فصل 24

24

THE LONG NIGHT-TIME

Aline Penhallow, Head of the Los Angeles Institute:

White banners of mourning fly over our capital city today, and green flags to speed the healing of our hearts.

Heroes of the Dark War Jonathan Herondale and Clarissa Fairchild have been slain by Unseelie hands. They were on a mission for the Clave, and their deaths will be celebrated as the deaths of heroes. Their bodies have not yet been recovered.

Such a brutal breakage of the Cold Peace must be reckoned with. Starting this morning, at sunrise in Alicante, we shall consider ourselves in a state of War with Faerie-kind. Members of the Council will reach out to the Court to seek parley and reparations. If a faerie is seen outside their Lands, you are free to capture them and bring them to Alicante for questioning. If you must slay the faerie in question, you will not be in breach of the Accords.

Faeries are cunning, but we will prevail and avenge our fallen heroes. As always in a state of War, individual Shadowhunters are expected to return to Idris to report for duty within forty-eight hours. Please notify the Clave of your travel plans as Portal activity into Idris will be monitored.

Horace Dearborn, Inquisitor

NB: As our Consul, Jia Penhallow, is suspected of involvement with faeries, she is being held in the Gard tower until such time as she can be questioned.

“Jia?” Emma said in disbelief. “They jailed the Consul?”

“Aline is trying to reach Patrick,” said Helen in a low voice. “House arrest is one thing, but this is another. Aline’s frantic.” “Who knows you’re alive?” Alec demanded, turning to Jace. “Who knows that what’s in this letter isn’t true?” Jace looked startled. “The people in this house. Magnus—where is Magnus?”

“Sleeping,” Alec said. “So, besides us?”

“Simon and Izzy. Mom. Maia and Bat. That’s all.” He swiveled around in his chair. “Why? Do you think we should go to Alicante? Expose their lies?” “No,” Julian said. His voice was quiet but firm. “You can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Helen said.

“Because this isn’t a mistake,” said Julian. “This is a false flag operation. They believe you’re dead—they wouldn’t risk this if they didn’t—and they’re pinning the blame on Faerie to encourage a war.” “Why would anyone want war?” said Helen. “Didn’t they see what the last one did?”

“People seize power in wars,” said Julian. “If they make faeries the enemy, they can make themselves the heroes. Everyone will forget the complaints they had about the current Council. They’ll unite behind them in a common cause. A war can begin with a single death. Here they have two—and both are famous, heroes to the Clave.” Both Jace and Clary looked uncomfortable.

“I see a flaw in this plan,” said Jace. “They still have to fight and win a war.”

“Maybe,” said Julian. “Maybe not. It depends what their plan is.”

“I see another flaw,” said Clary. “We’re not actually dead. It’s pretty cocky of them to think they can get away with pretending we are.” “I think they believe it,” said Emma. “The fight in the Court was chaos. They probably don’t realize who went through the Portal into Thule and who didn’t. And who knows what Manuel told them. He likes to bend the truth anyway, and without the Mortal Sword, he can bend away. I bet he wants a war.” “But surely the Council won’t truly support the idea of a war with Faerie,” said Clary. “Or do you really think the whole Council is lost to us?” Emma was surprised; Clary was looking at Julian as if she were deeply invested in his answer, though she was five years older. It was strange to think Julian’s sharp brilliance didn’t just belong to her, to his family.

“Enough of them are,” said Julian. “Enough of them have already gotten behind the Cohort and this message. Otherwise they wouldn’t be demanding we all return to Alicante in two days.” “But we’re not going to do that,” said Mark. “We cannot go back to Alicante now. It is under the Cohort’s control.” “And last time we were there, Horace sent us on a suicide mission,” Emma pointed out. “I don’t think we’d all be safe in Idris.” It was a sobering thought—Idris was their homeland, meant to be the safest place in the world for Shadowhunters.

“We’re not going,” Helen said. “Not only would it be unsafe but it would mean abandoning the warlocks to the ravages of the blight.” “But Jace and Clary can’t go to Lake Lyn,” said Alec. His black hair was standing up in a ruffled mess, and his hands were tightened into fists. “All Portal activity is being monitored.” “That’s why you didn’t leave at dawn,” Emma said, wondering how long Clary and Jace had been sitting here, staring at the letter in horror.

“But there has to be some way,” Jace said, gazing at Alec with desperation. “Clary and I can travel overland, or—” “You can’t,” Emma interrupted. “There are pieces of this I don’t understand, but I can tell you one thing. The Cohort is using your deaths to get what they want. If the two of you go to Alicante and the Cohort hears about it, even a whisper, they’ll put everything they’ve got into killing you.” “Emma’s right,” said Julian. “They have to keep believing you’re dead.”

“Then I’ll go,” Alec said. “Clary can make me a Portal to somewhere near Idris and I can cross the border on foot—” “Alec, no. Magnus needs you here,” Clary said. “Besides, you’re the head of the Downworlder-Shadowhunter Alliance. The Cohort would love to get their hands on you.” Kieran rose to his feet. “None of you can go,” he said. “What you Nephilim lack is subtlety. You would go galloping into Idris, bringing disaster down on all of us. Meanwhile, faeries can slip into Idris as swift as a shadow and bring back what you need.” “Faeries?” Jace raised an eyebrow. “You seem to be one faerie. Maybe two if you count half of Helen and half of Mark.” Kieran looked annoyed.

