فصل 14

14

THE VIOL, THE VIOLET, AND THE VINE

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

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

“What?” she said. “Helen and Aline are with Tavvy, if you came to tell me to watch him.” “Actually,” said Ty, sitting down on a piano bench, “we need your help with something else.” “Let me guess.” Dru dropped the videotape she was holding and Kit held himself back from commenting on the fact that he didn’t think anyone under eighty owned videotapes anymore. “Dishwashing? Laundry? Lying down in front of the Institute so you can use me for a step?” Ty furrowed his eyebrows. “What—”

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

Dru hesitated. “What kind of mission?”

“A secret mission,” said Ty.

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

Ty started to protest. Kit interrupted, holding up a hand to quell them both. “We did want to ask you to join in before,” he said. “Ty didn’t want to put you in danger.” “Danger?” Dru perked up. “There’s going to be danger?”

“So much danger,” said Kit.

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

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

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

“No, she’s not,” said Ty. “We lied to him about who wanted to see him so we could get the meeting.” Dru snorted. “You don’t look like Vanessa. Either of you.”

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

“He also hates me,” Ty said proudly. “Because Livvy and I were with Kit at the Shadow Market in London.” Dru sat up. “Livvy would have done this for you, right, if she was here?”

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

“I don’t look anything like Vanessa Ashdown,” Dru added hesitantly.

“He doesn’t know what she looks like,” said Kit. “He just knows she’s got a lot of money for him.” “He probably thinks she isn’t thirteen,” said Dru. “He’s got to imagine she’s an adult, especially if she’s got a lot of money. Which incidentally, why do you have a lot of money?” “You look a lot older than you are,” said Kit, ignoring her question. “And we thought . . .” Ty got up and went into the hall. They both looked after him, Kit wondering if the mention of Livvy had sent him running. Whether any cracks were starting to appear in the wall of his belief that Livvy was coming back.

“Did I upset him?” Dru said in a small voice.

Before Kit could respond, Ty had returned. He was carrying what looked like a pile of gray cloth. “I’ve noticed people look at clothes a lot more than they look at other people’s faces. I thought maybe you could wear one of Mom’s suits.” He held out a slate-colored skirt and jacket. “I think you were similar sizes.” Dru stood up and reached out for the clothes. “Okay,” she said, taking them into her arms carefully. Kit wondered how much she remembered of her mother. Did she have dim recollections, like he did, of a soft kind voice, the sound of singing? “Okay, I’ll do it. Where are we going?” “Hollywood,” Kit said. “Tomorrow.”

Dru frowned. “Helen and Aline don’t know about this. And they said they’d be in the Sanctuary all tomorrow night. Something to do with Downworlders.” “Good,” Kit said. “So they won’t be wondering where we are.”

“Sure—but how are we getting there?”

Ty smiled and tapped his side pocket, where his phone was. “Drusilla Blackthorn, meet Uber.” * * *

For the third time, Emma and Julian paused in the shadow of a doorway to consult their map. The inside of the tower was nearly featureless—if it weren’t for the map, Emma suspected, they would have been wandering lost for days.

She winced and ached every time she moved. Julian had done his best to patch her up outside the tower, using torn strips from his shirt as bandages. They were so used to functioning with healing runes and the Silent Brothers’ skills, Emma thought, that they never expected to be working hurt, not for more than a brief amount of time. Pushing past the pain where the thorns had driven into her body was exhausting, and she found herself glad for the chance to rest for a moment while Julian stared at the map.

The inside of the tower resembled the inside of a seashell. The corridors twisted around and around in circles, ever narrowing as they ascended, keeping to the shadows. They had discussed whether to use Nene’s potion, but Julian had said they should save it until they absolutely needed it—right now, the corridors were crowded enough with faeries both Seelie and Unseelie that no one was taking too close a look at two hurrying figures in torn cloaks.

“The corridors split here,” Julian said. “One leads down, one up. The throne room isn’t marked on the map—” “But we know it’s near the top of the tower,” said Emma. “The Queen’s probably already there. We can’t let the King get his hands on the Black Volume.” “Then I guess we go that way,” Julian said, indicating the ascending corridor. “Keep going up, and hope for some kind of helpful signage on the way.” “Sure. Because faeries are so big on helpful signage.”

Julian almost smiled. “All right. Keep your hood down.”

They headed up the steeply sloping corridor, their hoods pulled low. As they ascended, the crowds of faeries began to thin out, as if they were reaching rarefied air. The walls became lined with doors, each one more elaborately decorated than the one before, with chips of rare stones and inlaid gold. Emma could hear voices, laughter and chatter, from behind them; she guessed this was the area where the courtiers lived.

