فصل 9

9

UP KINGLY HALLS

Soaring through the air with Gwyn, Diana felt free, despite her nagging worry over Emma and Julian. She supposed they were safe in the house, but she didn’t like not being able to see them. It made her realize how much they had become her family over the past five years, and how disconnected she felt from Alicante.

Walking through the streets, even familiar faces felt like the masks of strangers. Did you vote to bring Horace Dearborn in as the Inquisitor? Do you blame the Blackthorns for their own sister’s death? Do you believe faeries are monsters? Who are you, really?

She held Gwyn more tightly as they landed in their now-familiar small clearing among the linden trees. The moon had thinned, and the glade was full of silence and deep shadow. Gwyn dismounted first and helped Diana down; this time he had not brought saddlebags full of food, but a blunt sword at his waist. Diana knew he trusted her, and he had asked no questions when she’d requested that he bring her here tonight. He didn’t trust other Shadowhunters, though, and she couldn’t blame him for that.

A light sprang up among the shadows, and Jia stepped out from behind a tilted rock. Diana frowned as the Consul approached them. The last time Diana had been here, the earth had been green under her feet. Now Jia’s shoes crunched on dried moss, brown and sere. It could simply be because fall was approaching, but the blight . . .

“Diana,” Jia said. “I need your help.”

Diana held up a hand. “First I need to know why I am not allowed to see Emma and Julian. Why am I being kept away from them?” “Everyone is meant to be kept away from them,” said Jia. She sat down neatly on a flat stone, her ankles crossed. She didn’t have a hair out of place. “Horace says he doesn’t want to compromise their testimony.” Diana made a disbelieving noise. “How is he planning to force them to give testimony? There’s no Mortal Sword!” “I understand how concerned you must be,” said Jia. “But I spoke with Simon before he left for New York. He and Isabelle managed to see Emma and Julian this morning and said that they were fine and their meeting with Horace went as well as could be expected.” A mix of relief and annoyance washed over Diana. “Jia, you have to do something. Dearborn cannot keep them isolated until some imaginary future time when the Sword is repaired.” “I know,” Jia said. “It’s why I wanted to meet. Remember when I asked you to stand with me?” “Yes,” Diana said.

“The Cohort are aware of the blight in the forest,” Jia said. “After all, Patrick took Manuel with him to see it, before we realized how dangerous they all were—even the children.” She sighed and glanced at Gwyn, who was expressionless. With his years of experience in the political duelings of the Faerie Courts, Diana couldn’t help but wonder what he thought of all this. “They’ve decided to use it as a political tool. They are going to claim it as the work of faeries specifically. They want to burn the forest to kill the blight.” “That will not kill the blight,” said Gwyn. “It will only kill the forest. The blight is death and decay. You cannot destroy destruction itself any more than you can cure poison with poison.” Jia looked at Gwyn again, this time hard and directly. “Is it faerie magic? The blight?”

“It is not any faerie magic I have ever seen, and I have lived a long time,” said Gwyn. “I am not saying that the Unseelie King has no hand in it. But this is a more demonic magic than any wielded in Faerie. It is not natural but unnatural in nature.” “So burning the forest won’t accomplish anything?” said Diana.

“It will accomplish something,” said Gwyn. “It will drive out the Downworlders who call Brocelind home—all the faeries and the werewolf packs who have lived here for generations.” “It is an excuse, I believe, to begin driving the Downworlders out of Idris,” said Jia. “Dearborn intends to use the current mood of fear among the Nephilim to push for stricter anti-Downworlder laws. I knew he would, but I did not expect his attempt to empty Idris of Downworlders to come so quickly.” “Do you think the Clave would ever fall in line with him?” asked Diana.

“I fear so,” Jia said with a rarely expressed bitterness. “They are focused so much on their fear and hatred that they don’t even see where they are injuring themselves. They would eat a poisoned banquet if they thought Downworlders were feasting beside them.” Diana hugged her arms around herself to keep from shivering. “So what can we do?”

