فصل 8

8

LONG-FORGOTTEN BOWERS

Diana hurried toward the canal house on Princewater Street, the cool morning wind lifting her hair. She felt shot through with adrenaline, tense at the prospect of spilling her history to Emma and Jules. She’d kept it hugged so close to herself for so many years, telling Gwyn had been like cracking open her ribs to show her heart.

She hoped the second time would be easier. Emma and Julian loved her, she told herself. They would— She stopped dead, the heels of her boots clacking on the cobblestones. The cheerfully painted blue canal house rose in front of her, but it was surrounded by a ring of Council guards. Not just Council guards, in fact. Quite a few of them were young Centurions. Each was armed with an oak bo staff.

She glanced around. A few Shadowhunters hurried by, none of them glancing at the house. She wondered how many of them knew Jules and Emma were even still in Alicante—but then, the Inquisitor had planned to make an example of their testimony. They’d have to know eventually.

At the top of the steps was Amelia Overbeck, who had been giggling with Zara at the funeral. Annoyance sped up Diana’s stride, and she pushed past the first ring of guards and ascended the steps.

Amelia, who had been leaning against the door talking to a girl with long orange-red hair, turned to Diana with a brittle smirk. “Miss Wrayburn,” she said. “Is there something you want?” “I’d like to see Julian Blackthorn and Emma Carstairs,” said Diana, keeping her voice as neutral as possible.

“Gosh,” said Amelia, clearly enjoying herself. “I just don’t think so.”

“Amelia, I have every right,” said Diana. “Let me by.”

Amelia slewed her gaze toward the redhead. “This is Diana Wrayburn, Vanessa,” she said. “She thinks she’s very important.” “Vanessa Ashdown?” Diana looked more closely: Cameron’s cousin had left for the Academy as a spindly teen, and was almost unrecognizable now. “I know your cousin Cameron.” Vanessa rolled her eyes. “He’s boring. Emma’s whipped puppy. And no, don’t think you can get into the house by making nice with me. I don’t like the Blackthorns or anyone who pals around with them.” “Great news, since you’re supposed to be protecting them,” said Diana. Her adrenaline was coiling into rage. “Look, I’m going to open this door. If you want to try to stop me—” “Diana!”

Diana turned, pushing hair out of her face: Jia was standing outside the ring of guards, her hand raised as if in greeting.

“The Consul.” Vanessa’s eyes bugged out. “Oh sh—”

“Shut up, Vanessa,” hissed Amelia. She didn’t look worried or afraid of Jia, just annoyed.

Diana pushed her way down the steps and to Jia’s side. Jia wore a silk blouse and trousers, her hair held back with a jeweled clip. Her mouth was an angry slash. “Don’t bother,” she said in a low voice, placing her hand on Diana’s elbow and guiding her away from the crowd of hooting guards. “I heard them say Emma and Julian were with the Inquisitor.” “Well, why didn’t they just tell me that?” Diana snapped, exasperated. She glanced back over her shoulder at Vanessa Ashdown, who was giggling. “Vanessa Ashdown. My mother used to say some people had more hair than sense.” “She does seem to aptly prove that theory,” said Jia dryly. She had stopped some distance from the house, where a small stone bank inclined into the canal. It was thick with moss, bright green under the silver water that slopped up the side. “Look, Diana, I need to talk to you. Where can we not be overheard?” Diana looked at Jia closely. Was it her imagination, or when the Consul glanced at the Centurions surrounding the small canal house, did she look—afraid?

“Don’t worry,” said Diana. “I know exactly what to do.”

She was climbing a spiral staircase that seemed to reach toward the stars. Cristina didn’t remember how she had found the staircase, nor did she recall her destination. The staircase rose from darkness and soared into the clouds; she kept the material of her long skirts clutched in her hands so she wouldn’t trip over them. Her hair felt dense and heavy, and the scent of white roses thickened the air.

The stairs ended abruptly and she stepped out in wonder onto a familiar rooftop: She was perched atop the Institute in Mexico City. She could see out over the city: El Ángel, shining gold atop the Monumento a la Independencia, Chapultepec Park, the Palacio de Bellas Artes lit up and glowing, the bell-shaped towers of the Guadalupe Basilica. The mountains rising behind it all, cupping the city as if in an open palm.

