked like they might be.” Livvy frowned.

“The Herondales have always been famous for their good looks,” said Bridget, “but if you ask me, the Lightwoods are the more sexually charismatic of the bunch.” Alec spit out his tea. Magnus seemed to be keeping a straight face, but with an effort.

“I should examine the memories,” Magnus said. “See if there’s anyone I recognize from that era.” “If Annabel is angry at Shadowhunters,” said Livvy, “it seems to me she has good reason.” “Many have good reason to be angry with the Nephilim,” said Mark. “Malcolm did as well. But those who harmed her are dead, and their descendants blameless. That is the problem with revenge—you wind up destroying the innocent as well as the guilty.” “But does she know that?” Ty frowned. “We don’t understand her. We don’t know what she thinks or feels.” He looked anxious, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced. Kit wanted to go across the table and put his arms around Ty the way he had the night before, on the roof. He felt intensely protective of the other boy, in a way that was strange and unnerving. He’d cared about people before, mostly his father, but he’d never wanted to protect them.

He wanted to kill anyone who would try to hurt Ty. It was a very peculiar feeling.

“Everyone should watch the scenes in the crystal,” Magnus announced. “In the meantime, Alec and I have some news.” “You’re getting married,” said Livvy, beaming. “I love weddings.”

“Nope, still not getting married right now,” said Alec. Kit wondered why not; they were clearly a committed couple. But it was none of his business, really.

“Evelyn has left us,” said Magnus. Somehow he managed to retain his sangfroid despite having a grizzling toddler on his lap. “According to Jia, the Institute is temporarily in Alec’s charge.” “They’ve been trying to lumber me with an Institute somewhere for years,” said Alec. “Jia must be thrilled.” “Evelyn has left us?” Dru’s eyes were huge. “You mean she died?”

Magnus started to cough. “Of course not. She went to visit your great-aunt Marjorie, actually, in the countryside.” “Is this like when the family dog dies and they say he’s living on a farm now?” Kit asked, curious.

It was Alec’s turn to choke. Kit strongly suspected he was laughing and trying not to show it.

“Not at all,” said Magnus. “She just decided she’d prefer to miss the excitement.” “She is with Marjorie,” Mark confirmed. “I got a fire-message about it this morning. She left Bridget, obviously, to help around the house.” Kit thought of the way Evelyn had reacted to having a faerie in the Institute. He could only imagine how she’d felt about two warlocks added to the situation. She’d probably left tire marks behind when she raced out of the place.

“Does that mean we don’t have to eat our porridge?” said Tavvy, eyeing the grayish stuff with dislike.

Magnus grinned. “In fact . . .”

He snapped his fingers, and a bag from the Primrose Bakery appeared in the middle of the table. It tipped over, spilling muffins, croissants, and iced cakes.

There was a great shout of happiness and everyone lunged for the pastries. A small war over the chocolate cookies was won by Ty, who shared them with Livvy.

Max crawled onto the table, reaching for a muffin. Magnus leaned on his elbows, his cat eyes watchful. “And after breakfast,” he said, “maybe we can go into the library and discuss what we know about the current situation.” Everyone nodded; only Mark looked at him with a slightly narrow gaze. Kit understood—Magnus had gotten rid of Evelyn for them, he’d brought breakfast, he’d put them in a good mood. Now he was going to see what they knew. A straightforward con.

Looking at the cheerful faces around the table, for a moment Kit hated his own father, for destroying his ability to ever believe someone might be willing to give something for nothing.

Kieran found the whole business of eating dinner and breakfast in a group bizarre and of little interest. Mark had been bringing him plates of food as plain as Bridget could make them—meat and rice and bread, uncooked fruit and vegetables.

But Kieran only picked at them. When Mark came into Kieran’s room after breakfast, the prince was looking out at the city through his window with a weary loathing. His hair had paled to blue-white, curling like the break of surf at the edge of the water around his ears and temples.

“Listen to this,” Kieran said. He had a book open on his lap.

“The land of Faery,

Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,

Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,

Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.”