“Horace has called a meeting in two days. It will be his first opportunity to present his plans to the public. People respect you—the Wrayburns are a proud family and you fought bravely in the Dark War. There must be those of us who stand up to resist him. So many are afraid to speak out.” “I am not afraid,” said Diana, and she saw Gwyn give her a warm look of admiration.

“The world can change so quickly,” Jia said. “One day the future seems hopeful, and the next day clouds of hate and bigotry have gathered as if blown in from some as yet unimagined sea.” “They were always there, Jia,” said Diana. “Even if we did not want to acknowledge them. They were always on the horizon.” Jia looked weary, and Diana wondered if she had walked all the way here, though she doubted it was physical exertion that had tired the Consul. “I do not know if we can gather enough strength to clear the skies again.” * * *

“Okay,” said Kit. “First we’re going to make a tension wrench out of a paper clip.”

“We’re going to make a what out of a what?” Dru hooked her hair behind her ears and looked at Kit with wide eyes. They were both sitting on top of one of the long tables in the library, with a padlock and a pile of paper clips in between them.

He groaned. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what a paper clip is.”

She looked indignant. “Of course I do. Those.” She jabbed a finger. “But what are we making?” “I’ll show you. Take a clip.”

She picked one up.

“Bend it into an L shape,” he instructed. “The straight part is the top part. Okay, good.” Her face was screwed up with concentration. She was wearing a black T-shirt that said FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE on it and featured a cracked tombstone.

Kit picked up a second clip and straightened it completely. “This is your pick,” he said. “What you’re holding is the tension wrench.” “Okay,” she said. “Now how do you pick the lock?”

He laughed. “Hold your horses. Okay, pick up the padlock—you’re going to take the tension wrench and insert it into the bottom of the keyhole, which is called the shear line.” Dru did as he’d instructed. Her tongue poked out one corner of her mouth: She looked like a little girl concentrating on a book.

“Turn it in the direction that the lock would turn,” he said. “Not left—there you go. Like that. Now take the pick with your other hand.” “No, wait—” She laughed. “That’s confusing.”

“Okay, I’ll show you.” He slid the second clip into the lock itself and began to rake it back and forth, trying to push the pins up. His father had taught him how to feel the pins with his lock pick—this lock had five—and he began to fiddle gently, raising one pin after another. “Turn your wrench,” he said suddenly, and Dru jumped. “Turn it to the right.” She twisted, and the padlock popped open. Dru gave a muted scream. “That’s so cool!”

Kit felt like smiling at her—it had never occurred to him to want a little sister, but there was something nice about having someone to teach things to.

“Does Ty know how to do this?” she asked.

“I don’t think so,” Kit said, relocking the padlock and handing it to her. “But he’d probably learn fast.” He handed her the pick next and sat back. “Now you do it.” She groaned. “Not fair.”

“You only learn by doing.” It was something Kit’s father had always said.

“You sound like Julian.” Dru puffed out a little laugh and started in on the padlock. Her fingernails were painted with chipped black polish. Kit was impressed with the delicacy with which she handled the pick and wrench.

“I never thought anyone would say I sounded like Julian Blackthorn.”

Dru looked up. “You know what I mean. Dad-ish.” She twisted the tension wrench. “I’m glad you’re friends with Ty,” she said unexpectedly. Kit felt his heart give a sudden sharp bump in his chest. “I mean, he always had Livvy. So he didn’t need any other friends. It was like a little club and no one could get in, and then you came along and you did.” She had paused, still holding the padlock. She was looking at him with eyes so much like Livvy’s, that wide blue-green fringed with dark lashes.

“I’m sorry?” he said.

“Don’t be. I’m too young. Ty would never have let me in, even if you hadn’t showed up.” She said it matter-of-factly. “I love Julian. He’s like—the best father. You know he’ll always put you first. But Ty was always my cool brother. He had such awesome stuff in his room, and animals liked him, and he knew everything—” She broke off, her cheeks turning pink. Ty had come in, his damp hair in soft, humid curls, and Kit felt a slow flip inside him, like his stomach turning over. He told himself he probably felt awkward because Ty had walked in on them talking about him.

“I’m learning how to pick locks,” Dru said.