A shadowy figure stood at the edge of the rooftop: slender and masculine, hands looped behind his back. She knew before he turned that it was Mark: No one else had hair like that, like gold hammered to airy silver. He wore a long belted tunic, a dagger thrust through the leather strap, and linen trousers. His feet were bare as he came toward her and took her in his arms.

His eyes were shadowed, hooded with desire, his movements as slow as if they were both underwater. He drew her toward him, running his fingers through her hair, and she realized why it had felt so heavy: It was woven through with vines on which grew full-blown red roses. They fell around Mark as he cradled her with his other arm, his free hand running from her hair to her lips to her collarbones, his fingers dipping below the neckline of her dress. His hands were warm, the night cool, and his lips on hers were even warmer. She swayed into him, her hands finding their way to the back of his neck, where the fine hairs were softest, straying down to touch his scars. . . .

He drew back. “Cristina,” he murmured. “Turn around.”

She turned in his arms and saw Kieran. He was in velvet where Mark was in plain linen, and there were heavy gold rings on his fingers, his eyes shimmering and black-rimmed with kohl. He was a piece torn out of the night sky: silver and black.

One of Mark’s arms went around Cristina. The other reached for Kieran. And Cristina reached for him too, her hands finding the softness of his doublet, gathering him toward both her and Mark, enfolding them in the dark velvet of him. He kissed Mark, and then bent to her, Mark’s arms around her as Kieran’s lips found hers. . . .

“Cristina.” The voice pierced through Cristina’s sleep, and she sat up instantly, clutching her blankets to her chest, wide-eyed with shock. “Cristina Mendoza Rosales?” It was a woman’s voice. Breathless, Cristina looked around as her bedroom came into focus: the Institute furniture, bright sunlight through the window, a blanket loaned to her by Emma folded at the foot of the bed. There was a woman sitting on the windowsill. She had blue skin and hair the color of white paper. The pupils of her eyes were a very deep blue. “I got your fire-message,” she said as Cristina stared at her, dazed. What did I just dream?

Not now, Cristina. Think about it later.

“Catarina Loss?” Cristina had wanted to talk to the warlock, granted, but she hadn’t expected Catarina to just appear in her bedroom, and certainly not at such an awkward moment. “How did you get in here . . . ?” “I didn’t. I’m a Projection.” Catarina moved her hand in front of the bright surface of the window; sunlight streamed through it as if it were stained glass.

Cristina tugged discreetly at her hair. No roses. Ay. “What time is it?”

“Ten,” said Catarina. “I’m sorry—I really thought you’d be awake. Here.” She made a gesture with her fingers, and a paper cup appeared at Cristina’s bedside.

“Peet’s Coffee,” Catarina said. “My favorite on the West Coast.”

Cristina hugged the cup to her chest. Catarina was her new favorite person.

“I really wondered if I’d hear from you.” Cristina took a sip of coffee. “I know it was a weird question.” “I wasn’t sure either.” Catarina sighed. “In a way, this is warlock business. Shadowhunters don’t use ley lines.” “But we do use warlocks. You’re our allies. If you are getting sick, then we owe it to you to do something.” Catarina looked surprised, then smiled. “I wasn’t—it’s good to hear you say that.” She glanced down. “It’s been getting worse. More and more warlocks are affected.” “How is Magnus Bane?” said Cristina. She hadn’t known Magnus for long, but she’d liked him a great deal.

She was startled to see tears in Catarina’s eyes. “Magnus is—well, Alec takes good care of him. But no, he’s not well.” Cristina set her coffee down. “Then please let us help. What would a sign of ley line contamination be? What can we look for?” “Well, at a place where the ley lines have been compromised, there would be increased demon activity,” said Catarina.

“That’s something we can definitely check.”

“I can look into it myself. I’ll send you a marked map via fire-message.” Catarina stood up, and the sunlight streamed through her transparent white hair. “But if you’re going to investigate an area with increased demon activity, don’t go alone. Take several others with you. You Shadowhunters can be so careless.” “We’re not all Jace Herondale,” said Cristina, who was usually the least careless person she knew.

“Please. I’ve taught at Shadowhunter Academy. I—” Catarina began to cough, her shoulders shaking. Her eyes widened.

Cristina slid out of bed, alarmed. “Are you all right—?”

But Catarina had vanished. There wasn’t even a swirl of air to show where her Projection had been.