“Faeries are forbidden to even set foot on the soil of Idris,” said Alec. “There are probably wards up, and sensors—” “Isn’t it convenient that there are faerie steeds who fly,” Kieran said, “and riders who ride those steeds, and that I am one?” “This is kind of a rude way of offering help,” said Jace, and caught Clary’s eye. “But I’m all in,” he added. “Are you offering to fly into Idris and collect the water?” Kieran had begun to pace. His dark hair had turned deep blue, threaded with white strands. “You will need more than one faerie. You will need a legion. Those who can fly into Idris, collect the water, destroy the blight, and bring the cure to warlocks all over the world. You need the Wild Hunt.” “The Hunt?” said Mark. “Even with Gwyn as a friend of Diana’s, I do not think the Hunt would do this for Nephilim.” Kieran drew himself up. For the first time, Emma saw some of his father in his stance and in the set of his jaw. “I am a prince of Faerie, and a Hunter,” he said. “I killed the Unseelie King with my own hands. I believe they will do it for me.” * * *

On the roof, Kit could hear voices floating up from the kitchen below—raised and frantic voices. He couldn’t hear what they were talking about, though.

“A letter from Livvy,” he said, turning around to look at Ty. The other boy was sitting at the roof’s edge, his legs dangling over the side. Kit hated how close Ty was willing to get to the edges of things: Sometimes it seemed like he had no sense of spatial danger, the reality of what would happen if he fell. “The other Livvy, in the other universe.” Ty nodded. His too-long hair fell into his eyes, and he pushed it back impatiently. He was wearing a white sweater with holes in the cuffs that he’d pushed his thumbs through, as if he were hooking the sleeves on. “Emma gave it to me. I wondered if you wanted to read it.” “Yes,” Kit said. “I do.”

Ty held it out to him and Kit took the light envelope, looked at the scrawl on the cover. Tiberius. Did it look like Livvy’s handwriting? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t remember studying her handwriting; he knew he was forgetting the sound of her voice.

The sun was beating down on the roof, making Ty’s gold locket spark. Kit opened the letter and began to read.

Ty,

I’ve thought so many times about what I would say to you if you reappeared suddenly. If I was walking along the street and you popped out of thin air, walking along beside me like you always used to, with your hands in your pockets and your head tilted back.

Mom used to say you walked celestially, looking up at the sky as if you were scanning the clouds for angels. Do you remember that?

In your world I am ashes, I am ancestors, my memories and hopes and dreams have gone to build the City of Bones. In your world, I am lucky, because I do not have to live in a world without you. But in this world, I am you. I am the twinless twin. So I can tell you this: When your twin leaves the earth you live on, it never turns the same way again: the weight of their soul is gone, and everything is off balance. The world rocks under your feet like an unquiet sea. I can’t tell you it gets easier. But it does get steadier; you learn how to live with the new rocking of the new earth, the way sailors gain sea legs. You learn. I promise.

I know you’re not exactly the Ty I had in this world, my brilliant, beautiful brother. But I know from Julian that you are beautiful and brilliant too. I know that you are loved. I hope that you are happy. Please be happy. You deserve it so much.

I want to ask if you remember the way we used to whisper words to each other in the dark: star, twin, glass. But I’ll never know your answer. So I’ll whisper to myself as I fold this letter up and slide it into the envelope, hoping against hope it will somehow reach you. I whisper your name, Ty. I whisper the most important thing: I love you. I love you. I love you.

Livvy

When Kit lowered the letter, the whole world looked a little too sharp and bright, as if he were seeing it through a magnifying glass. His throat hurt. “What—what do you think?” I love you, I love you, I love you

Let him hear it, let him believe it and let go.

“I think . . .” Ty reached up for the letter and folded it back into his jacket pocket. “I think this isn’t my Livvy. I’m sure she’s a good person, but she isn’t mine.” Kit sat down, a little suddenly. “What do you mean?”

Ty gazed out at the ocean, at its steady incursion and recession. “My Livvy would want to come back to me. This one didn’t. It would be interesting to meet this Livvy, but it’s probably good that she didn’t come back with Emma and Jules, because then we couldn’t bring back the right Livvy.” “No,” Kit said. “No, you don’t get it. It’s not that she didn’t want to come back. She’s needed there. I’m sure she would have wanted to be with her family if she could. Imagine having to bear that loss—” “I don’t want to.” Ty cut him off sharply. “I know she feels bad. I’m really sorry for her. I am.” He had taken a piece of thread from his pocket and was worrying at it with nervous hands. “But that’s not why I brought you the letter. You know what it is?” “I guess I don’t,” Kit said.

“It’s the last thing we need for the spell,” Ty said. “It’s an object from another dimension.” Kit felt as if he were on a roller coaster that had suddenly, precipitously, dropped. He was about to say something when Ty made a soft sound of wonder; he tilted his head back as above them flew a black-and-gray horse and a brown one, their hooves trailing gold and silver vapor. They both watched in silence as the horses landed on the grass in front of the Institute.

One of the riders was a familiar woman in a black dress. Diana. The other was Gwyn ap Nudd, leader of the Wild Hunt. They both watched in astonishment as Gwyn dismounted before going to help Diana down.