“Okay.” Ty spared her a cursory glance. “I need to talk to Kit now, though.”

Kit slid hastily off the table, nearly knocking over the pile of paper clips. “Dru did really well,” he said.

“Okay,” Ty said again. “But I need to talk to you.”

“So talk,” said Dru. She’d put the lock-picking equipment down on the table and was glaring at Ty.

“Not with you here,” he said.

It had been pretty obvious, but Dru made a hurt noise anyway and jumped off the table. She stalked out of the library, slamming the door behind her.

“That wasn’t—she wasn’t—” Kit started. He couldn’t finish, though; he couldn’t scold Ty. Not now.

Ty unzipped his hoodie and reached brusquely into an inner pocket. “We need to go to the Shadow Market tonight,” he said.

Kit yanked his brain back to the present. “I’m forbidden from entering the Market. I suspect you are too.” “We can petition at the gate,” said Ty. “I read about people doing that. Shadow Markets have gates, right?” “Yeah, there are gates. They’re marked off. They don’t keep people out or in; they’re more like meeting points. And yeah, you can petition the head of the Market, except in this case it’s Barnabas and he hates me.” Ty picked up a paper clip from the table and looked at it with interest. There were bruises on his neck, Kit noticed suddenly. He didn’t remember them, which struck him as strange, but then, who noticed every bruise on someone else’s skin? Ty must have gotten them when they’d fought the Riders in London. “We just have to convince him it’s in his interest to let us in.” “How do you plan to do that? We’re not exactly master negotiators.”

Ty, who had been straightening the paper clip, gave Kit one of his rare sunrise-over-the-water smiles. “You are.” “I—” Kit realized he was grinning, and broke off. He’d always had a sarcastic edge to his tongue, never been someone to take a compliment gracefully, but it was as if there was something about Ty Blackthorn that reached into him and untied all the careful knots of protection holding him together. He wondered if that was what people meant when they said they felt undone.

Ty frowned as if he hadn’t noticed Kit’s stupid smile. “The problem is,” he said, “neither of us drive. We have no way of getting to the Market.” “But you have an iPhone,” said Kit. “In fact, there’s several in the Institute. I’ve seen them.” “Sure,” said Ty, “but—”

“I’m going to introduce you to a wonderful invention called Uber,” said Kit. “Your life will be changed, Ty Blackthorn.” “Ah, Watson,” said Ty, shoving the clip into his pocket. “You may not yourself be luminous, but you are an extraordinary conductor of light.” * * *

Diego had been surprised that Gladstone wanted to lock them in the library. He’d never thought of it as a particularly secure room. Once they were both inside, Diego stripped of his weapons and stele, and the solid oak door had been locked behind them, Diego began to realize the advantages the library had as a prison.

The walls were thick and there were no windows save for the massive glass ceiling many feet up. The sheer walls made it impossible to climb up and break it, and nothing in the room yielded a useful weapon—they could throw books, Diego supposed, or try to flip the tables, but he didn’t figure that would do much good.

He stalked over to where Kieran sat slumped at the foot of the massive tree that grew up out of the floor. If only it reached up high enough to get to the ceiling, Diego thought.

Kieran was hunched against the trunk. He had jammed the palms of his hands into his eyes, as if he could blind himself.

“Are you all right?” Diego said.

Kieran dropped his hands. “I am sorry.” He looked up at Diego, who could see the marks of Kieran’s palms against his cheekbones.

“It’s fine. You were injured. I can look for ways out by myself,” Diego said, deliberately misunderstanding him.

“No, I mean I am sorry,” Kieran choked out. “I cannot.”

“You cannot what?”