He glanced up at Mark with his luminous eyes. “That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s Yeats,” said Mark, handing over some raspberries. “He was a very famous mundane poet.” “He didn’t know anything about faeries. Nobody grows bitter of tongue? Ha!” Kieran swallowed the raspberries and slid off the windowsill. “Where do we journey now?” “I was going to the library,” said Mark. “There’s a sort of—meeting—about what we’re going to do next.” “Then I would like to go to it,” said Kieran.

Mark’s mind raced. Was there any reason Kieran shouldn’t come? As far as Magnus and Alec knew, his relationship with Kieran was whatever he said it was. Nor was it any good for Kieran, or for their strained relationship, for the faerie prince to spend all his time in a small room, hating seminal Irish poets.

“Well,” Mark said. “If you’re sure.”

When they walked into the library, Magnus was examining the aletheia crystal while the others tried to fill him in on what had been going on before he’d arrived. The warlock was lying full-length on one of the tables, holding the crystal delicately above him.

Cristina, Ty, Livvy, and Dru were seated around the long library table. Alec was sitting on the floor of the room with three children clustered around him: his own two boys, and Tavvy, who was delighted to have someone to play with. The seven-year-old was explaining to Max and Rafe how he made towns and cities out of books, showing them how you could make tunnels with books splayed open on their faces for trains to go through.

Magnus gestured Mark over to look into the aletheia crystal, which was glowing with an odd light. The sounds in the room around him faded as Mark watched the trial, saw Annabel beg and protest, saw the Blackthorns doom her to her fate.

He felt chilled all over when he finally looked away. It took several moments for the library to come back into focus. To Mark’s surprise, Kieran had picked up Max and was holding him in the air, obviously delighted by his blue skin and the buds of his horns.

Max stuck his hand into Kieran’s wavy hair and pulled. Kieran just laughed. “That’s right, it changes color, little nixie-like warlock,” he said. “Look.” And his hair went from blue-black to bright blue in an instant. Max giggled.

“I didn’t know you could do that on purpose,” said Mark, who had always thought of Kieran’s hair as a reflection of his moods, uncontrollable as the tides.

“You don’t know a lot of things about me, Mark Blackthorn,” Kieran said, setting Max down.

Alec and Magnus had exchanged a look at that, the sort of look that made Mark feel as if they had reached a silent and agreed-upon consensus about his relationship with Kieran.

“So,” Magnus said, looking at Kieran with some interest. “You’re the son of the Unseelie King?” Kieran had what Mark thought of as his Court face on, blank and superior as befitted a prince. “And you are the warlock Magnus Bane.” “Quite,” Magnus said. “Although that was an easy guess, since there’s one of me and fifty of you.” Ty looked puzzled.

“Fifty sons of the Unseelie King,” explained Livvy. “I think that was a joke.” “Not one of my best,” said Magnus to Kieran. “I apologize—I’m not a big fan of your father.” “My father does not have fans.” Kieran leaned against the edge of the table. “He has subjects. And enemies.” “And sons.”

“His sons are his enemies,” said Kieran, without inflection.

Magnus looked at him with a flicker of extra interest. “All right,” he said, sitting up. “Diana explained some of this to us, but it’s more complicated than I thought. Annabel Blackthorn, who was brought back from the dead by Malcolm, who was sort of dead before but is now very definitely dead, has the Black Volume. And the Seelie Queen wants it?” “She does,” said Mark. “She was very clear about that.”

“And she made you a deal,” Alec said, from the floor. “She always makes a deal.” “If we give her the Black Volume, she will use it against the Unseelie King,” said Mark, and hesitated. YOU CAN TRUST MAGNUS AND ALEC, Julian had texted earlier. TELL THEM ANYTHING. “She has sworn not to try to use it to harm us. In fact, she has promised aid to us. She made Kieran her messenger. He’ll testify in front of the Council about the Unseelie King’s plans to make war on Alicante. Once the Queen has the Black Volume, she will authorize her Seelie soldiers to fight alongside Shadowhunters against the King—but the Clave will have to end all laws that forbid cooperation with faeries if they want her help.” “Which they will,” said Magnus. “Fighting a war against Faerie would be much easier with faeries on your side.” Mark nodded. “We are hoping not just to defeat the King, but also to crush the Cohort and end the Cold Peace.” “Ah, the Cohort,” said Magnus, exchanging a look with Alec. “We know them well. Horace Dearborn and his daughter, Zara.” “Horace?” Mark was startled.