Cristina threw on her clothes: jeans, an old T-shirt of Emma’s. It smelled like Emma’s perfume, a mixture of lemons and rosemary. Cristina wished with all her heart that Emma was here, that they could talk about last night, that Emma could give her advice and a shoulder to cry on.

But she wasn’t and she couldn’t. Cristina touched her necklace, whispered a quick prayer to the Angel, and headed down the hall to Mark’s room.

He’d been up as late as she was, so there was a high possibility he was still sleeping. She knocked on the door hesitantly and then harder; finally Mark threw it open, yawning and stark naked.

“Híjole!” Cristina shrieked, and pulled her T-shirt collar up over her face. “Put your pants on!” “Sorry,” he called, ducking behind the door. “At least you’ve already seen it all.” “Not in good lighting!” Cristina could still see Mark through the gap in the door; he was wearing boxer shorts and pulling on a shirt. His head popped through the collar, his blond hair adorably ruffled.

No, not adorable, she told herself. Terrible. Annoying.

Naked.

No, she wasn’t going to think about that, either. Am I awake? she wondered. She still felt wobbly about the dream she’d had. Dreams didn’t mean anything, she reminded herself. It probably had something to do with anxiety, and not Mark and Kieran at all.

Mark reappeared in the doorway. “I’m so sorry. I—we often slept naked in the Hunt, and I forgot—” Cristina yanked her shirt back down. “Let’s not discuss it.”

“Did you want to talk about last night?” He looked eager. “I can explain.”

“No. I don’t,” she said firmly. “I need your help, and I—well, I couldn’t ask anyone else. Ty and the others are too young, and Aline and Helen would feel like they had to tell Jia.” Mark looked disappointed, but rallied. “This is something the Clave can’t know about?” “I don’t know. I just—at this point, I wonder if we can tell them anything.” “Can you at least tell me what this is about? Demons?”

“For a change, yes,” said Cristina, and explained about the ley lines, the warlock sickness, and her talk with Catarina. “All we are doing is going to see if there’s anything unusual to report on. We probably won’t even get out of the car.” Mark perked up. “You’ll be driving? It’ll just be the two of us?”

“I will,” she said. “Be ready by seven tonight.” She started to walk away, then paused and glanced over her shoulder. She couldn’t help it. “Just do me a favor tonight. Wear some pants.” * * *

When Kit came into the kitchen, Ty wasn’t there.

He almost turned around and left, but the others had already seen him. Aline, in black jeans and a tank top, was at the stove, her hair tied up on top of her head, a frown of concentration on her face. Dru, Mark, Cristina, and Tavvy were at the table; Dru was fussing over Tavvy, but Cristina and Mark both greeted Kit with a wave.

He sat down and was immediately overwhelmed by awkwardness. He’d never spent much time with any of the Blackthorns besides Ty and Livvy. Without either of them there, he felt as if he’d wandered into a party full of people he barely knew with whom he was expected to make small talk.

“Did you sleep well?” Cristina asked him. It was hard to feel awkward around Cristina—she seemed to radiate kindness. Kit managed it, though. Johnny Rook had defrauded plenty of extremely kind people in his life and Kit doubted he lacked the capacity to do the same.

He mumbled something in response and poured himself some orange juice. Had he slept well? Not really. He’d spent half the night awake worrying about going to the Shadow Market with Ty, and the other half being oddly excited about going to the Shadow Market with Ty.

“Where’s Helen?” Dru said in a low voice, eyeing Aline. Kit had been wondering the same. She’d looked pretty stressed out the previous day. He wouldn’t blame her if she realized what she’d taken on and ran screaming into the desert.

“The Conclave is meeting today,” said Mark. “Helen’s attending.”

“But isn’t Aline the one who’s supposed to be running the Institute?” Dru looked puzzled.

“Helen thought the Conclave should get used to her,” said Mark. “Be reminded she’s a Shadowhunter like any other Shadowhunter. And that she’s a Blackthorn, especially since they might wind up talking about things like whether Diana needs to be replaced as our tutor—” “I don’t want another tutor!” Tavvy exclaimed. “I want Diana!”

“But surely she is only going to be away a few more days?” said Cristina anxiously. “At the most?” Mark shrugged. “All of us bouncing around here without a tutor or a schedule is the kind of thing that makes Conclaves nervous.” “But Tavvy’s right,” Dru said. “We’re already studying with Diana. We don’t need to start with someone else. Isn’t that right, Kit?” Kit was so startled to be addressed that his juice glass almost flew out of his hand. Before he could answer, Aline interrupted them by stalking over to the table holding a frying pan. Fantastic smells wafted from it. Kit’s mouth began to water.