“Get away from it. I feel guilt like a curtain of thorns in which I am entangled. Every which way I turn I am pierced again.” The pool makes you feel every hurt you have ever caused others. “We are none of us without guilt,” said Diego, and he thought of his family, of Cristina. “Every one of us has hurt another, inadvertently or not.” “You do not understand.” Kieran was shaking his head. A lock of hair fell across his forehead, silver darkening to blue. “When I was in the Hunt, I was a straw floating in wind or water. All I could do was clutch at other straws. I believed I had no effect in the world. That I mattered so little I could neither help nor harm.” He tensed his hands into fists. “Now I have felt the pain that was Emma’s and the sorrow that was Mark’s, the pain of everyone I harmed in the Hunt, even Erec’s pain as he died. But how could I have been the person who caused such pain when I am someone whose actions are written in water?” His eyes, black and silver, were haunted. Diego said, “Kieran. You have not only caused pain in this world. It is just that the pool does not show good, only hurt.” “How do you know?” Kieran cried. “We are but barely acquainted, you and I—”

“Because of Cristina,” said Diego. “Cristina had faith in you. True faith, unblemished and unbroken. Why do you think I agreed to hide you here? Because she believed you were good, and I believed in her.” He stopped before he could say too much, but Kieran had already winced at the mention of Cristina. His next question puzzled Diego. “How can I face her again?” he said.

“Do you care that much what she thinks?” Diego said. It hadn’t occurred to him that Kieran might. Surely he couldn’t know Cristina that well.

“More than you might imagine or guess,” Kieran said. “How did you ever face her again, after you engaged yourself to Zara and broke her heart?” “Really?” Diego was stung. “We need to bring this up now?”

Kieran looked at him with wild eyes. Diego sighed. “Yes, I disappointed Cristina and I lost her regard—you must understand what that is like. To have let down someone you loved. To have disappointed yourself.” “Maybe not exactly,” said Kieran, with a shadow of his old wryness. “Nobody calls me Perfect Kieran.” “I don’t call myself Perfect Diego!” Diego protested, feeling that the conversation had degenerated. “Nobody would call themselves that!” There was a noise at the door. Both of them turned, poised for danger, but as it swung open Diego was shocked to see Divya on the threshold.

She looked as if she’d been in a fight. Scratched and bloody, she held up the key. “I got it from Gladstone in the infirmary chaos,” she said. “I doubt we have much time before he notices it’s gone.” Diego stalked past her and opened the library door a crack. The corridor was empty. “What’s happening? Where’s Rayan?” “Trying to see what the others know, the ones who came from Alicante and aren’t in the Cohort. Everyone’s steles have been confiscated. Zara Portaled back to Idris right after you took Kieran away. And Gladstone’s in the infirmary with Samantha,” said Divya. “She won’t stop screaming.” She bit her lip. “It’s really bad.” Kieran had risen to his feet, though he was still using the tree to support himself. “You two should run,” he said. “Get out of here. It’s me they want, and you have put yourselves in enough danger on my account.” Divya gave him a wry look. “By the Angel, he’s all self-sacrificing now he fell in that pool. Faerie, you haven’t caused me any harm. We’re fine.” “I made you worry and feel fear,” said Kieran, gazing at her with a look both haunting and haunted. “You were afraid of what might happen to you and the others, retaliation for hiding me. You feared for Rayan.” He glanced at Diego. “And you—” “No.” Diego held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear about my feelings.”

“Said every man ever,” Divya quipped, but her eyes were overly bright. “Look, there’s more I need to tell you. And you should both hear it. I heard Zara laughing with Gladstone in the infirmary before they brought Samantha in. The Inquisitor sent two Shadowhunters on a suicide mission to Faerie to find the Black Volume.” “Jace and Clary?” said Diego, puzzled. “That’s not a suicide mission.”

“Not them. Emma and Julian Blackthorn. They left yesterday.”

“They would never agree to a suicide mission,” said Kieran. “Julian would not leave his brothers and sisters. Never.” “They don’t know it’s a suicide mission—Dearborn sent someone to follow them and kill them before they can come back.” “That’s against the Law.” It was all Diego could think of to say, and he immediately felt ridiculous.