One doorway was half-obscured by a tapestry patterned in stars. Standing outside it were two guards dressed in unusual gold-and-black armor, their faces hidden by helmets. Emma felt a shiver of cold as they went by, passing into an area where the corridor narrowed, and narrowed again, as if they were truly winding closer to the heart of a seashell. The torches burned lower in their holders, and Emma squinted ahead, wishing for a Night Vision rune.

Julian clamped his hand down on her arm, drawing her into a shallow alcove. “Redcaps,” he hissed.

Emma peered around the wall. Indeed, two lines of redcaps stood guarding a tall archway. Redcaps were among the most vicious of faerie warriors. They wore scarlet uniforms dyed in the blood of those they had slain. Unusually for faeries, these guards were bearded, with weathered faces. They carried pikestaffs whose metal spearheads were crusted with dried blood.

“This must be it,” Julian whispered. “The throne room.”

He drew the chain with the vial on it over his head, snapped off the top, and swallowed the liquid inside. Emma hurried to do the same, and stifled a gasp. It burned, as if she had swallowed liquid fire. She saw Julian make a pained face before he dropped his empty vial in his pocket.

They stared at each other. Other than the burning in her throat and stomach, Emma felt the same. She could still see her own hands and feet, clear as day, and Julian hadn’t so much as started to get fuzzy around the edges. It wasn’t quite what she’d imagined.

“Nene did say we’d only be invisible to Unseelie faeries,” said Julian quietly after a long moment. His eyes suddenly narrowed. “Emma . . . ?” “What?” she whispered. “What is it?”

Slowly he raised his hand and tapped his chest, where his parabatai rune was, beneath his clothes. Emma blinked. She could see a dark red glow emanating from the spot, as if his heart itself were glowing. The glow was moving, shifting, like a tiny sandstorm.

“Julian . . .” She glanced down. There was a glow surrounding her own rune too. It was uncanny enough to make her shiver, but she pushed the feeling away and stalked out into the corridor. A moment later Julian was at her side.

The line of redcaps was still there, in front of the dark archway. Emma began to move toward them, conscious of Julian beside her. She could see him clearly, and hear his footsteps, yet as they moved toward the throne room and slipped between the rows of redcaps, no one turned toward them. Not a single redcap appeared to hear or see them.

Emma could see the dark light as if it were strapped across Julian’s chest. But why would an invisibility potion make his parabatai rune glow? It didn’t make sense, but she didn’t have time to wonder about it—they were passing the last pair of redcaps. She felt like a mouse walking blithely in front of an oblivious cat.

A moment later they were over the threshold and inside the throne room of the King.

It was not what Emma had expected. Rather than glimmering gold and rich decor, the room was bare, the floor dark gray stone. The walls were windowless, except for the north wall: A massive glass rectangle looked out onto a blowing nighttime view. The room was scattered with heaps of tumbled boulders, some as big as elephants, many smashed into smaller pieces. It looked like the ruins of a giant’s playground.

There were no seats in the room except for the throne, which was itself a boulder into which a seat had been carved. Stone rose all around its back and sides, as if to shield the King, who sat motionless on the throne’s seat.

In his hands was Julian’s copy of the Black Volume.

As they entered, the King looked up, frowning, and for a moment of panic Emma thought that he could see them. His face was as awful as she remembered it: Divided exactly down the middle as if by a blade, it was half the face of a beautifully striking man, and half stripped skeletal bone. He wore a rich red velvet doublet, a cloak was fastened to his shoulders with rows of golden aiguillettes, and a golden crown bound his brow. A clear vial dangled on a chain around his throat, filled with some scarlet potion.

Reflexively, Emma and Julian ducked behind the nearest heap of broken stone just as four guards strode in, surrounding a woman in white with long dark hair. Behind her marched a young boy with a golden circlet around his head. Two guards accompanied him. They wore the unusual black-and-gold armor Emma had noted before, in the corridor.

She didn’t have much time to think about it, though, because as the woman in white moved into the room, she turned her head, and Emma recognized her.

It was Annabel Blackthorn.

Memory surged in the back of Emma’s throat, a bitter wave. Annabel on the dais in the Council Hall. Annabel, her eyes wild, driving the shards of the Mortal Sword into Livvy’s chest. Annabel covered in blood, the dais swimming with it, Julian holding Livvy in his arms.