“What’s that?” Tavvy asked, his eyes big.

“This,” said Aline, “is a frittata. And you’re all going to eat it.” She slammed it down onto a metal trivet in the center of the table.

“Don’t like frittata,” said Tavvy.

“Too bad,” said Aline, crossing her arms and glaring at each of them in turn. “You made Helen cry yesterday, so you’re going to eat this frittata—which, by the way, is goddamn delicious—and you’re going to like it. It’s what’s for breakfast, and since I’m not Helen, I don’t care if you starve or eat Cheetos for every single meal. Helen and I both have a lot of work to do, the Clave isn’t giving us an inch, all she wants is to be with you guys, and you are not going to make her cry again. Understood?” Dru and Tavvy both nodded, wide-eyed.

“I’m very sorry, Aline,” said Cristina in a small voice.

“I didn’t mean you, Cristina.” Aline rolled her eyes. “And where’s Ty? I’m not repeating this lecture again.” She glared at Kit. “You’re the one glued to his side. Where is he?” “Probably sleeping,” said Kit. He guessed Ty had stayed up late, researching dark magic. Not that he’d say that out loud.

“Fine. Tell him what I said when he wakes up. And put the frying pan in the freaking sink when you’re done with breakfast.” Aline grabbed her jacket off the back of a chair, slid her arms into the sleeves, and stalked out of the room.

Kit braced himself for either Tavvy or Dru to start to cry. Neither of them did. “That was pretty cool,” said Dru, helping herself to some frittata, which turned out to be a mixture of eggs, sausage, cheese, and caramelized onions. “I like the way she stood up for Helen.” “You yelled at Helen the other day,” Mark pointed out.

“She’s my sister,” said Dru, heaping frittata on Tavvy’s plate.

Mark made an exasperated noise. Cristina took a bite of frittata and closed her eyes in pleasure.

“I bet you used to yell at your dad,” Dru said to Kit. “I mean, every family fights sometimes.” “We weren’t really a yelling family. Mostly my dad would either ignore me or spend his time trying to teach me to pick locks.” Dru’s face lit up. She still looked wan and tired, and very young in her oversize T-shirt, but when she smiled, she reminded Kit of Livvy. “You can pick locks?” “I can show you how, if you want.”

She dropped her fork and clapped her hands together. “Yes! Mark, can I go learn how to pick locks now?” “We have Open runes, Dru,” Mark said.

“So? What if I was kidnapped by a tentacle demon and I dropped my stele and I was handcuffed to a chair? What then?” “That won’t happen,” said Mark.

“It could happen,” said Tavvy.

“It really couldn’t. Tentacle demons can’t operate handcuffs.” Mark looked exasperated.

“Please?” Dru begged him with her eyes.

“I—suppose it would do no harm,” Mark said, clearly out of his depth. He glanced sideways at Cristina, as if seeking her approval, but she looked quickly away. “Just don’t commit any actual crimes with your newfound knowledge, Dru. The last thing we need is something else for the Clave to be annoyed about.” * * *

“That water is eldritch magic,” Kieran said. He was leaning heavily against Diego’s side as they made their way as quickly as possible down the corridors of the Scholomance. Divya and Rayan had remained behind at the doors of the Hollow Place, to keep the Cohort from chasing after Kieran and Diego. “I heard them laugh about it, as they dragged me down the halls, blindfolded.” There was a haughty bitterness in his voice, still the tones of a prince. Beneath it was a layer of rage and shame. “I did not believe they knew of what they spoke, but they did.” “I am sorry,” Diego said. He put a hand on the faerie prince’s shoulder, tentatively. It seemed as if he could feel Kieran’s heartbeat thrumming even through bone and muscle. “I was meant to protect you. I failed.” “You did not fail,” Kieran said. “If it were not for you, I would have died.” He sounded uncomfortable. Faeries weren’t fond of apologies or debts. “We cannot go back to your room,” Kieran added as they turned another corner. “They will look for us there.” “We have to hide,” said Diego. “Somewhere we can get you bandaged up. There are dozens of empty rooms—” Kieran pulled away. He was walking like a drunk, unsteadily. “Bandages are for those who deserve to heal,” he said.

Diego looked at him, worried. “Is the pain bad?”