Dru clambered up onto the roof. Ty and Kit were already there, standing disturbingly close to the roof’s edge. She wasn’t surprised; she’d figured out a long time ago that whenever they wanted to talk in private, they disappeared up here, the way Emma and Julian used to when they were younger.

She hadn’t really talked to either of them since the time she’d gone into Ty’s room. She didn’t know what to say. Everyone else in the family—Helen, Mark—was talking about how well Ty was recovering, how strong he was being, how he was holding up in the face of Livvy’s death.

But she had seen his room torn apart and the blood on his pillowcases. It had made her look more closely at him—at how thin he was, and the scrapes across his knuckles.

After their father had died, Ty had gone through a phase of biting at his own hands. He would wake up in the night having gnawed the skin over his knuckles. She guessed he was doing that again, and that was why there was blood on his pillows. Helen and Mark couldn’t recognize it; they hadn’t been there years ago. Livvy would have known. Julian would have known, but he had only just gotten home. And besides, talking to anyone about it seemed like a betrayal of Ty.

The story of Thule haunted her, too—a world in which Ty was dead. In which she herself was missing. In which the Blackthorns were no longer a family. A world where Sebastian Morgenstern had ruled. Even the name Ash haunted her, as if she’d heard it before, though she had no memory of having done so. The idea of Thule was a dark nightmare, reminding her of the fragility of the bonds that held her to her family. The last thing she wanted to do was upset Ty.

And so she’d avoided him, and Kit by consequence since they were always together. They didn’t own the roof, though. She stomped over to where they were standing, making plenty of noise so she wouldn’t surprise them.

They didn’t seem bothered to see her. “Gwyn and Diana are here,” said Kit. When he’d come to them, he had looked a bit pale, as if he’d spent most of his time indoors and at night markets. Now he had color—the beginnings of a tan and flushed cheeks. He looked more like Jace, especially as his hair had grown out and started to curl.

“I know.” She joined them at the roof’s edge. “They’re going to Idris. They’re going to get the water from Lake Lyn.” She filled them in quickly, pleased to be the one who had news for a change. Kieran had come out of the Institute and was walking across the grass toward Diana and Gwyn. His back was very straight, the sun bright on his blue-black hair.

Kieran inclined his head to Diana and turned to Gwyn. Kieran had changed, Dru thought. She remembered the first time she’d seen him, bloody and furious and bitterly angry at the world. She had regarded him as an enemy of Mark, of all of them.

She had seen different sides of him since then. He had fought alongside them. He had watched bad movies with her. She thought of him complaining about his love life the night before, and laughing, and looked down at him now: Gwyn had laid a hand on his shoulder and was nodding, clear respect in his gestures.

People were made up of all sorts of different bits, Dru thought. Funny bits and romantic bits and selfish bits and brave bits. Sometimes you saw only a few of them. Maybe it was when you saw them all that you realized you knew someone really well.

She wondered if there would ever be anyone besides her family that she knew like that.

“We should go downstairs,” Ty said, his gray eyes curious. “Find out what’s going on.”

He headed for the trapdoor that led to the stairs. Kit had just started to follow him when Drusilla tapped him on the shoulder.

Kit turned to look at her. “What is it?”

“Ty,” she said in a low voice. Dru glanced over at her brother automatically as she said his name; he’d already disappeared down the steps. “I want to talk to you about him, but not with anyone else around, and you have to promise not to tell him. Can you promise?” * * *

“Have a good watch,” Jace said, ruffling Clary’s hair. Diana and Gwyn had departed for Idris. Emma had watched them vanish until they were a speck on the horizon, disappearing into the haze of the Los Angeles air. Alec had gone to be with Magnus, and the rest of them had agreed to take turns at patrolling the perimeter of the Institute.

“We need to be alert,” Julian had said. “This message from the Cohort is a loyalty test. They’re going to be watching Institutes to see who races to Alicante to pledge themselves to the fight against Faerie. They know we’ll delay as long as possible”—he gestured at Mark and Helen—“but I wouldn’t put it past them to move on us first.” “That wouldn’t be very clever,” Mark had said, frowning. “All they have to do is wait, and they can declare us traitors soon enough.” “They’re not that smart,” Julian had agreed grimly. “Vicious, but not smart.”

“Unfortunately, Manuel is pretty smart,” said Emma, and though everyone had looked grimmer than ever, no one had disagreed.

Clary and Emma had the second watch after Jace and Helen; Helen had already gone inside to check on Aline, and Emma was trying to look off into the distance while Clary and Jace kissed and made cutesy noises at each other.

“I hope everything’s all right in Alicante,” she said eventually, more to determine if they were still kissing than anything else.

“It can’t be,” said Jace, breaking away from Clary. “They all think I’m dead. There had better be a mourning parade. We should find out who’s sending flowers.” Clary rolled her eyes, not without affection. “Maybe Simon or Izzy can make a list. Then when we come back from the dead, we can send them flowers.” “Women will be in mourning to hear of my passing,” Jace said, bounding up the steps. “Garments will be rent. Rent, I tell you.” “You’re taken,” Clary called up at him. “It’s not like you’re a single dead hero.”

“Love knows no bounds,” said Jace, and sobered. “I’m going to go check on Alec and Magnus. I’ll see you two later.” He waved and vanished. Clary and Emma, both in gear, started to cut across the grass toward the path that led around the Institute.