Beside Emma, Julian sucked in a harsh, choking breath. He had gone rigid. Emma grabbed his shoulder. It felt like granite: unyielding, inhuman.

His hand was at his belt, on the hilt of a shortsword. His eyes were fixed on Annabel. His whole body was tense with barely leashed energy.

He’s going to kill her. Emma knew it the way she knew each of his next moves in a fight, the rhythm of his breath in battle. She tugged at him, pulling him around to face her, though it was like trying to move a boulder.

“No.” She spoke in a harsh whisper. “You can’t. Not now.”

Julian was breathing hard, as if he’d been running. “Let me go, Emma.”

“She can see us,” Emma hissed. “She’s not a faerie. She will see us coming, Julian.” He looked at her with wild eyes.

“She’ll raise the alarm, and we’ll be stopped. If you try to kill Annabel now, we’ll both be caught. And we’ll never get the Black Volume back.” “She needs to die for what she did.” Two harsh red dots burned on his cheekbones. “Let me kill her and the King can keep the goddamn book—” Emma caught at his cloak. “We’ll both die here if you try!”

Julian was silent, his fingers closing and unclosing at his side. The red glow above his parabatai rune flared like fire, and black lines chased through it, as if it were glass about to shatter.

“Would you really choose revenge over Tavvy and Dru and Ty?” Emma shook him, hard, and let go. “Would you want them to know that you did?” Julian sagged back against a rock. He shook his head slowly, as if in disbelief, but the red glow around him had dimmed. Maybe the mention of the Blackthorn kids had been a low blow, Emma thought, but she didn’t care; it was worth it to keep Julian from flinging himself headlong into suicide. Her legs were still shaking as she turned around to peer at the throne room through a gap in the rocks.

Annabel and the boy had approached the throne. Annabel looked nothing like she had before—she wore a dress of bleached linen, gathered under her bosom, falling to brush her ankles. Her hair fell down her back in a smooth river. She looked quiet and ordinary and harmless. She held the hand of the boy in the crown carefully, as if ready to shield him from harm if necessary.

They were still surrounded by Unseelie guards in gold and black. The King smiled at them with half his face, a horrible smile. “Annabel,” said the King. “Ash. I have had this day some interesting tidings.” Ash. Emma stared at the boy. So this was the Seelie Queen’s son. He had silver-fair hair and deep green eyes like forest leaves; he wore a high-collared velvet tunic and the golden band around his forehead was a smaller version of the King’s. He was probably no more than Dru’s age, thin in a way that didn’t look healthy, and there was a bruise on his cheek. He carried himself with the same straight posture Kieran did. Princes probably weren’t supposed to slump.

He looked familiar in a way she couldn’t quite place. Was it just that he resembled his mother?

“This day I have had a visit from the Queen of the Seelie Court,” said the King.

Ash lifted his head sharply. “What did my mother want?”

“As you know, she has long bargained for your return, and only today she has brought me what I asked for.” The King sat forward and spoke with relish. “The Black Volume of the Dead.” “That’s impossible,” said Annabel, her pale cheeks flushing. “I have the Black Volume. The Queen is a liar.” The King tapped two gloved fingers against his bony cheek. “Is she,” he mused. “It is something of an interesting philosophical question, isn’t it? What is a book? Is it the binding, the ink, the pages, or the sum of the words contained?” Annabel frowned. “I don’t understand.”

The King drew the copy of the Black Volume from where it had rested at his side. He held it up so that Annabel and Ash could see it. “This is a copy of the Black Volume of the Dead,” he said. “The book that is also called the Dark Artifices, for it contains within it some of the most formidable magic ever recorded.” He caressed the front page. “The Queen says it is an exact duplicate. It was made with the assistance of a wizard of great power called OfficeMax, of whom I know nothing.” “Jesus Christ,” Julian muttered.

“The Queen has left it with me for the span of a single day,” said the King, “that I might decide whether I wish to trade Ash for it. I have sworn to return it to her at the rising of the sun tomorrow morning.” “The Queen is deceiving you.” Annabel drew Ash closer to her side. “She would trick you into trading Ash for this—this flawed copy.” “Perhaps.” The King’s eyes were hooded. “I have yet to make my decision. But you, Annabel, you also have your decisions to make. I have observed that you’ve become very close to Ash. I suspect you would miss him if you were parted. Is that not true?” A thunderous expression had come across Annabel’s face, but for a moment Emma was more interested in Ash’s. There was a look in his eyes that made him seem more familiar to her than ever. A sort of coldness, astonishing in someone so young.