“It is not my pain,” said Kieran.

A scream echoed down the halls. A tortured female scream, abruptly cut off.

“The girl who fell in the waters,” said Kieran. “I tried to reach her sooner—” Samantha. Diego might not have liked her, but no one deserved pain that would make you scream like that.

“Maybe we should get out of the Scholomance,” said Diego. The main entrance was through the side of the mountain but was always guarded. There were other ways out, though—even a glass corridor that snaked through the waters of the lake to the other side.

Kieran raised his chin. “Someone is coming.”

Diego reached for Kieran with one hand and his dagger with the other, then froze as he recognized the figure in front of him. Black hair, set jaw, scowling eyebrows, eyes fixed on Kieran.

Martin Gladstone.

“You won’t be leaving the Scholomance,” Gladstone said. “Not any time soon.” “You don’t understand,” said Diego. “The others—Zara’s group—they tried to kill Kieran—” Gladstone raked contemptuous eyes over Diego and his companion. “So you really had the gall to bring him here,” he said, clearly meaning Kieran. “The faerie is a member of an enemy army. A high-ranking one at that.” “He was going to testify against the Unseelie King!” said Diego. “He was going to risk himself—risk the King’s anger—to help Shadowhunters!” “He never quite got that chance, did he,” sneered Gladstone. “So we don’t know what he would have done.” “I would have testified,” said Kieran, leaning against the wall. “I bear my father no love.” “Faeries can’t lie,” said Diego. “Can you not listen?”

“They can trick and deceive and manipulate. How did he get you to aid him, Diego Rocio Rosales?” “He did not ‘get’ me to do anything,” said Diego. “I know who I trust. And if you kill Kieran, or let those bastards hurt him, you will be breaking the Accords.” “Interesting escalation,” said Gladstone. “I have no intention of killing or harming Kingson. Instead you will be sequestered in the library until the Inquisitor can arrive and deal with you both.” * * *

Emma and Julian had been walking for some hours when Emma realized that they were being followed.

It had actually been a fairly pleasant walk along a tramped path in the woods. Julian was easy enough to talk to when Emma tried not to think about the spell, or how he felt about her, or about how he felt, period. They avoided the topics of Livvy and the parabatai curse, and talked instead about the Clave and what its next plans might be, and how Zara might figure into them. Julian walked ahead, holding the map, consulting it when enough light rayed down through the trees to make the map readable.

“We could reach the Unseelie Court by tomorrow morning,” he said, pausing in the middle of a clearing. Blue and green flowers nodded in patches on the forest floor, and the sunlight turned the leaves to green veils. “Depending on how much we’re willing to travel at night—” Emma stopped in her tracks. “We’re being followed,” she said.

Julian stopped as well and turned to her, folding the map into his pocket. “You’re sure?” His voice was quiet. Emma strained to hear what she’d heard before: the tiny breakage of branches behind them, the thump of a footfall. “I’m sure.” There was no doubt in Julian’s eyes; Emma felt a faint gratification that even in his current enchanted state, he trusted her skills implicitly. “We can’t run,” he said—he was right; the trail was too rocky and the undergrowth too thick for them to be sure they’d outrun a pursuer.

“Come on.” Emma grabbed Julian’s hand; a moment later they were skinning up the trunk of the tallest of the oak trees surrounding the clearing. Emma found the fork of a branch and settled into it; a second later, Julian swung up onto a branch across from hers. They clung to the tree trunk and looked down.

The footfalls were getting closer. Hoofbeats, Emma realized, and then a kelpie—dark green, with a mane of shimmering seaweed—strode into the clearing, a rider on its back.

Emma sucked in her breath. The rider was a man, wearing Shadowhunter gear.

She leaned down, eager to see more. Not a man, she realized, a boy—whippet thin and narrow-faced, with a shock of black hair.

“Dane Larkspear on a kelpie,” Julian muttered. “What is this?”

“If I see Zara come up riding the Loch Ness monster, we’re going home,” Emma hissed back.

The kelpie had stopped dead in the middle of the clearing. It was rolling its eyes—deep black with no whites. Closer up, it looked less like a horse, even though it had a mane and tail and four legs, and more like a frightening creature, something that had never been meant to be out of the water.