Clary sighed. “Jace hates being away from Alec at times like this. There isn’t anything he can do, but I understand wanting to be with your parabatai when they’re suffering. I’d want to be with Simon.” “It’s not like he’s there just for himself,” Emma said. The sky was dark blue and chased with fading clouds. “I’m sure it’s better for Alec, having him there. I mean, I think part of what was so awful for the Alec in Thule was that he must have felt so alone when he lost Magnus. So many of his friends were already dead, and his parabatai was worse than dead.” Clary shuddered. “We should talk about something more cheerful.”

Emma tried to think about cheerful things. Julian getting the spell taken off him? Not a topic she could discuss. Zara being squished by a boulder made her seem vengeful.

“We could discuss your visions,” she said carefully. Clary looked at her in surprise. “The ones you told me about, where you said you saw yourself die. In the Unseelie Court, when you looked through the Portal—” “I realized what I’d been seeing, yes,” Clary said. “I was seeing me, and I was dead, and I was also seeing the dream I’d been having.” She took a deep breath. “I haven’t had it since we came back from Faerie. I think the dreams were actually trying to tell me about Thule.” They had reached the place where grass turned into desert and scrub; the ocean was a thick line of blue paint in the distance. “Did you tell Jace?” Emma asked.

“No. I can’t do it now. I feel so stupid, and like he might never forgive me—and besides, Jace needs to focus on Alec and Magnus. We all do.” Clary kicked a small stone out of her path. “I’ve known Magnus since I was a little girl. The first time I met him, I pulled his cat’s tail. I didn’t know he could have turned me into a frog or a mailbox if he wanted.” “Magnus will be okay,” Emma said, but she knew she didn’t sound sure. She couldn’t be.

Clary’s voice shook. “I just feel like, if the warlocks are lost—if the Cohort succeeds in pitting Shadowhunters against Downworlders in war—then everything I ever did was useless. Everything I gave up during the Dark War. And it means I’m not a hero. I never was.” Clary stopped walking to lean against a massive boulder, one that Ty liked to climb. She was clearly struggling not to cry. Emma stared at her in horror.

“Clary,” she said. “You’re the one who taught me what being a hero means. You said heroes don’t always win. That sometimes they lose, but they keep fighting.” “I thought I had kept fighting. I guess I thought I had won,” Clary said.

“I’ve been to Thule,” Emma said fiercely. “That world was the way it was because you weren’t in it. You were the crisis point, you made all the difference. Without you, Sebastian would have won the Dark War. Without you, so many people would be dead, and so much goodness would be gone from the world forever.” Clary took a deep breath. “We’re never done fighting, are we?”

“I don’t think so,” Emma said.

Clary pushed away from the rock. They rejoined the path, curving through the desert among the shrubs, deep green and chalky violet. The sun was low over the horizon, lighting the desert sand to gold.

“In Thule,” Emma said as they rounded the corner of the Institute, “Jace was under Sebastian’s mind control. But there was something I didn’t say in the library. Sebastian was able to control Jace only because he lied about his involvement in your death. He was afraid that even under a spell, no matter how strong the spell was, Jace would never forgive him for letting you be hurt.” “And you’re telling me this because?” Clary eyed Emma sideways.

“Because Jace would forgive you for anything,” said Emma. “Go tell him you were being a butt for a good reason, and ask him to marry you.” Clary burst out laughing. “That’s romantic.”

Emma grinned. “That’s just my suggestion about the sentiment. The actual proposal is up to you.” * * *

Helen had given Magnus and Alec one of the largest rooms. Jace suspected it had probably belonged to the Blackthorns’ parents at one time.

It was odd, actually, even to think of Blackthorn parents and not to think of Julian—quiet, competent, secretive Julian—as the one who took care of the children. But people became what they had to be: Julian probably hadn’t wanted to become a parent at age twelve, any more than Jace had wanted to leave Idris and lose his father at age nine. He would not have believed it if someone had told him he would gain a new and better family in New York, just as Julian would not have believed that he would love his siblings so fiercely it would all be worth it. Or so Jace suspected, at least.

Jace looked over at Alec, the brother he had gained. Alec sat propped on one side of the big wooden bed in the room’s center: Magnus lay beside him, curled on his side, his black hair stark against the white pillow.

Jace hadn’t seen Alec this drained and exhausted-looking since Magnus had vanished into Edom five years ago. Alec had gone to get him back: He would have gone anywhere for Magnus.

But Jace was afraid—worse than afraid—that Magnus was going somewhere that Alec couldn’t follow.

He didn’t want to think about what would happen if Magnus went; the story of Thule had sent icy needles through his veins. He suspected he knew what would happen to him if he lost Clary. He couldn’t bear to think of Alec in such insupportable pain.

Alec bent over and kissed Magnus’s temple. Magnus stirred and murmured but didn’t wake. Jace hadn’t seen him awake since the night before.

Alec looked over at Jace, his eyes deeply shadowed. “What time is it?”

“Sunset,” said Jace, who never carried a watch. “I can go find out if you need to know.”

“No. It’s probably already too late to call the kids.” Alec rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. “Besides, I keep hoping I can call them with good news.” Jace stood up and went to the window. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. Take this pain away from Alec, he prayed to the Angel Raziel. Come on, we’ve met. Do this for me.