“But you need Ash,” said Annabel. “You’ve said so a dozen times. You require him as your weapon.” She spoke with contempt. “You have already worked magics upon him since you took him from his mother’s Court. If you give him back—” The King leaned back in his stone seat. “I will not give him back. The Queen will see reason. It will take some time for the Black Volume to work its will upon Ash. But when it has, we will no longer need the Portal. He will be able to spread blight and destruction with his very hands. The Queen hates Shadowhunters as much as I do. Within a month, their precious land of Idris will look like this—” He gestured at the window set in the wall. Suddenly the view through the glass changed—in fact, there was no glass. It was as if a hole had been torn in the world, and through it Emma could see a view of a blowing desert and a gray sky scorched with lightning. The sand was stained red with blood, and broken trees stood scarecrow-like against the acidic horizon.

“That’s not our world,” Julian murmured. “It’s another dimension—like Edom—but Edom was destroyed—” Emma couldn’t stop staring. Human figures, half-covered by the sand; the white of bone. “Julian, I can see bodies—” The King waved his hand again, and the Portal turned dark. “As Thule is now, so Idris will be.” Thule? The word was familiar. Emma frowned.

“You think you’ll be able to convince the Queen to endanger her child just for power,” said Annabel. “Not everyone is like you.” “But the Queen is,” said the Unseelie King. “I know it, because Ash would not be the first.” He grinned a skeleton grin. “Annabel Blackthorn, you have toyed with me because I have allowed it. You have no true power here.” “I know your name,” Annabel gasped. “Malcolm told it to me. I can force you—” “You will die the moment the name leaves your lips, and Ash will die after,” said the King. “But because I do not wish bloodshed, I will give you one night to decide. Give me the true Black Volume, and you may remain here with Ash and be his guardian. If not, I shall join forces with the Queen instead and drive you from my lands, and you will never see Ash again.” Ash pulled away from Annabel’s restraining hands. “What if I say no? What if I refuse?” The King turned his red gaze on the boy. “You are a perfect candidate for the Dark Artifices,” he said. “But in the end, do you truly think I would stop at harming Sebastian Morgenstern’s brat?” The name was like a blow. Sebastian Morgenstern. But how—

“No!” Annabel screamed. “Don’t you touch him!”

“Guards,” said the King, and the guards snapped to attention. “Take the woman and the boy away. I am done with them.” Julian scrambled to his feet. “We have to follow them—”

“We can’t,” Emma whispered. “The potion is wearing off. Look. The red light is almost gone.” Julian glanced down. The scarlet glow above his heart had dimmed to an ember.

The guards had closed about Annabel and Ash and were marching them from the chamber. Emma caught hold of Julian’s hand and together they crept out from behind the boulders.

The guards were escorting Annabel and Ash out the arched doorway. For a moment, Emma and Julian paused in the center of the throne room, directly in the line of the King’s view.

He was staring straight ahead of him. In the untouched side of his face, Emma thought she could see a bit of Kieran—a Kieran split down the middle, half-tortured and inhuman.

She felt Julian’s hand tighten on hers. Every one of her nerves was screaming that the King could see them, that at any moment he would call for his guards, that they would die here before Emma even got a chance to lift a blade.

She told herself she would at least try to plunge her dagger into the King’s heart before she died.

Julian tugged her fingers. Incredibly, he had the map in his other hand; he jerked his chin toward the arch beneath which Ash and Annabel had vanished.

There was no more time. They raced through the archway.

There was little point struggling; there were at least three faerie guards on each side of Mark, and their grip on his arms was merciless. He was dragged through the revel, still dizzy from the potion in his blood. Shapes seemed to loom up on either side of him: spinning dancers, blurred as if seen through the prism of a teardrop. The King of Cats, regarding him with glimmering tabby eyes. A row of horses, rearing away from the sparks of a fire.

He couldn’t see Kieran. Kieran was somewhere behind him; Mark could hear the guards shouting at him, almost drowned out by the sounds of music and laughter. Kieran. Cristina. His heart was a cold knot of fear for both of them as he was shoved through a filthy puddle and up a set of wooden steps.

A flap of velvet canopy slapped him in the face; Mark sputtered as the guard holding him laughed. There were hands at his waist, unfastening his weapons belt.

He kicked out reflexively and was shoved to the floor. “Kneel, half-breed,” snapped one of the guards. They released him, and Mark crouched where he was, on his knees, his chest throbbing with rage. Two guards stood behind him, holding spears level with the back of Mark’s neck. A few feet away, Kieran was in the same position, though he was bleeding from a cut lip. His expression was set in a bitter snarl.