“Hurry up.” Dane jerked on the kelpie’s bridle and a memory flickered in the back of Emma’s mind—something about how bridling a kelpie forced it to obey you. She wondered how Dane had managed it. “We need to find Blackthorn and Carstairs’s trail before nightfall or we’ll lose them.” The kelpie spoke. Emma jolted. Its voice sounded like the grinding of waves against rock. “I do not know these creatures, Master. I do not know what they look like.” “It doesn’t matter! Pick up their trail!” Dane smacked the kelpie across the shoulder and sat back, glowering. “Okay, I’ll describe them for you. Julian’s the kind of guy who would have a girl as a parabatai. Get it?” “No,” said the kelpie.

“Spends all his time chasing little kids around. Has like a million children and he acts like he’s their dad. It’s creepy. Now, Emma, she’s the kind of girl who’d be hot if she ever shut up.” “I’ll kill him,” Emma muttered. “I’ll kill him while talking the whole time.” “I don’t understand human attitudes toward beauty,” said the kelpie. “I like a fine sheen of seaweed on a woman.” “Shut up.” Dane jerked the bridle and the kelpie exposed needlelike teeth in a hiss. “We need to find them before the sun goes down.” His smile was ugly. “Once I get back with the Black Volume, Horace will give me anything I want. Maybe Julian Blackthorn’s last sister to play with. Dru whatsit. Best tits in the family.” Emma was out of the tree so fast that the world was a blur of green leaves and red rage. She landed on Dane Larkspear and knocked him clear of his saddle, forcing a gasp of pain from him when they hit the ground together. She punched him hard in the stomach and he doubled up while she sprang to her feet. She grabbed for her sword; for a moment she had been worried Julian wouldn’t have followed her but he was already on the ground, yanking off the kelpie’s bridle.

“My lord!” The kelpie bowed its forelegs to Julian. Dane was coughing and gagging, rolling on the ground in pain. “Thank you for freeing me.” “Don’t mention it.” Julian tossed the bridle aside, and the kelpie dashed into the forest.

Emma was still standing over Dane with her sword pointed at his throat, where something gold flashed. Lying flat on the ground, he glared at her.

“What are you doing here, Larkspear?” she demanded. “We were sent to get the Black Volume, not you.” “Get away from me.” Dane turned his head and spit blood. He wiped his mouth, leaving a red smear on his hand. “If you hurt me at all, the Dearborns will have your Marks stripped.” “So what?” Emma said. “We don’t even have the Black Volume. So you just wasted your time following us, Dane. Which, by the way, you suck at. You sounded like an elephant. A sexist elephant. You’re a terrible Shadowhunter.” “I know you don’t have it,” Dane said in disgust. “But you will. You’ll find it. And when you do—” Dane broke off.

“What?” Emma’s voice dripped scorn. “Am I talking too much?”

Emma suddenly realized Dane wasn’t staring at her but behind her; Julian had come up and was standing with his longsword in his hand, gazing at Dane with a frightening coldness. “You do know,” he said quietly, “that if you ever touched Dru, I would kill you?” Dane pushed himself up on his elbows. “You think you’re so special,” he hissed in a thin, whining voice. “You think you’re so great—you think your sister’s too good for me—” “She’s too young for you,” said Emma. “She’s thirteen, creep.”

“You think the Inquisitor sent you on some special mission because you’re so great, but he sent you because you’re disposable! Because you don’t matter! He wants you gone!” Dane froze, as if he realized he’d said too much.

Emma turned to Julian. “Does he mean—”

“He means the Inquisitor sent him to kill us,” said Julian. “He’s wearing one of the medallions Horace gave us. The ones that prevent time slippage.” Dane put a hand protectively to his throat, but not before Emma saw that Julian was right.

She glared at Dane. “So Horace sent you to get the Black Volume and kill us and return with it alone?” “And then he’d tell everyone we were murdered by the Fair Folk,” said Julian. “Extra bonus for him.” A flicker of fear crossed Dane’s face. “How did you guess that?”

“I’m smarter than you,” said Julian. “But I wouldn’t give myself big props. So is sawdust.” “There’s a difference between sending someone on a dangerous mission and sending someone after them to stab them in the back,” said Emma. “When the Clave finds out—” “They won’t find out!” Dane shouted. “You’re never coming back from here! You think it’s just me?” He staggered to his feet; Emma took a step back, unsure what to do. They could knock Dane out, but then what? Tie him up? Return him to Idris somehow? “The Cohort has a long reach and we don’t need traitors like you. The fewer of you there are in the world, the better—we got a good start with Livvy, but—” Julian’s sword flashed like lightning as he drove the blade into Dane’s heart.