“Sadly,” said Magnus, “that is his name. Hence his life of evil.”

“Not that the Dearborns are all of it,” said Alec. “Plenty of bigots in the Clave, happy to gather under the umbrella of tossing out the Downworlders and returning the Clave to its former glory.” “Glory?” Kieran raised an eyebrow. “Do they mean the time of freely killing Downworlders? When our blood ran in the streets and their houses were stuffed with the spoils of their one-sided war?” “Yes,” said Magnus, “though they wouldn’t describe it that way.”

“Heading up the Alliance, we’ve heard more than a little about the Cohort,” said Alec. “Their pushes to limit warlocks’ use of their magic, to centralize blood supply for vampires so it can be monitored by the Clave—those have not gone unnoticed.” “They must not be allowed to get their hands on an Institute,” said Magnus. “That could be potentially disastrous.” He sighed and swung his legs over the side of the table. “I understand we must give the Black Volume to the Queen. But I don’t like it, especially since it seems doubly important here.” “You mean because Annabel and Malcolm stole it from the Cornwall Institute,” said Ty. “And then Malcolm stole it again, from the Institute in Los Angeles.” “The first time they were going to trade it to someone who they thought could protect them from the Clave,” said Livvy. “The second time was with the Unseelie King’s help. At least, according to Emma and Jules.” “And how did they find that out?” asked Magnus.

“It was in one of the books they found,” said Cristina. “A diary. It explains why we found an Unseelie Court glove at the ruins of Malcolm’s house. He must have met with the King or one of his sons there.” “Odd thing to write in a diary,” Magnus muttered. “ ’Traitorous plans with the Unseelie King afoot today, what ho.’” “Odder that Malcolm disappeared from the Silent City after the first theft,” said Mark, “and left Annabel to take the blame and the punishment.” “Why odd?” said Livvy. “He was a terrible person.”

“But he did love Annabel,” Cristina said. “Everything he did, the crimes, the murders, all his choices were made for love of her. And when he found out she hadn’t become an Iron Sister, but had been murdered by her family, he went to the King of Faeries and asked for help in bringing her back. Don’t you remember?” Mark did remember, the story in the old book Tavvy had found, which had turned out to be true. “Which explains why Malcolm broke into the Los Angeles Institute to get the book five years ago,” he said. “To bring Annabel back. But what did Malcolm want it for, two hundred years ago? Who was he planning to trade it to? Most necromancers couldn’t help him with protection. And if it was a warlock, it would have to have been one stronger than Malcolm himself.” “ ’Fade’s powerful ally,’ ” Ty said, quoting the scene in the crystal.

“We don’t think it could have been the Unseelie King?” Livvy said. “Both times?” “The Unseelie King didn’t hate Shadowhunters in 1812,” said Magnus. “At least, not that much.” “And Malcolm told Emma that when he went to the Unseelie King after he found out that Annabel wasn’t dead, he thought the King might kill him, because he disliked warlocks,” said Cristina. “He wouldn’t have a reason to dislike warlocks if he’d worked with Malcolm before, would he?” Magnus stood up. “All right, enough guesswork,” he said. “We have two duties to carry out today. First, we shouldn’t lose sight of the binding spell on Mark and Cristina. It’s more than just a nuisance, it’s a danger to them both.” Mark couldn’t help glancing at Cristina. She was looking down at the table, not at him. He remembered the night before, the warmth of her body beside him in bed, her breath in his ear.

He came back to reality with a start, realizing that a discussion of where they were going to get the ingredients for an anti-binding spell was underway. “Given what happened at the Shadow Market yesterday,” Magnus added, “none of us will be welcomed back there again. There is, however, a shop here in London that sells what I need. If I give you the address, can Kit, Ty, and Livvy find it?” Livvy and Ty clamored their agreement, clearly thrilled to have a mission. Kit was quieter, but the corner of his mouth quirked up. Somehow, this youngest Herondale had become so attached to the twins, even Magnus thought of them as a team.