They were inside Oban’s pavilion. The walls were heavy hanging velvet, the floor expensive rugs that had been trampled and muddied by uncountable booted feet. Wooden tables held dozens of empty and half-empty bottles of wine; some had tipped over and spilled, filling the room with the reek of alcohol.

“Well, well,” said a drawling voice. Mark looked up; in front of them was a red velvet sofa, and sprawled on it was an indolent-looking young man. Hair streaked black and purple tumbled around his pointed ears, and black kohl was smudged around glittering silver eyes. He wore a silver silk doublet and hose, and white lace spilled from his cuffs. “Little brother Kieran. How nice to see you.” His silver eyes flicked to Mark. “With some guy.” He flicked a dismissive hand in Mark’s direction and turned his smirk on Manuel. “Good work.” “I told you I saw them,” Manuel said. “They were at the revel.”

“I admit it never occurred to me they would be stupid enough to set foot in the Unseelie Lands,” said Oban. “You win that point, Villalobos.” “They make an excellent gift,” said Manuel. He stood between the guards with their spears, his arms crossed over his chest. He was grinning. “Your father will be pleased.” “My father?” Oban tapped his fingers on the arm of the sofa. “You think I should deliver Kieran to my father? He’ll just kill him. Dull.” Mark darted a glance at Kieran through his eyelashes. Kieran was on his knees. He didn’t look frightened of Oban, but he’d never show it if he was.

“A gift is more than just a gift,” said Manuel. “It’s a method of persuasion. Your father—mistakenly—thinks you weak, Prince. If you bring him Prince Kieran and the Shadowhunter half-breed, he’ll realize he should take you more seriously.” He lowered his voice. “We can convince him to kill the prisoners and move ahead with our plan.” Prisoners? What prisoners? Mark tensed. Could he mean Julian and Emma? But that wasn’t possible. They were with the Seelie procession.

At least Cristina was safe. She had vanished, eluding the guards. The Angel knew where she was now. Mark chanced a sideways glance at Kieran: Wasn’t he panicking too? Wasn’t he terrified for Cristina as Mark was? He ought to be, considering the way they’d been kissing.

Oban reached for the side table and scrabbled around among the bottles stacked on top of it, looking for one with alcohol still in it. “My father does not respect me,” he said. “He thinks my brothers are more worthy of the throne. Though they are not.” “I’m sure they think the same about you,” Mark muttered.

Oban found a bottle and lifted it up to the light, squinting at the half inch of amber fluid still inside. “A wanted prisoner might change his mind, but it might not be enough.” “You do want to rise in your father’s favor, do you not?” said Manuel.

Oban took a swig from his bottle. “Of course. Rather.”

Mark had the feeling Manuel was rolling his eyes internally. “Then you need to demonstrate that he should take you seriously. The first time you went to him, he wouldn’t even hear you out.” “Fatuous old bag,” muttered Oban, tossing the empty bottle aside. It shattered.

“If you bring him these prisoners, he will listen to you. I will go with you—I will tell him that together we tracked them down. I will make it clear that as a representative of the Cohort, I wish to work only with you as our contact in the Unseelie Court. It will make you seem important.” “Seem?” said Oban.

Kieran made an inelegant snorting noise.

“It will make him understand how important you are,” Manuel corrected smoothly. “Your father will realize the value you bring to him. The hostages are the key to a parley between Nephilim and the Unseelie Folk that has no precedent in our history. When every Shadowhunter sees you meet and achieve a mutually beneficial peace, all will realize that you and Horace Dearborn are the greatest of leaders, able to achieve the alliance your forefathers could not.” “What?” said Mark, unable to stay silent. “What are you talking about?”

“Might it not bring real war?” Oban had found another bottle. “War seems like a bad idea.” With exasperated patience, Manuel said, “There will be no war. I told you.” He glanced at Kieran and then at Mark. “War is not the object here. And I think the King wants Kieran dead more than you think.” “Because the people love him,” said Oban, in a maudlin tone. “They wanted him to be King. Because he was kind.” “Kindness is not a kingly quality,” said Manuel. “As the people will discover when your father hangs Kieran from a gibbet high above the tower gardens.” Mark jerked backward, and nearly impaled himself on a spear. “You—”

“Kindness may not be a kingly quality, but mercy is,” interrupted Kieran. “You don’t have to do this, Oban. Manuel is not worth your effort, and his schemes are so many lies.” Oban sighed. “You are tediously predictable, youngest son.” He dropped the bottle he was holding, and the scarlet liquid in it ran out onto the floor like blood. “I want the throne, and I shall have the throne, and Manuel will help me get it. That is all I care about. That is all that matters.” A smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Unlike you, I have not come to love and pursue shadows, but only what is real.” Remember, Mark thought. Remember that none of this is real.