“Horace Dearborn doesn’t care about your Laws,” said Kieran. His cheeks were flushed darkly with color. “He cares for nothing beyond furthering his own purpose. To him a Nephilim who doesn’t agree with him is no better than a Downworlder. They are all vermin to be destroyed.” “Kieran’s right,” said Divya. “He’s the Inquisitor, Diego. He’s going to change all the Laws—change them so he can do whatever he wants.” “We must go,” said Kieran. “There is not a moment to lose. We must tell the Blackthorns—Mark and Cristina—” “All the exits are guarded,” said Divya. “I’m not saying it’s impossible, but we’re going to need Rayan and Gen and the others. We can’t fight the Cohort alone. Especially not without steles. We’ll need to plan—” “We do not have time to plan—” Kieran began.

Diego thought suddenly of Cristina, of the way she’d written about Kieran in her letter asking Diego to hide him. The fascination she’d had with faeries even when she was a little girl, the way she’d cried when the Cold Peace was passed, telling Diego over and over the faeries were good, their powers part of the blessed magic of the world.

“Kieran,” Diego said sharply. “You are a prince of Faerie. Be a prince of Faerie.”

Kieran gave him a wild, dark look. His breath was ragged. Divya glanced at Diego as if to say what are you doing? just as Kieran reached up to seize a branch of the tree.

He closed his black and silver eyes. His face was a pale mask. His jaw tightened even as the leaves on the tree began to rustle, as if in a high wind. It was as if the tree were calling out.

“What’s happening?” whispered Divya.

Light crackled up and down the tree—not lightning, but pure bright sparks. It circled Kieran as if he were outlined in gold paint. His hair had turned an odd gold-green, something Diego had never seen before.

“Kieran—” Diego started.

Kieran threw his hands up. His eyes were still closed; words poured from his mouth, a language Diego had never heard. He wished Cristina were here. Cristina could translate. Kieran was shouting; Diego thought he heard the word “Windspear” repeated.

Windspear? thought Diego. Isn’t that—?

“There are people coming!” Divya cried. She ran to the door of the library, slammed it closed, and locked it, but she was shaking her head. “There are way too many of them. Diego—” The glass ceiling exploded. Both Diego and Divya gasped.

A white horse crashed through the ceiling. A flying white horse, proud and beautiful. Glass sprayed and Diego dived under a nearby table, dragging Divya with him. Kieran opened his eyes; he reached up in welcome as Windspear sliced through the air, swift as an arrow, light as thistledown.

“By the Angel,” Divya whispered. “God, I used to love ponies when I was little.”

Kieran vaulted himself up onto Windspear’s back. His hair had gone back to its more normal blue-black, but he was still crackling with energy. His hands threw sparks as he moved. He reached out toward Diego, who scrambled out from under the table, Divya beside him, their boots crunching on shattered glass.

“Come with me,” Kieran called. The room was full of wind and cold, the smell of the Carpathians and lake water. Above them, the broken window opened out onto a sky full of stars. “You will not be safe here.” But Divya shook her head. Crushing down the longing to escape that rose inside him, Diego did the same. “We will stay and fight,” he called. “We are Shadowhunters. We cannot all flee and leave only the worst of us to seize power. We must resist.” Kieran hesitated, just as the library door burst open. Gladstone and a dozen Cohort members swarmed in, their eyes widening.

“Stop him!” Gladstone shouted, throwing an arm out toward Kieran. “Manuel—Anush—”

“Kieran, go!” Diego roared, and Kieran seized Windspear’s mane; they exploded into the air before Manuel could do more than take a step forward. Diego thought he saw Kieran look back at him once before Windspear cleared the ceiling and they shimmered into a white streak across the sky.

Diego heard someone step up behind him. Across the room, Divya was looking at him. There were tears in her eyes. Behind her, her cousin Anush was cuffing her hands.

“You’re going to be so sorry you did this,” Manuel said, his delighted whisper rasping in Diego’s ear. “So very sorry, Rocio Rosales.” And then there was only darkness.

Emma was taken up behind Nene on her gray palfrey, while Julian rode behind Fergus, so there was no chance to talk. Frustration churned in Emma as they rode along under the green trees, the golden spears of light that drove down through the gaps in the trees turning to a deeper bronze as the day wore on.

She wanted to talk to Julian, wanted to make a plan for what they were going to do when they reached the Seelie Court. What would they say to the Queen? How would they get out again? What did they want from her?