“Do you really think it’s wise for them to go?” Mark interrupted. “After what happened yesterday, with them sloping off to the Shadow Market and practically getting Livvy killed?” “But, Mark—” Ty protested.

“Well,” said Magnus, “you and Cristina should stay inside the Institute. Binding spells are dangerous, and you shouldn’t be too far away from each other. Alec’s the Institute head; he should stay here, and anyway—the owner of the shop has a certain, let’s say, history with me. Better I don’t go.” “I could go,” said Dru, in a small voice.

“Not by yourself, Dru,” said Mark. “And these three”—he indicated Kit, Ty, and Livvy—“will just get you in trouble.” “I can put a tracking spell on one of them,” said Magnus. “If they wander off the path they’re supposed to follow, it’ll make an awful noise mundanes can hear.” “Delightful,” said Mark as the twins protested. Kit didn’t say anything—he rarely complained. Mark suspected he was silently plotting to get even instead, possibly with everyone he’d ever met.

Magnus examined a large blue ring on his finger. “We’ll do library research. More about the history of the Black Volume. We don’t know who created it, but perhaps who owned it in the past, what it was used for, anything that might point to who Malcolm was working with in 1812.” “And remember what Julian and Emma asked us for help with,” said Cristina, tapping the phone in her pocket. “It should only take a few minutes to look it up . . . .” Mark couldn’t help staring at her. She was tucking her dark hair behind her ears, and as she did, the sleeve of her sweater slipped down and he saw the red mark on her wrist. He wanted to go to her, to kiss the mark, to take her pain onto himself.

He looked away from her, but not before he caught the edge of a glance from Kieran. Ty and Livvy and Kit were getting out of their chairs, excitedly chattering, eager to go on their trip. Dru was sitting with her arms crossed. And Magnus was looking between Cristina, Mark, and Kieran thoughtfully, his cat eyes slow and considering.

“We shouldn’t need to look it up at all,” Magnus said. “We have a primary source right here. Kieran, what do you know about catching piskies?” * * *

Emma woke late in the morning, surrounded by warmth. Light was breaking through the unshaded windows and making patterns on the walls like dancing waves. Through the window she could see flashes of blue sky and blue water: a holiday view.

She yawned, stretched—and went still as she realized why she was so warm. She and Julian had somehow wrapped themselves around each other during the night.

Emma froze in horror. Her left arm was thrown across Julian’s body, but she couldn’t just remove it. He had turned toward her, his own arms curved around her back, securing her. Her cheek brushed the smooth skin of his collarbone. Their legs were tangled together as well, her foot resting on his ankle.

She began to slowly detangle herself. Oh God. If Julian woke up it would be so awkward, and everything had been going so well. Their conversation on the train—finding the cottage—talking about Annabel—everything had been comfortable. She didn’t want to lose that, not now.

She edged sideways, slipping her fingers out of his—closer to the edge of the bed—and went over the side with an ungainly tumble. She landed with a thump and a scream that woke Julian, who peered over the side of the bed in confusion.

“Why are you on the floor?”

“I’ve heard rolling out of bed in the morning helps you build up resistance to surprise attacks,” Emma said, lying sprawled on the hardwood.

“Oh yeah?” He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “What does screaming ‘holy crap!’ do?” “That part’s optional,” she said. She got to her feet with as much dignity as she could muster. “So,” she said. “What’s for breakfast?” He grinned his low-key grin and stretched. She didn’t look at where his shirt rode up. There was no reason to sail down Sexy Thoughts River to the Sea of Perversion when it wasn’t going to go anywhere. “You hungry?” “When am I not hungry?” She went over to the table and rooted in her bag for her phone. Several texts from Cristina. Most were about how Cristina was FINE and Emma had NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT and she should STOP TEXTING BECAUSE MAGNUS WAS GOING TO FIX THE BINDING SPELL. Emma sent her a worry face and scrolled down.