It was something of an unorthodox prayer, but it was heartfelt. Alec raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re praying?” “How did you know?” Out of the window, Jace could see the grass in front of the Institute, the highway and the ocean beyond. The whole world going on in its ordinary way, not caring about the problems of Shadowhunters and warlocks.

“Your lips were moving,” said Alec. “You hardly ever pray, but I appreciate the thought.” “I don’t usually have to pray,” said Jace. “Usually when things go wrong, we come to Magnus and he fixes them.” “I know.” Alec picked at a stray thread on his cuff. “Maybe we should have gotten married,” he said. “Magnus and me. We’ve been unofficially engaged all this time, but we wanted to wait for the Cold Peace to be over. For Downworlders and Shadowhunters to be able to be properly married.” “In Shadowhunter gold and warlock blue,” said Jace. He’d heard this before, the explanation for why Alec and Magnus hadn’t married yet, but planned to someday. He’d even gone with Alec to pick out rings for the day Alec and Magnus would finally tie the knot—simple gold bands with the words Aku Cinta Kamu etched on them. He’d known the rings were a secret from Magnus, because Alec wanted to surprise his partner, but he hadn’t known there were fears and worries behind something they seemed so sure would happen all in due time.

It was always hard to tell the truth of other people’s relationships.

“Then Magnus would at least know how much I love him,” Alec said, leaning forward to brush a stray hair from Magnus’s forehead.

“He knows,” Jace said. “You should never doubt he knows.”

Alec nodded. Jace glanced back out the window. “They just switched over watch,” he said. “Clary said she’d come see how Magnus was doing when she was done with this shift.” “Should I take a turn at watch?” Alec asked. “I don’t want to let anyone down.”

The lump in Jace’s throat ached. He sat down next to his parabatai, who he had sworn to follow, to live beside, to die with. Surely that also encompassed the sharing of burdens and grief.

“This is your watch, brother,” he said.

Alec exhaled softly. He put one hand on Magnus’s shoulder, the lightest of touches. He reached out with his other hand and Jace took it, lacing their fingers together. They held fast to each other in silence as the sun went down over the ocean.

“So what happens?” Aline said. They stood at the edge of the bluffs, overlooking the highway and the sea. “If Magnus starts turning into a demon. What happens?” Her eyes were red and swollen but her back was straight. She had talked to her father, who had told her only what he knew: That guards had come in the early morning to take Jia to the Gard. That Horace Dearborn had promised no harm would come to her, but that “a show of good faith” was necessary to reassure those who had “lost confidence.” If he thought it was all lies, he didn’t say so, but Aline knew it was and had called Dearborn every name in the book to Helen the minute she had hung up the phone. Aline had always known an impressive number of curse words.

“We do have the Mortal Sword,” said Helen. “The one from Thule. It’s hidden, but Jace knows where, and what to do. He won’t let Alec do it himself.” “Couldn’t we—I don’t know—try to capture the demon? Turn it back into Magnus?”

“Oh, honey, I don’t know,” Helen said wearily. “I don’t think there’s any coming back from being turned into a demon, and Magnus wouldn’t want to live like that.” “It’s not fair.” Aline kicked a good-size rock. It sailed off the edge of the bluffs; Helen could hear it tumbling down the slope toward the highway. “Magnus deserves better than this garbage. We all do. How did everything get like this—so bad, so fast? Things were all right. We were happy.” “We were in exile, Aline,” Helen said. She wrapped her arms around her wife and rested her chin on Aline’s shoulder. “The cruelty of the Clave tore me from my family, because of my blood. Because of what I cannot help. The seeds of this poison tree were planted long ago. We are only now watching it begin to flower.” * * *

The sun had set by the time Mark and Kieran began their watch. Mark had hoped to be paired up with Julian, but for some reason Emma had wanted to go with Clary and they’d ended up oddly matched.

They walked for a while in silence, letting the dusk settle into darkness around them. Mark hadn’t talked to Kieran about anything significant since they’d come back from Faerie. He had wanted to, ached to, but he had been afraid of making a confusing situation even worse.

Mark had started to wonder if the problem was him: if his human half and his faerie half held contradictory ideas about love and romance. If half of him wanted Kieran and the freedom of the sky and the other half wanted Cristina and the grandeur and responsibility of earthbound angels.

It was enough to make someone go out into the statue garden and bang their head repeatedly against Virgil.

Not that he’d done that.

“We might as well talk, Mark,” Kieran said. A bright moon was rising; it illuminated the dark ocean, turned it to a sheet of black-and-silver glass, the colors of Kieran’s eyes. The night desert was alive with the sound of cicadas. Kieran was walking beside Mark with his hands looped behind him, deceptively human-looking in his jeans and T-shirt. He had drawn the line at donning any gear. “It does us no good to ignore each other.” “I have missed you,” Mark said. There seemed no point in not being honest. “Nor did I intend to ignore you, or to hurt you. I apologize.” Kieran looked up with a surprised flash of silver and black. “There is no need to apologize, Mark.” He hesitated. “I have had, as you say here in the mortal world, a lot on my mind.” Mark hid a smile in the dusk. It was irritatingly cute when Kieran used modern phrases.

“I know you have as well,” Kieran went on. “You were fearful for Julian and for Emma. I understand. And yet I cannot keep myself from selfish thoughts.” “What kind of selfish thoughts?” Mark said. They were near the parking lot, among the statues Arthur Blackthorn had paid to have shipped here years ago. Once they had stood in the gardens of Blackthorn House in London. Now Sophocles and the others inhabited this desert space and looked out on a sea far from the Aegean.