But part of her was also too angry to talk to Julian—how dare he keep a massive part of their plan from her? Let her walk blind into Faerie, believing they had one mission when apparently they had another? And a smaller, colder part of her said: The only reason he wouldn’t tell you was if he knew you’d refuse to go along with his plan. Whatever the plan was, Emma wasn’t going to like it.

And down even deeper, where she barely had the words for what she felt, she knew that if it weren’t for the spell, Julian would never have done this, because she had never been one of the people Julian manipulated and lied to. She was family, inside the protected circle, and because of that she had forgiven the lies, the plans, because they hadn’t been directed at her. They’d been directed at the enemies of the family. The Julian who had to lie and manipulate was a persona created by a frightened child to protect the people he loved. But what if the spell had made the persona real? What if that was who Julian was now?

They had left the forest behind and were in a place of green fields that showed no sign of habitation. Just waving green grass for miles, starred with patches of blue and purple flowers, and dim violet mountains in the distance. A hill rose up in front of them like a green tidal wave, and Emma chanced a glance at Julian as the front of the hill rose like a portcullis, revealing a massive marble entryway.

Things in Faerie rarely looked the same twice, Emma knew; the last time they’d entered the Seelie Court through a hill, they’d found themselves in a narrow corridor. Now they rode under an elegant bronze gate boasting scrollwork of prancing horses. Nene and Fergus dismounted, and it was only after Emma had slid to the marble floor that she saw that both horses’ reins had been taken up by diminutive fluttering faeries with outspread wings of blue and red and gold.

The horses clopped off, led by the buzzing pixies. “I could use one of those to do my hair in the morning,” said Emma to Nene, who gave her an unreadable smile. It was unnerving how much Nene looked like Mark—the same curling white-blond hair and narrow bones.

Fergus narrowed his eyes. “My son is married to a diminutive pixie,” he said. “Please do not ask any intrusive questions about it.” Julian raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He and Emma fell into step beside each other as they followed Nene and Fergus from the marble-clad room into an earth-packed corridor that twisted into the hill.

“I guess everything went according to your plan, didn’t it,” Emma said coldly, not looking at Julian. She could feel him beside her, though, the familiar warmth and shape of him. Her parabatai, who she would have known deafened and blindfolded. “If you’re lying about having the Black Volume, it’s going to go badly for both of us.” “I’m not lying,” he said. “There was a copy shop near the London Institute. You’ll see.”

“We weren’t supposed to leave the Institute, Julian—”

“This was the best option,” said Julian. “You may be too sentimental to see it clearly, but this gets us closest to what we want.” “How does it do that?” Emma hissed. “What’s the point of coming to the Seelie Queen? We can’t trust her, any more than we can trust Horace or Annabel.” Julian’s eyes glittered like the precious stones set into the walls of the long tunnel. They gleamed in stripes of jasper and quartz. The ground underfoot had become polished tile, a milky green-white. “Not trusting the Queen is part of my plan.” Emma wanted to kick a wall. “You shouldn’t have a plan that includes the Queen at all, don’t you get it? We’re all dealing with the Cold Peace because of her treachery.” “Such anti-faerie sentiments,” Julian said, ducking under a gray curtain of lace. “I’m surprised at you.” Emma stalked after him. “It’s nothing to do with faeries in general. But the Queen is a no-holds-barred bit—why hello, Your Majesty!” Oh crap. It seemed that the gray curtain they’d passed through was the entrance to the Queen’s Court. The Queen herself was seated in the middle of the room, on her throne, regarding Emma coldly.

The chamber looked as it had before, as if a fire had swept through the room years ago and no one had truly cleaned up the damage. The floor was blackened, cracked marble. The Queen’s throne was tarnished bronze, the back of it rising high above her head in a fan-shaped scroll. The walls were gouged here and there, as if a massive beast had dug out clots of marble with its claws.

The Queen was flame and bone. Her bony clavicles rose from the bodice of her intricately figured blue-and-gold dress; her long bare arms were thin as sticks. All around her tumbled her rich, deep red hair in thick waves of blood and fire. From her narrow white face, blue eyes blazed like gas flames.