“Any word on piskie-catching techniques?” Julian asked.

“Not yet.”

Julian didn’t say anything. Emma stripped down to her boy shorts and tank top. She saw Julian glance away from her, though it wasn’t anything he’d never seen before—her clothes covered more than a bikini. She grabbed up her towel and soap. “I’m going to shower.” Maybe she was imagining his reaction. He just nodded and went over to the kitchen, firing up the stove. “No pancakes,” he said. “They don’t have the right stuff to make them.” “Surprise me,” Emma said, and headed to the bathroom. When she emerged fifteen minutes later, scrubbed clean, her hair tied into two damp braids that dripped onto her T-shirt, Julian had set the table with breakfast—toast, eggs, hot chocolate for her and coffee for him. She slid gratefully onto a chair.

“You smell like eucalyptus,” he said, handing her a fork.

“There’s eucalyptus shower gel in the bathroom.” Emma took a bite of eggs. “Malcolm’s, I guess.” She paused. “I’ve never really thought of serial killers as having shower gel.” “No one likes a filthy warlock,” said Julian.

Emma winked. “Some might disagree.”

“No comment,” Julian said, spreading peanut butter and Nutella on his toast. “We got a reply to our question.” He held up her phone. “Instructions on how to catch piskies. From Mark, but probably really from Kieran. So first, breakfast, and afterward—piskie hunting.” “I am so ready to hunt down those tiny adorable creatures and give them what for,” said Emma. “SO READY.” “Emma . . .”

“I may even tie bows on their heads.”

“We have to interrogate them.”

“Can I get a selfie with one of them first?”

“Eat your toast, Emma.”

Everything sucked, Dru thought. She was lying under the desk in the parlor, arms crossed behind her head. A few feet above her she could see where a message, blurred over time and the years, had been scratched into the wood.

It was quiet in the room, only the clock ticking. The quiet was both a reminder of how lonely she was, and a relief. No one was telling her to go take care of Tavvy, or asking her if she’d play demons and Shadowhunters for the millionth time. No one was demanding she deliver messages or ferry papers back and forth in the library. No one was talking over her, and not listening.

No one was telling her she was too young. In Dru’s opinion, age was a matter of maturity, not years, and she was plenty mature. She’d been eight years old when she’d defended her little brother’s crib with a sword. She’d been eight when she’d seen Julian kill the creature that wore her father’s face, when she’d run through the capital city of Idris as it fell apart in flames and blood.

And she’d stayed calm only a few days ago when Livvy had come to tell her that Uncle Arthur had never run the Institute; it had always been Julian. She’d been very matter-of-fact about it, as if it were no big deal, and she’d glossed over the fact that Diana hadn’t even bothered to invite Dru to the meeting where she’d apparently broken this news. As far as Livvy was concerned, it seemed, the news was useful primarily for guilting Dru into further babysitting.

It wasn’t so much that she hated looking after Tavvy. She didn’t. It was more that she felt she deserved some credit when she made an effort. Not to mention, she’d put up with Great-Aunt Marjorie calling her fat for two months over the summer, and she hadn’t murdered her, which in Dru’s opinion was an epic sign of maturity and self-restraint.

She glanced down at her own round body and sighed. She had never been thin. Most Shadowhunters were—working out for fourteen hours a day tended to have that effect—but she had always been curved and rounded no matter what she did. She was strong and muscular, her body was fit and capable, but she’d always have the hips, breasts, and softness that she did. She was resigned to it. Unfortunately, the Great-Aunt Marjories of the world weren’t.

There was a clunk. Something in the room had fallen. Dru froze. Was someone else in here with her? She heard a soft voice swearing—not in English, but in Spanish. It couldn’t be Cristina, though. Cristina never swore, and besides, the voice was masculine.

Diego? Her crush-harboring heart skipped a beat, and she popped up from behind the desk.

A yelp of shock burst from her. The other person in the room also yelped, and sat down hard on the arm of the chair.