Emma knew it was Dane’s heart, because Dane’s body spasmed and arched, like a fish caught with a hook through its body. He coughed out blood in a red spray, his eyes fixed on Julian with a look of incredulity.

Julian jerked his sword free. Dane slid to the ground, his mouth half-open, his expression glassy and flat.

Emma whirled on Julian. “What did you just do?”

Julian bent to clean the blade of his sword on a patch of grass and flowers. “Killed the person who was planning to kill us.” “You murdered him,” Emma said.

“Emma, be practical. He was sent here to murder us. He would have done it to us if I hadn’t done it to him. And he said there might be others, too, other Cohort members. If we left him alive, we could have been facing a lot more adversaries pretty soon.” Emma felt as if she couldn’t catch her breath. Julian had sheathed his sword; the flowers at his feet were stained with blood. She couldn’t look at Dane’s body. “You don’t just kill other Shadowhunters. People don’t do that. People with feelings don’t do that.” “Maybe,” said Julian. “But he was a problem, and now he’s not.”

There was a rustle in the underbrush. A moment later the kelpie reappeared, shimmering green in the sunlight. It nosed its way over to Dane. Emma wondered for a second if it was mourning its previous master.

There was a crunching sound as it sank its needle teeth into Dane’s bloodstained side. The coppery smell of blood exploded onto the air. The kelpie swallowed and looked up at Julian, its green teeth glinting red, like a disturbing vision of Christmas.

“Oh God.” Emma stepped back, revolted.

“Sorry,” said the kelpie. “Did you want to share? He’s very tasty.”

“No, thanks.” Julian looked neither bothered nor amused by the grisly spectacle.

“You are very generous, Julian Blackthorn,” said the kelpie. “Be sure I will repay you some day.” “We need to leave,” said Emma, trying not to gag. She looked away, but not before she saw Dane’s rib cage gleam white in the sun. “We need to get out of here now.” She whirled blindly. She kept seeing the blood on the flowers, the way Dane’s eyes had rolled up in his head. The air was suddenly thick with the copper smell of blood, and Emma reached out to steady herself on the narrow trunk of a birch tree.

“Emma?” Julian said behind her, and suddenly there was the explosive thunder of hooves, and two horses, one gray and one brown, burst into the clearing. A faerie rider sat astride each: a fair-haired woman on the gray horse, and a wheat-skinned man on the brown.

“Is this Faerie Grand Central?” said Emma, leaning her forehead against the tree. “Does everyone come here?” “Emma Carstairs?” said the fair-haired woman. Emma recognized her through blurred vision: It was Mark’s aunt Nene. Beside her rode one of the Seelie Queen’s courtiers, Fergus. He was scowling.

“Is that a dead Shadowhunter?” he demanded.

“He took me prisoner and these kind people freed me,” said the kelpie.

“Go, kelpie,” said Fergus. “Leave this place. The words of Seelie courtiers are not for you.” The kelpie gave a whinnying sigh and dragged Dane’s body into the underbrush. Emma turned slowly, keeping her back to the tree. She was fervently glad the corpse was gone, though the ground was still wet with blood, the petals of the flowers weighed down by it.

“Emma Carstairs and Julian Blackthorn,” said Nene. “Your course was bound toward the Seelie Court. Why?” “No, we were on the way to the Unseelie Court,” said Emma. “We were—”

“We know which paths in the Lands lead to what destinations,” said Fergus sharply. “Do not try your human tricks.” Emma opened her mouth to protest—and saw Julian shake his head at her, a tiny fraction of a negation, but she knew immediately what it meant. They had been traveling the wrong way. For whatever reason, he had lied to her; every time he had consulted the map, it had brought them closer to the Seelie Court.

The taste of betrayal was bitter in her mouth, more bitter than the copper of blood.

“We have the Black Volume,” Julian said to Nene, to Fergus, and Emma stared at him in total astonishment. What was he talking about? “That is why we have returned to Faerie. The Queen asked us to retrieve it for her, and we have, and we have come for what she promised.” He straightened, his head thrown back. His face was very pale, but his eyes were shining, bright green-blue, and he looked beautiful; even with blood on his face he was beautiful, and Emma wished she couldn’t see it, but she could.

“We formally request audience with the Seelie Queen,” he said.