Emma cleared her throat. “The Queen is a no-holds-barred bit of sunshine,” she said. “That’s what I was going to say.” “You will not greet me in that informal manner, Emma Carstairs,” she said. “Do you understand?” “They were waylaid on the road and attacked,” said Nene. “We sent pixie messengers ahead to tell you—” “I heard,” said the Queen. “That does not excuse rudeness.”

“I think the blond one was about to call the Queen a besom,” Fergus murmured to Nene, who looked as exasperated as faerie courtiers ever looked.

“So true,” said Emma.

“Kneel,” snapped the Queen. “Kneel, Emma Carstairs and Julian Blackthorn, and show proper respect.” Emma felt her chin go up as if it had been pulled on a string. “We are Nephilim,” she said. “We do not kneel.” “Because once the Nephilim were giants on earth, with the strength of a thousand men?” The Queen’s tone was gently mocking. “How the mighty have fallen.” Julian took a step toward the throne. The Queen’s eyes raked him up and down, assessing, measuring. “Would you rather an empty gesture or something you truly want?” he asked.

The Queen’s blue eyes flashed. “You are suggesting you have something I truly want? Think carefully. It is not easy to guess what a monarch desires.” “I have the Black Volume of the Dead,” Julian said.

The Queen laughed. “I had heard you had lost that,” she said. “Along with the life of your sister.” Julian whitened, but his expression didn’t change. “You never specified which copy of the Black Volume you wanted.” As the Queen and Emma both stared, he reached into his pack and pulled out a bound white manuscript. Holes were punched into the left side, the whole thing held together with thick plastic ties.

The Queen sat back, her flame-red hair brilliant against the dark metal of her throne. “That is not the Black Volume.” “I think you will find if you examine the pages that it is,” said Julian. “A book is the words it contains, nothing more. I took photos of every page of the Black Volume with my phone and had it printed and bound at a copy shop.” The Queen tilted her head, and the thin gold circle binding her brow flashed. “I do not understand the words of your mortal spells and rituals,” she said. Her voice had risen to a sharp pitch. Behind her sometimes mocking, sometimes laughing eyes, Emma thought she caught a glimpse of the true Queen, and what would happen if one crossed her, and she felt chilled. “I will not be tricked or mocked, Julian Blackthorn, and I do not trust your mischief. Nene, take the book from him and examine it!” Nene stepped forward and held out her hand. In the shadowy corners of the room, there was movement; Emma realized the walls were lined with faerie guards in gray uniforms. No wonder they’d allowed her and Julian to enter still carrying their weapons. There must be fifty guards here, and more in the tunnels.

Let Nene have the book, Julian, she thought, and indeed, he handed it over without a murmur. He watched calmly as Nene looked it over, her eyes flicking over the pages. At last she said, “This was made by a very skilled calligrapher. The brushstrokes are exactly as I remember.” “A skilled calligrapher named OfficeMax,” Julian muttered, but Emma didn’t smile at him.

The Queen was silent for a long time. The tapping of her slipper-shod foot was the only sound in the room as they all waited for her to speak. At last she said, “This is not the first time you have presented me with a perplexing issue, Julian Blackthorn, and I suspect it will not be the last.” “It shouldn’t be perplexing,” said Julian. “It’s the Black Volume. And you said if we gave you the Black Volume, you would help us.” “Not quite,” said the Queen. “I recall making promises, but some may no longer be relevant.” “I am asking you to remember that you promised us aid,” said Julian. “I am asking you to help us find Annabel Blackthorn here in Faerie.” “We’re already here to find her,” Emma said. “We don’t need this—this—person’s help.” She glared at the Queen.

“We have a map that barely works,” said Julian. “The Queen will have spies all over Faerie. It could take us weeks to find Annabel. We could wander in Faerie forever while our food runs out. The Queen could lead us right to her. Nothing happens in this realm she doesn’t know about.” The Queen smirked. “And what do you want of Annabel when you find her? The second Black Volume?” “Yes,” said Julian. “You can keep this copy. I need to take the original Black Volume back with me to Idris to prove to the Clave that it’s no longer in the hands of Annabel Blackthorn.” He paused. “And I want revenge. Pure and simple revenge.” “There is nothing simple about vengeance, and nothing pure,” said the Queen, but her eyes glittered with interest.