“I believe in your cause,” Kieran said slowly. “I believe the Cohort are evil people, or at least power-hungry people who seek evil solutions to the problems their fears and prejudices have created. Yet though I may believe, I cannot help but feel that no one is looking out for the welfare of my homeland. For Faerie. It was—it is—a place that possesses goodness and marvels among its dangers and trials.” Mark turned to Kieran in surprise. The stars were brilliant overhead, the way they only ever were in the desert, as if they were closer to the earth here.

The stars will go out before I forget you, Mark Blackthorn.

“I have not heard you talk about Faerie that way before,” Mark said.

“I would not speak of it that way to most.” Kieran touched the place at his throat where once his elf-bolt necklace had rested, then dropped his hand. “But you—you know Faerie in a way others do not. The way the water tumbles blue as ice over Branwen’s Falls. The taste of music and the sound of wine. The honey hair of mermaids in the streams, the glittering of will-o’-the-wisps in the shadows of the deep forests.” Mark smiled despite himself. “The brilliance of the stars—the stars here are but pale shadows of those in Faerie.” “I know you were a captive there,” Kieran said. “But I would like to think you came to see something good in it as you saw something good in me.” “There is much that is good in you, Kieran.”

Kieran looked restlessly toward the ocean. “My father was a bad ruler and Oban will be an even worse one. Imagine what a good ruler could make of the Lands of Faerie. I fear for Adaon’s life and I also fear for the fate of Faerie without him. If my brother cannot be King there, what hope is there for my land?” “There could be another King, another prince of Faerie who is worthy,” said Mark. “It could be you.” “You forget what I saw in the pool,” Kieran said. “The way I hurt people. The way I hurt you. I should not be King.” “Kieran, you have become a different person, and so have I,” Mark said. He could almost hear Cristina’s voice in the back of his mind, the soft way she had always defended Kieran—never excusing, only understanding. Explaining. “We were desperate in the Hunt, and desperation can make people unkind. But you have changed—I have seen you change, even before you touched the waters of the pool. I have seen how kind you were when you lived in your father’s Court, and how you were loved because of it, and while the Wild Hunt cloaked that kindness, it did not erase it. You have been only good to me, to my family, to Cristina, since you returned from the Scholomance.” “The pool—”

“It is not only the pool,” said Mark. “The pool helped to uncover what was already there. You understand what it means for another to suffer and that their pain is no different from your own. Most kings never understand such a thing as true empathy. Think what it would be like, to have a ruler who did.” “I do not know if I have that faith in myself.” Kieran spoke quietly, his voice as hushed as the wind across the desert.

“I have that faith in you,” said Mark.

At that, Kieran turned fully to Mark. His expression was open, the way Mark had not seen it in a long time, an expression that hid nothing—not his fear, nor his uncertainty, nor the transparency of his love. “I didn’t know—I feared I had broken your faith in me and with it the bond between us.” “Kier,” Mark said, and he saw Kieran shiver at the use of that old nickname. “Today you stood up and offered all your powers as a prince and faerie to save my family. How can you not know how I feel?” Kieran was staring at his own hand, where it hovered at the edge of Mark’s shirt collar. He gazed as if hypnotized at the place where their skin touched, his fingers against Mark’s collarbone, sliding up to brush his throat, the side of his jaw. “You mean you are grateful?” Mark caught Kieran’s hand, brought it to his chest, and pressed Kieran’s open palm against his hammering heart. “Does that feel like gratitude?” Kieran looked at him with wide eyes. And Mark was back in the Hunt again, he was on a green hill in the rain, with Kieran’s arms around him. Love me. Show me.

“Kieran,” Mark breathed, and kissed him, and Kieran gave a small harsh cry and caught Mark by the sleeves, pulling him close. Mark’s arms hooked around Kieran’s neck, drawing him down into the kiss: Their mouths slid together and Mark tasted their shared breath, an elixir of heat and yearning.

Kieran pulled back from the kiss at last. He was grinning, the wickedly joyous grin Mark suspected no one else ever saw but him. Holding Mark by the arms, he walked him back several paces until Mark fetched up against the side of a boulder. Kieran leaned into him, his mouth against Mark’s throat, his lips finding the hammering pulse point and sucking gently at it until Mark gasped and buried his hands in Kieran’s silky hair.

“You are killing me,” Mark said, laughter bubbling up softly from the depths of his chest.

Kieran chuckled, his hands moving to slip under Mark’s shirt, caress his back, skate over the scars on his shoulder blades. And Mark answered his touch. He stroked his fingers through Kieran’s hair, caressed his face as if mapping the curves of it, let his fingers stray to touch the skin he remembered like the substance of a dream: Kieran’s sensitive throat, collarbone, wrists, the beautiful and unforgotten terrain of what he had thought was lost. Kieran breathed in harsh low moans as Mark slid his hands under the prince’s shirt, stroking his uncovered skin, the silk-hardness of his flat stomach, the curves of his rib cage.

“My Mark,” Kieran whispered, touching Mark’s hair, his cheek. “I adore you.”

Te adoro, Mark.