Oban flicked a hand toward the two of them as Manuel smirked almost audibly. “Chain them together and find them horses. We ride for the Unseelie Court this night.” * * *

Barnabas was already at the 101 Coffee Shop in Hollywood when Drusilla arrived. He was sitting at a tan booth and forking up a plate of delicious-looking huevos rancheros. He sported a black cowboy hat and a bolo tie that seemed to be choking him, but he looked pleased with himself.

Dru stopped to glance at her reflection in the windows that ran along one side of the diner. The other side was a kitschy rock wall; in the corner there was a jukebox and dozens of framed photos of what Dru guessed were the owner’s family and friends.

It was dark outside, and the window gave her back a clear picture of herself. Dark hair pulled up and smooth, gray business suit, classic heels (stolen from Emma’s closet). She wore red lipstick and no other makeup; Kit had assured her that less was more. “You don’t want to look like a clown,” he’d said, tossing her powder blush in Racy Rose over his shoulder as if it were a grenade.

Somewhere out there in the shadows, Kit and Ty were watching, ready to jump to her defense if anything went wrong. Knowing that made her feel less worried. Hoisting her briefcase in her hand, she sauntered across the diner past ivory-and toffee-colored leather seats, and slid into the booth across from Barnabas.

His snake’s eyes flicked up to observe her. Up close, he didn’t look well. His scales were dull, and his eyes rimmed with red. “Vanessa Ashdown?” “That’s me,” Dru said, setting the briefcase down on her place mat. “In the flesh.” His forked tongue slithered out of his mouth. “And plenty of it. No worries, I like a woman with curves. Most of you Shadowhunters are so bony.” Blech, Dru thought. She tapped the briefcase. “Business, Mr. Hale.”

“Right.” His tongue vanished, to her relief. “So, toots. You’ve got proof that Hypatia Vex has been passing secrets to Shadowhunters?” “Right in here.” Dru smiled and pushed the briefcase toward him.

He unsnapped it and flicked it open, then frowned. “This is money.”

“Yes.” She gave him a bright smile and tried not to glance around to see if anyone was coming to back her up. “It’s the money we’ve earmarked for Hypatia in exchange for secrets.” He rolled his eyes. “Normally, I’m happy to see a big box of money, don’t get me wrong. But I was kind of hoping for photos of her handing evidence to some Blackthorns.” “Why Blackthorns?” Drusilla said.

“Because,” said Barnabas. “They’re smarmy little rats.” He sat back. “You gotta give me something better than this, Vanessa.” “Well, look closer at the money.” Dru played for time. “Because, ah, it’s not ordinary money.” Looking bored, Barnabas picked up a stack of twenties. Dru tensed. Kit had told her to keep Barnabas talking, but it wasn’t like she could distract him by telling him the plot of Bloody Birthday or about the new cute thing Church had done.

“There ain’t nothing special about this money,” Barnabas began, and broke off as the door of the diner flew open and a tall warlock woman with dark skin and bronze hair strode into the room. She wore a glimmering pantsuit and toweringly high heels. She was followed by two other Downworlders—a muscled male werewolf and a pallid, dark-haired vampire.

“Damn,” said Barnabas. “Hypatia—what—?”

“I heard you were selling secrets to Shadowhunters, Hale,” said Hypatia. “Look at that—caught with your hand in the bag.” She winked at Dru. The pupils of her eyes were shaped like golden stars.

“How could you?” demanded the vampire. “I thought it was all lies, Barnabas!” She sniffed and glanced at Dru. “You were really buying secrets off him? Who are you, anyway?” “Drusilla,” said Dru. “Drusilla Blackthorn.”

“A Blackthorn?” said Barnabas, outraged.

“And he was definitely selling secrets,” said Dru. “For instance, he just told me he dug up a copy of the Red Scrolls of Magic from under Johnny Rook’s booth as soon as he died. And he’s been keeping it to himself.” “Is that true?” rumbled the werewolf. “And you call yourself the head of the Shadow Market?” “You little—” Barnabas launched himself across the table at Dru. She slid out of the booth fast and collided with someone’s torso with an oomph. She looked up. It was Ty, a shortsword in his hand, pointed directly at Barnabas’s chest.