If the Queen knew so much, why didn’t she just go kill Annabel and take the Black Volume? Emma wondered. Because of the involvement of the Unseelie Court? But she kept her mouth shut—it was clear she and Julian were in no way in agreement on the Queen.

“Before, you wished for an army,” said the Queen. “Now you only want me to find Annabel for you?” “It’s a better bargain for you,” said Julian, and Emma noticed that he hadn’t said “yes.” He wanted more than this from the Queen.

“Perhaps, but I will not be the final word on this volume’s merit,” said the Queen. “I must have an expert agree first. And you must remain in the Court until that is done.” “No!” Emma said. “We will not stay an unspecified amount of time in Faerie.” She spun on Julian. “That’s how they get you! Unspecified amounts of time!” “I will watch over the two of you,” said Nene unexpectedly. “For the sake of Mark. I will watch over you and make sure no harm comes to you.” The Queen shot Nene an unfriendly look before returning her gaze to Emma and Julian. “What do you say?” “I’m not sure,” Julian said. “We paid a high price for this book in blood and loss. To be told to wait—” “Oh, very well,” said the Queen, and in her eyes Emma saw an odd light of eagerness. Perhaps she was more desperate for the book than Emma had thought? “As a sign of my good faith, I will give you part of what I promised. I will tell you, Julian, how certain bonds might be broken. But I will not tell her.” She gestured at Emma. “That was not part of the bargain.” Emma heard him inhale sharply. Julian’s feelings for her might be deadened, she thought, but for whatever reason he still wanted this desperately. The knowledge of how their bond might be dissolved. Perhaps it was an atavistic want, as he had described his desire to protect Ty—a deep-rooted need for survival?

“Nene,” said the Queen. “Please escort Emma to the room she inhabited the last time she was a guest of the Court.” Fergus groaned. It had been his bedroom Emma and Julian had slept in previously.

Nene approached the Queen, placed the copy of the Black Volume at her feet, and backed away to stand at Emma’s side.

The Queen smiled with her red lips. “Julian and I will remain here, and speak in private,” she said. “Guards, you may leave me. Leave us.” “I don’t need to,” Emma said. “I know what this is about. Breaking all parabatai bonds. We don’t need to hear about it. It’s not going to happen.” The Queen’s gaze was scornful. “Little fool,” she said. “You probably think you are protecting something sacred. Something good.” “I know it’s something you wouldn’t understand,” Emma said.

“What would you say,” said the Queen, “if I said to you: There is a corruption at the heart of the bond of parabatai. A poison. A darkness in it that mirrors its goodness. There is a reason parabatai cannot fall in love, and it is monstrous beyond all you could imagine.” Her mouth shimmered like a poisoned apple as she smiled. “The parabatai rune was not given to you by the Angel but by men, and men are flawed. David the Silent and Jonathan Shadowhunter created the rune and the ceremony. Do you imagine that carries no consequences?” It was true, and Emma knew it. The parabatai rune was not in the Gray Book. But neither was the Alliance rune Clary had created, and that was regarded as a universal good.

The Queen was twisting the truth to suit herself, as she always did. Her eyes, fixed on Emma’s, were shards of blue ice. “I see you do not understand,” she said. “But you will.” Before Emma could protest, Nene took her arm. “Come,” she murmured. “While the Queen is still in a good mood.” Emma glanced at Julian. He hadn’t moved from where he was, his back rigid, his gaze fixed firmly on the Queen. Emma knew she should say something. Protest, tell him not to listen to the Queen’s trickster words, tell him that there was no way, no matter what was at stake, that they could justify the shattering of every parabatai bond in the world.

Even if it would free them. Even if it would give Julian back to her.

She couldn’t force the words out. She walked out of the Queen’s chamber beside Nene without another word.