It wasn’t Diego. It was a Shadowhunter boy about Julian’s age, tall and rangy, with a shock of black hair that contrasted with his brown skin. He was covered in Marks, and not just Marks but tattoos, too—words ran up and down his forearms and snaked across his collarbone.

“What—what’s going on?” Dru demanded, brushing dust bunnies out of her hair. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” She thought about screaming. Any Shadowhunter could come into any Institute, of course, but usually they at least rang the bell.

The boy looked alarmed. He held up a hand as if to forestall her, and she saw the gleam of the ring on his finger, carved with a pattern of roses. “I—” he began.

“Oh, you’re Jaime,” she said, relief going through her in a whoosh. “Diego’s brother, Jaime.” The boy’s face clouded. “You know my brother?”

He had a slight accent, more noticeable than Diego’s or Cristina’s. It lent a richness to the texture of his voice.

“Sort of,” Dru said, and cleared her throat. “I live in the Los Angeles Institute.” “One of the Blackthorns?”

“I’m Drusilla.” She stuck out her hand. “Drusilla Blackthorn. Call me Dru.” He gave a dry sort of chuckle and shook her hand. His was warm. “A pretty name for a pretty girl.” Dru felt herself blush. Jaime wasn’t as perfectly handsome as Perfect Diego—his nose was a little too big, his mouth too wide and mobile—but his eyes were a brilliant sparkling brown, his lashes wickedly long and black. And there was something about him, a sort of energy that Diego didn’t have, handsome as he was.

“Cristina must have told you terrible things about me,” he said.

She shook her head, drawing her hand back. “She hasn’t said much about you to me at all.” Cristina wouldn’t have, Dru thought. She wouldn’t think of Dru as old enough to confide in, to share her secrets with. Dru only knew what the other girls had dropped in casual conversation.

Not that she’d admit that to Jaime.

“That’s very disappointing,” he said. “If I were her, I wouldn’t be able to stop talking about me.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Do you want to sit down?” Feeling slightly flustered, Dru sat beside him.

“I’m going to confide in you,” he said. It seemed like an announcement, as if he’d made up his mind on the spot and felt it was important to publicize as soon as possible.

“Really?” Dru wasn’t sure anyone had ever confided in her before. Most of her siblings considered her too young, and Tavvy had no secrets.

“I came here to see Cristina, but she can’t know I’m here quite yet. I need to communicate with my brother first.” “Is Diego all right?” Dru said. “The last time I saw him—I mean, I heard he was all right after the fight with Malcolm, but I haven’t seen him or heard from him, and he and Cristina—” She clammed up.

He laughed softly. “It’s all right, I know. Ellos terminaron.”

“They broke up,” she translated. “Yes.”

He looked surprised. “You speak Spanish?”

“I’m learning it. I’d like to go to the Mexico City Institute for my travel year, or maybe to Argentina to help rebuild.” She saw his long eyelashes sweep down as he winked. “Not eighteen yet, then?” he said. “It’s all right. Neither am I.” Not even close. But Drusilla just smiled nervously. “What were you going to confide?” “I’m in hiding. I can’t tell you why, only that it’s important. Please do not tell anyone I’m here until I can talk to Cristina.” “You haven’t committed a crime or something, have you?”

He didn’t laugh. “If I said no, but I might know who did, would you believe me?” He was watching her intently. She probably shouldn’t help him, she thought. After all, she didn’t know him, and from the few things Diego had said about him, it had been clear he thought Jaime was trouble.

On the other hand, here was someone willing to trust her, to put their plans and safety in her hands rather than shutting her out because she was too young, or because she should be looking after Tavvy.

She exhaled and met Jaime’s eyes. “All right,” she said. “How were you planning on not being seen until you can talk to Cristina?” His smile was blinding. She wondered how she’d ever thought he wasn’t as good-looking as Diego.

“That’s where you can help me,” he said.

Having climbed up the side of the cottage and onto the roof, Emma reached out to help Julian up after her. He declined the hand, though, flipping himself easily up onto the shingled surface.