He put one arm protectively around Dru, his gaze never wavering from the warlock. “Leave my sister alone,” he said.

“That’s right,” said Kit. He waved from the next booth. “I forgot my weapons. But I do have this fork.” He wiggled it. “You are so forked,” he said to Barnabas.

“Oh, shut up,” Barnabas said. But he looked defeated; the werewolf had already grabbed him, pulling his arms behind his back. Hypatia was clearing the briefcase and money off the table.

She winked her starry eyes at Ty and Dru. “Time for you Shadowhunters to go,” she said. “This marks the end of your little Downworlder deal. And tell your new Inquisitor that we don’t want anything to do with him or his bigoted rules. We’ll go where we want, when we want.” Ty lowered his sword slowly. Kit dropped his fork, and the three of them strode out of the diner. Once on the pavement, Dru took a deep, relieved breath of air—it was a warm night, and the moon was high and glowing over Franklin Avenue. She felt shivery with excitement—she’d done it! She’d tricked a famous warlock. Pulled off a con. She was a con woman now!

“I think Hypatia meant what she said to us,” Kit said, glancing back through the windows of the coffee shop. Hypatia and the other Downworlders were escorting a struggling Barnabas toward the back door. “All that stuff about telling the Inquisitor—that wasn’t part of the con. That was a real message.” “As if we could get word to the Inquisitor,” said Ty. He touched his hand absently to the locket at his throat. “That was good. You did a really good job, Dru.” “Yep. You kept your cool,” said Kit. He glanced up and down the street. “I’d suggest we go get milk shakes or something to celebrate, but this is kind of a scary neighborhood.” “Shadowhunters don’t worry about scary neighborhoods,” said Dru.

“Have you learned nothing from the way Batman’s parents died?” said Kit, feigning shock.

Ty smiled. And for the first time since Livvy had died, Dru laughed.

With Aline and Tavvy’s help, Helen had set up a large table inside the Sanctuary. Two chairs sat behind it, and the table was covered in the accoutrements of bureaucracy: pens and blank forms that had been sent by the Clave, file folders and rubber stamps. It was all drearily mundane, in Helen’s opinion.

A long line of werewolves, warlocks, vampires, and faeries stretched through the room and out the front doors. They had set up their “Registry Station” atop the Angelic Power rune etched on the floor, blocking the doors that led into the Institute.

The first Downworlder to step up to their makeshift office was a werewolf. He had an enormous mustache that reminded Helen of seventies cop movies. He was glowering. “My name is Greg—” “Your name is Elton John,” Aline said, writing it down.

“No,” said the werewolf. “It’s Greg. Greg Anderson.”

“It’s Elton John,” said Aline, grabbing a stamp. “You’re thirty-six and you’re a chimney sweep who lives in Bel Air.” She stamped the paper in red ink—REGISTERED—and handed it back.

The werewolf took the paper, blinking in puzzlement. “What are you doing?”

“It means the Clave won’t be able to find you,” explained Tavvy, who was sitting under the table, playing with a toy car. “But you’re registered.” “Technically,” said Helen, willing him to accept the ruse. If he didn’t, they’d have trouble with the others.

Greg looked at the paper again. “Just my opinion,” he said, “but the guy behind me looks like Humphrey Bogart.” “Humphrey it is!” said Aline, waving her stamp. “Do you want to be Humphrey Bogart?” she asked the next Downworlder, a skinny, tall warlock with a sad face and poodle ears.

“Who doesn’t?” said the warlock.

Most of the Downworlders were wary as they worked their way through the rest of the line, but cooperative. There were even some smiles and thanks. They seemed to understand that Aline and Helen were attempting to undermine the system, if not why.

Aline pointed at a tall blond faerie in the line, wearing a gossamer dress. “That one’s Taylor Swift.” Helen smiled as she handed a werewolf a stamped form. “How much trouble are we going to get into for this?” “Does it matter?” said Aline. “We’re going to do it anyway.”

“True enough,” said Helen, and reached for another form.

Take me to him. Take me.

There was quiet and silence—and then light, and a thousand sharp, pricking pains. Cristina yelped and struggled free of what felt like a tangle of briars, tumbling sideways and thumping hard onto grassy earth.

She sat up, looking ruefully down at her hands and arms, dotted with dozens of tiny pinpricks of blood. She had landed in a rosebush, which was more than a little ironic.

She got to her feet, brushing herself off. She was still in Faerie, but it seemed to be daytime here. Golden sunlight burnished a thatched-roof cottage of pale yellow stone. A turquoise-blue river ran past the small house, lined with blue and purple lupin flowers.