Mark’s skin went cold; it all seemed suddenly wrong. He dropped his hands abruptly and slid away from Kieran. He felt as if he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

“Cristina,” he said.

“Cristina is not what keeps us apart,” said Kieran. “She is what brings us together. All that we have said, all the ways we have changed—” “Cristina,” Mark said again, clearing his throat, because she was standing just in front of them.

Cristina felt as if her face might actually catch on fire. She had come out to tell Mark and Kieran that she and Aline were prepared to take over on watch, without even once thinking that she might be interrupting them in a private moment.

When she had come around the boulder, she had frozen—it had reminded her so much of the first time she had seen them together. Kieran leaning against Mark, their bodies together, their hands in each other’s hair, kissing as if they could never stop.

I am an awful idiot, she thought. They were both looking at her now: Mark seemed stricken, Kieran oddly calm.

“I’m so sorry,” Cristina said. “I only came out to tell you that your watch was ending, but—I—I will go.” “Cristina,” Mark said, starting toward her.

“Don’t go,” Kieran said. It was a demand, not a request: There was a rich darkness in his voice, a depth of yearning. And though Cristina had no reason to listen, she turned slowly to look at them both.

“I really think,” she said, “that I probably ought to. Don’t you?”

“I was recently given a piece of advice by a wise person not to remain silent about what I wished for,” said Kieran. “I desire you and love you, Cristina, and so does Mark. Stay with us.” Cristina couldn’t move. She thought again of the first time she’d seen Mark and Kieran together. The desire she’d felt. She’d thought at the time she wanted something like what they had: that she wanted that passion for herself and some unnamed boy whose face she didn’t know.

But it had been a long time since any face in her dreams had not been either Mark’s or Kieran’s. Since she had imagined any eyes looking into hers that were both the same color. She had not wanted some vague approximation of what they had: She had wanted them.

She looked at Mark, who seemed pinned between hope and terror. “Kieran,” he said. His voice shook. “How can you ask her that? She’s not a faerie, she’ll never talk to us again—” “But you will leave me,” she said, hearing her own voice as if it were a stranger’s. “You love each other and belong together. You will leave me and go back to Faerie.” They looked at her with expressions of identical shock. “We will never leave you,” said Mark.

“We will stay as close to you as the tide to the shore,” said Kieran. “Neither of us wishes for anything else.” He reached out a hand. “Please believe us, Lady of Roses.” The few steps across the sand and scrub grass were the longest and shortest Cristina had ever taken. Kieran stretched out both arms: Cristina went into them and lifted up her face and kissed him.

Heat and sweetness and the curve of his lips under hers nearly lifted her off her feet. He was smiling against her mouth. Saying her name. His hand on her side, thumb gently caressing the inward dip of her waist.

She leaned into him and reached out with her free hand. Mark’s warm fingers closed around her wrist. As if she were a princess, he kissed the back of her fingers, brushing his lips across her knuckles.

Her heart was beating triple time as she turned in Kieran’s arms, her back to him. He drew her hair away from the nape of her neck and pressed a kiss there, making her shiver as she reached out to Mark. His eyes glittered blue and gold, alive with desire for her, for Kieran, for the three of them together.

He let her draw him in and they tangled together as one. Mark kissed her lips as she leaned back against Kieran’s chest, Kieran’s hand in Mark’s hair, trailing down Mark’s cheek to trace the line of his collarbone. She had never felt such love; she had never been held so very close.

A great clamor burst out in the sky above them—a clamor they all knew, though Kieran and Mark knew it best.

They drew apart quickly as the air rushed around them: The sky swirled with movement. Manes and tails whipped in the wind, eyes glowed a thousand colors, warriors roared and shouted, and at the center of it all was a great black brindle horse with a man and woman seated on its back, pausing to look down at the earth below as the sound of a hunting horn faded on the air.

Gwyn and Diana had returned, and they were not alone.

Julian had always thought his studio—which had been his mother’s—was the most beautiful room in the Institute. You could see everything through the two glass walls: ocean and desert; the other walls were creamy and bright with his mother’s abstract paintings.

He could see it now, but he couldn’t feel it. Whatever feeling it was that looking at beauty had always raised in his artist’s soul was gone.

Without feeling, he thought, I am dissolving, like royal water dissolves gold. He knew it, but he couldn’t feel that, either.

To know you were despairing but not to be able to feel that despair was a strange experience. He looked at the paints he’d arranged around the plain white cloth stretched over the central island. Blue and gold, red and black. He knew what he ought to shape with them, but when he picked up the brush, he only hesitated.

Everything instinctual about drawing had left him, everything that told him what would make one curve of the paintbrush better than another, everything that matched shades of color to shades of meaning. Blue was just blue. Green was green, whether light or dark. Blood red and stoplight red were the same.

Emma is avoiding me, he thought. The thought didn’t bring pain, because nothing did. It was just a fact. He remembered the desire he had felt in her room the night before and set his paintbrush down. It was strange to think of desire as divorced from feeling: He had never desired anyone he hadn’t already loved. Never desired anyone but Emma.

But the night before, with her in his arms, he had felt almost as if he could break through the dullness that surrounded him, that choked him with its nothingness; as if the blaze of wanting her could burn it down and he would be free.

It was better that she did avoid him. Even in this state, his need for her was too strange, and too strong.