The roof of Malcolm’s cottage was tilted at a slight grade, overhanging the front and back of the house. Emma walked down to the edge of the roof where it protruded over the front door.

From here, the trap was visible. Mark had told them what bait was best: Piskies loved milk and bread and honey. They also loved dead mice, but Emma was unwilling to go that far. She liked mice, despite Church’s deep-seated antagonism toward them.

“And now we wait,” Julian said, sitting down on the edge of the roof. The bowls of milk and honey and the plate of bread were out, shining temptingly on top of a pile of leaves near the path to the door.

Emma sat down beside Jules. The sky was cloudless blue, stretching away to where it met the darker sea on the horizon. Slow mackerel boats traced white patterns on the sea’s surface, and the dull booming roar of the waves was a soft counterpoint to the warm wind.

She couldn’t help but be reminded of all the times she and Jules had sat on the roof of the Institute, talking and looking at the ocean. An entirely different shore, perhaps, but all seas were connected.

“I’m sure there’s some kind of law about not trapping piskies without permission from the Clave,” said Emma.

“Lex malla, lex a,” said Julian with a regretful wave of his hand. It was the Blackthorn family motto: A bad law is no law.

“I wonder what other family mottoes are,” Emma mused. “Do you know any?”

“The Lightwood family motto is ‘We mean well.’ ”

“Very funny.”

Julian looked over at her. “No, really, it actually is.”

“Seriously? So what’s the Herondale family motto? ‘Chiseled but angsty’?”

He shrugged. ‘If you don’t know what your last name is, it’s probably Herondale’?” Emma burst out laughing. “What about Carstairs?” she asked, tapping Cortana. “ ’We have a sword’? ‘Blunt instruments are for losers’?” “Morgenstern,” offered Julian. “ ’When in doubt, start a war’?”

“How about ‘Has even one of us ever been any good, like ever, seriously’?”

“Seems long,” said Julian. “And kind of on the nose.”

They were both giggling almost too hard to talk. Emma bent forward—and gave a gasp, which combined with the giggle into a sort of cough. She slapped her hand over her mouth. “Piskies!” she whispered through her fingers, and pointed.

Julian moved soundlessly to the edge of the roof, Emma beside him. Standing near their trap were a group of scrawny, pallid figures dressed in rags. They had near-translucent skin, pale hair like straw, and bare feet. Huge black pupilless eyes stared from faces as delicate as china.

They looked exactly like the drawings on the wall of the inn where they’d eaten the day before. She hadn’t seen a single one in Faerie—indeed, it seemed true that they had been exiled to the mundane world.

Without a word, they fell on the dishes of bread, milk, and honey—and the ground gave way under them. The frail construction of branches and leaves Emma had laid over the mouth of the pit Julian had dug fell away, and the piskies tumbled into their trap.

Gwyn made no attempt at small talk as his horse soared through the air over Alicante and then the woods of Brocelind Forest. Diana was grateful for it. With the wind in her hair, cool and soft, and the forest spread out below her in deep green shadow, she felt freer than she had in what seemed like a long time. Talking would have been a distraction.

Dawn gave way to daylight as she watched the world rushing by under her: the sudden flash of water, the graceful shapes of fir trees and white pine. When Gwyn pointed the horse’s head downward, and it began to descend, she felt a pang of disappointment and a sudden flash of kinship with Mark. No wonder he had missed the Hunt; no wonder that even when he was back with his family, he had yearned for the sky.

They landed in a small clearing between linden trees. Gwyn slid from the horse’s back and offered Diana his hand to clamber down to the ground: The thick green moss was soft on her bare feet. She wandered among the white flowers and admired the blue sky while he spread out a linen cloth and food unpacked from his saddlebag.

She couldn’t quite hold back the urge to laugh—here she was, Diana Wrayburn, of the law-abiding and respectable Wrayburn family, about to have a picnic with the leader of the Wild Hunt.

“Come,” he said, when he was done and seated on the ground. His horse had wandered off to crop grass at the edge of the clearing. “You must be hungry.” To Diana’s surprise, she found she was—and hungrier when she tasted the food: delicious fruit, cured meat, thick bread and honey, and glasses of wine that tasted the way rubies looked.