Cristina wasn’t sure what she had expected, but it hadn’t been this pastoral bliss. She dabbed gently at the blood on her hands and arms, gave up, and glanced up and down the small, winding trail that cut through the tall grass. It led from the front door of the cottage, across the meadow, and vanished into the hazy distance.

Cristina marched up to the cottage door and knocked firmly. “Adaon!” she called. “Adaon Kingson!” The door swung open as if Adaon had been waiting on the other side. The last time Cristina had seen him, he had been decked out in the regalia of the Unseelie Court, with the broken crown insignia on his chest. Now he wore a plain linen tunic and breeches. His deep brown skin looked warm in the sunlight. It was the first time she had been able to see his resemblance to Kieran.

Maybe it was because he looked furious.

“How is it possible that you are here?” he demanded, looking around as if he couldn’t believe she had come alone.

“I sought help,” she said. “I was in Faerie—”

He narrowed his eyes. He seemed to be staring suspiciously at a bluebird. “Come inside immediately. It is not safe to speak outside.” The moment she was inside the cottage, Adaon closed the door and set himself to fastening a number of intricate-looking, complicated locks. “Faerie is a dangerous place right now. There are all sorts of ways you could have been tracked or followed.” They were inside a small wood-paneled entryway. An arched doorway led through to the rest of the cottage. Adaon was blocking it, arms crossed in front of his chest. He was glowering. After a moment’s hesitation, Cristina held out the artifact to him. “I could not have been tracked. I used this.” If she’d hoped Adaon would look relieved, he didn’t. “Where did you get that?” “It is a family heirloom,” Cristina said. “It was given freely as a gift by a family of hadas who an ancestor of mine aided.” Adaon scowled. “It is a token of Rhiannon. Treat it with care.” He stalked out of the entryway and into a small living room, where a well-scrubbed wooden table stood in a shaft of sunlight pouring through wide, leaded windows. A small kitchen was visible: A vase on the table held a riot of colorful flowers and stacked bowls of painted pottery.

Cristina felt a bit as if she were inside the cottage of the dwarves in Snow White: Everything was diminutive, and Adaon seemed to tower, his head nearly scraping the ceiling. He gestured for her to sit down. She took a chair, realizing as she sat how exhausted her body was and how much she ached all over. Worry for Emma and Julian, now compounded by panic over Mark and Kieran, pounded through her like heartbeats.

“Why are you here?” Adaon demanded. He wasn’t sitting. His big arms were still crossed over his chest.

“I need your help,” Cristina said.

Adaon slammed a hand down on the table, making her jump. “No. I cannot give aid or help to Nephilim. I may not agree with my father on many things, but I would not go directly against his wishes by conspiring to aid a Shadowhunter.” He stood for a moment in silence. Sunlight illuminated the edges of the white lace curtains at the window. Through the glass Cristina could see a field of poppies stretching away in the distance toward glimmering cliffs, and a faint sparkle of blue water. The house smelled like sage and tea, a soft and homey scent that made the ache inside her worse.

“Do you know why I came to you?” she said.

“I do not,” Adaon said grimly.

“In London, I followed Kieran from the Institute because I didn’t trust him,” she said. “I thought he was on his way to betray us. It turned out he was on his way to speak to you.” Adaon’s frown didn’t budge.

“I realized as the two of you talked that he was right to trust you, that you were the only one of his brothers who cared for him,” said Cristina. “He said that you gave him Windspear. You are the only member of his family who he speaks of with any affection at all.” Adaon threw up a hand as if to ward off her words. “Enough! I don’t want to hear more.” “You need to hear it.”

“I do not need the Nephilim to tell me about Kieran!”

“You do,” said Cristina. “Guards are taking Kieran to your father right now, as we speak. He will certainly be killed if we do nothing.” Adaon didn’t move. If Cristina hadn’t seen him swallow, she would have thought he was a statue. An angry, towering statue. “Helping him would be a true betrayal of my father.” “If you don’t help, then it will be a true betrayal of your brother,” said Cristina. “Sometimes you cannot be loyal to everyone.” Adaon leaned his big hands on the back of a chair. “Why did you come here?” he said. “Why did you bring me this news? It is possible my father will spare him. He is well liked by the people.” “You know your father will kill him for just that reason,” said Cristina. Her voice shook. “Before the Hunt no one in Kieran’s life ever loved or cared for him at all, save you. Are you really going to abandon him now?”