Something flashed past the glass of the studio window. He went to look out and saw that Gwyn and Diana were on the lawn and that several of the others surrounded them: Cristina, Mark, Kieran. Gwyn was handing a glass jar to Alec, who took it and went running back toward the Institute, flying across the grass like one of his own arrows. Dru was dancing up and down with Tavvy, spinning in circles. Emma hugged Cristina and then Mark. Gwyn had an arm around Diana, who was leaning her head on his shoulder.

Relief washed through Julian, brief and cool as a splash of water. He knew he should feel more, that he should feel joy. He saw Ty and Kit standing a little apart from the others; Ty had his head tipped back, as he often did, and was pointing at the stars.

Julian looked up as the sky darkened with a hundred airborne riders.

Mark could not help but be conscious of Kieran’s tension as the Wild Hunt began to land all around them, alighting on the grass like dandelion seeds blown by the wind.

He could not blame him. Mark himself felt dizzy with shock and the aftereffects of desire—already those moments with Cristina and Kieran by the boulder seemed like a fever dream. Had it happened? It must have—Cristina was smoothing down her hair with quick, nervous movements, her lips still red from kissing. Mark checked his own clothes quickly. He no longer had faith that he had not ripped off his own shirt and cast it into the desert with the announcement that he would never need shirts again. Anything seemed possible.

Kieran, though, had drawn himself up, his face a mask Mark knew well—it was the look he had always worn when the rest of the Hunt mocked him and called him princeling. Later he had won their respect and been able to protect both himself and Mark, but he had had no friends in the Hunt besides Mark—and perhaps Gwyn, in his own odd way.

Mark, though, had never won their respect. Or so he had always thought. As he gazed around the group of silent Hunters on their steeds, some faces familiar and some new, he saw that they regarded him differently. There was no contempt in their eyes as they noted the fresh Marks on his arms, the gear he wore, and the weapons belt at his waist, bristling with seraph blades.

The riotous celebration that had followed the arrival of Gwyn and Diana had quieted down upon the arrival of the Hunt. Helen had taken Dru and Tavvy and marched them back to the house, over their protests. Diana slid from Orion’s back and went to stand beside Kit and Ty as Emma headed back to the Institute with Aline to see if they could help Alec.

Gwyn dismounted, removing his helmet as he did so. To Mark’s astonishment, he inclined his head to Kieran. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Gwyn bow his head to anyone before.

“Gwyn,” said Kieran. “Why have you brought all the Hunt here? I thought they were delivering the water.” “They wished to acknowledge you before they left upon their mission,” said Gwyn.

One of the Hunt, a tall man with an impassive, scarred face, bowed from his saddle. “We have done your will,” he said. “Liege lord.” Kieran blanched.

“Liege lord?” echoed Cristina, clearly stunned.

Diana touched Gwyn lightly on the shoulder and strode back toward the Institute. Mark’s head was spinning: “Liege” was what the Hunt often called a monarch, a King or Queen of Faerie. Not a mere prince, and not one sworn to the Hunt.

Kieran inclined his head, at last. “My thanks,” he said. “I will not forget this.”

That seemed to satisfy the Hunt; they turned their horses and took to the air, bursting up into the sky like fireworks. Ty and Kit ran to the edge of the clearing to watch them as they hurtled across the sky, riders and steeds blurring into the same silhouettes. Their hooves churned the air, and a deep boom of thunder sounded across the beaches and coves.

Kieran turned to stare at Gwyn. “What was that?” he demanded. “What are you doing, Gwyn?” “Your mad brother Oban sits upon the throne of Unseelie,” said Gwyn. “He drinks, he whores, he makes no laws. He demands loyalty. He musters an army to bring to his parley with the Cohort, though his advisers warn against it.” “Where is my brother?” said Kieran. “Where is Adaon?”

Gwyn looked uneasy. “Adaon is weak,” he said. “And he is not the one who slew the King. He has not earned the throne.” “You would put a Hunter on the throne,” said Kieran. “A friend to your causes.”

“Perhaps,” said Gwyn. “But regardless of what I want, Adaon is a prisoner in Seelie. Kieran, there will be a battle. There is no avoiding it. You must take the mantle of leadership from Oban as all look on.” “Take the mantle of leadership?” said Mark. “Is that a euphemism?”

“Yes,” said Gwyn.

“You can’t honestly be telling him to kill his brother in the middle of a battle,” said Cristina, looking furious.

“Kieran killed his father in the middle of a battle,” said Gwyn. “I should think he could do this. There is hardly family feeling between Kieran and Oban.” “Stop!” Kieran said. “I can speak for myself. I will not do it, Gwyn. I am not fit to be King.” “Not fit?” Gwyn demanded. “The best of my Hunters? Kieran—”

“Leave him be, Gwyn,” Mark said. “It is his choice alone.”

Gwyn placed his helmet on his head and swung himself onto Orion’s back. “I am not asking you to do this because it is the best thing for you, Kieran,” he said, looking down from the horse’s back. “I am asking you because it is the best thing for Faerie.” Orion sprang into the air. In the distance, Ty and Kit gave a small cheer, waving at Gwyn from the ground.

“Gwyn has gone mad,” said Kieran. “I am not the best thing for any place.”

Before Mark could reply, Cristina’s phone beeped. She picked it up and said, “It’s Emma. Magnus is recovering.” She smiled all over her face, bright as a star. “The lake water is working.”