Maybe it was the wine, but she found that Gwyn, despite his quiet nature, was easy to talk to. He asked her about herself, though not her past; her passions instead, her interests and her dreams. She found herself telling him of her love for teaching, how she wished to teach at the Academy someday. He asked her about the Blackthorns, and how Mark was settling in, and nodded gravely at her answers.

He was not beautiful in the manner of many faeries, but she found his face more pleasing for it. His hair was thick and brown, his hands wide and capable and strong. There were scars on his skin—at his neck and chest, and on the backs of his palms—but that made her think of her own scars and Shadowhunting. It was comforting in its familiarity.

“Why are there no women in the Wild Hunt?” she asked. It was something she had always wondered.

“Women are too savage,” he said with a grin. “We reap the dead. It was discovered that when Rhiannon’s Ladies ran with the Hunt, they were unwilling to wait until the dead were dead.” Diana laughed. “Rhiannon. The name is familiar.”

“The women left the hunt and became Adar Rhiannon. The Birds of Rhiannon. Some call them ‘Valkyrie.’ ” She smiled at him sadly. “Faerie can be so lovely,” she said. “And yet also terrible.” “You are thinking of Mark?”

“Mark loves his family,” she said. “And they are happy to have him back. But he does miss the Hunt. Which is hard to understand sometimes. When he came to us, he was so scarred, in body and mind.” “Many Shadowhunters are scarred,” he said. “That does not mean they no longer wish to be Shadowhunters.” “I’m not sure it’s the same.”

“I am not sure it is so different.” He leaned back against a large gray boulder. “Mark was a fine Hunter, but his heart was not in it. It is not the Hunt he misses, but the freedom and the open sky, and perhaps Kieran.” “You knew they had fought,” said Diana. “But when you came to us, you were so sure Mark would save him.” “Shadowhunters desire to save everyone. And more so when there is love.”

“You think Mark still loves Kieran?”

“I think you cannot root out love entirely. I think where there has been love, there will always be embers, as the remains of a bonfire outlast the flame.” “But they die eventually. They become ashes.”

Gwyn sat forward. His eyes, blue and black, were grave on hers. “Have you ever loved?” She shook her head. She could feel the shaking all through her nerves—the anticipation, and the fear. “Not like that.” She should tell him why, she thought. But the words didn’t come.

“That is a shame,” he said. “I think to be loved by you would be a tremendous honor.” “You barely know me at all,” Diana said. I shouldn’t be affected by his words. I shouldn’t want this. But she did, in a way she had tried to bury long ago.

“I saw who you are in your eyes the night I came to the Institute,” said Gwyn. “Your bravery.” “Bravery,” echoed Diana. “The kind that kills demons, yes. Yet there are many kinds of bravery.” His deep eyes flashed. “Diana—”

But she was on her feet, walking to the edge of the glade, more for the relief of movement than anything else. Gwyn’s horse whinnied as she neared it, backing away.

“Be careful,” Gwyn said. He had risen, but was not following her. “My Wild Hunt horses can be uneasy around women. They have little experience with them.” Diana paused for a moment, then stepped around the horse, giving it a wide berth. As she neared the edge of the wood, she caught a flash of something pale out of the corner of her eye.

She moved closer, realizing suddenly how vulnerable she was, here in the open without her weapons, wearing only pajamas. How had she agreed to this? What had Gwyn said to convince her?

I saw who you are.

She pushed the words to the back of her mind, reaching a hand out to steady herself on the slender trunk of a linden. Her eyes saw before her mind could process: a bizarre sight, a circle of blasted nothingness in the center of Brocelind. Land like ash, trees burned to stumps, as if acid had charred away everything living.

“By the Angel,” she whispered.

“It is blight.” Gwyn spoke from behind her, his big shoulders taut with tension, his jaw set. “I have seen this before only in Faerie. It is the mark of a great dark magic.” There were burned places, white as ash, like the surface of the moon.

Diana gripped the tree trunk harder. “Take me back,” she said. “I need to return to Alicante.”