She broke off, then, as Mark went white in the shadows. "What did you say?"
Cristina put her hand to her mouth. The fact of Emma and Julian's feelings for each other was so rooted in what she knew about them that it was hard to remember others didn't know. It was so clear in their every word and gesture, even now; how could Mark not know?
"But they're parabatai," he said, bewildered. "It's illegal. The punishment--Julian wouldn't. He just wouldn't."
"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. I was just guessing--"
"You weren't guessing," Mark said, and turned away from her, shoving his way out through the branches of the trees.
Cristina went after him. He had to understand he couldn't say anything to Julian. Her betrayal weighted her heart like a stone, her sense of humiliation forgotten in her fear for Emma, her realization of what she'd done. She pushed through the tree branches, the dry-edged leaves scratching at her skin. A moment later, she was outside on the green hill, and she saw Julian.
*
The music woke Jules, the music and an enveloping sense of warmth. He hadn't been warm in so long, not even at night, bundled in blankets.
He blinked his eyes open. He could hear music in the distance, weaving feathery tendrils across the sky. He turned his head to the side and saw with a jolt of familiarity Emma beside him, her head on her jacket. Their hands were clasped on the grass between them, his tanned fingers wrapped tightly around her smaller ones.
He drew his hand back fast, his heart pounding, and scrambled to his feet. He wondered if he'd reached for her in his sleep, or had she reached for him? No, she wouldn't have reached for him. She had Mark. She might have kissed him, Julian, but it was Mark's name she'd said.
He'd thought he would be all right, sleeping this close to her, but apparently he'd been wrong. His hand still felt as if it were burning, but the rest of his body was cold again. Emma murmured and turned, her blond hair falling over her hand, now curled palm-up on the grass as if she were reaching out for him.
He couldn't stand it. He seized his jacket up off the ground, shrugged it on, and went to look out from the hill. Maybe he could tell how close they were to the foot of the mountains. How long it would take them to reach the Unseelie Court and end this insane mission. Not that he blamed Mark; he didn't. Kieran was like family to Mark, and Julian understood family better than he understood almost anything else.
But he was already worried about the children at the Institute, whether they would be furious, panicked, unforgiving. He'd never left them before. Never.
The wind changed and the music picked up. Julian found himself at the edge of the hill looking down at a vista of green grass, dotted here and there with copses of trees that swept down to a cleared space where a blur of color and movement was visible.
Dancers. They were moving in time to the thrum of a music that seemed to well up from inside the earth. It was insistent, demanding. It called to you to join it, to be swept up and carried the way that a wave might carry you from sea to shore.
Julian felt the pull, though it was distant enough not to be uncomfortable. His fingers ached for his paintbrushes, though. Everywhere he looked he saw an intensity of color and movement that made him wish he was in his studio in front of his easel. He felt as if he were looking at pictures where the colors had been adjusted for maximum saturation. The leaves and grass were intently, almost poisonously green. Fruit was brighter than jewelry. The birds that dipped and dove through the air had plumage so wildly colorful it made Julian wonder if nothing here hunted them--if they had no other purpose but beauty and display.
"What's wrong?" He turned around and saw her just behind him on the ridge of the hill. Emma. Her long hair untied and flying around her like a sheet of metal hammered thin. His heart lurched, feeling a pull far more insistent than that of faerie music.
"Nothing." His voice came out rougher than he'd intended. "Just looking for Mark and Cristina. Once I find them, we should go. We've got a lot more walking to do."
She moved toward him, her expression wistful. The sun was raying down through the clouds, lighting her hair to rich waves of saffron. Julian clenched his hand tightly, refusing to let himself raise his fingers, to bury them in the pale hair that Emma usually undid only at night. That spoke to Julian of the moments of peace between twilight and nightfall when the children were asleep and he was alone with Emma, moments of soft speech and intimacy that far predated any realization on his part that they were anything more than parabatai. In the curve of her sleeping face, in the fall of her hair, in the shadows of her lashes against her cheeks, was a peace he had only rarely known.
"Do you hear the music?" she asked, taking a step closer. Close enough to touch. Julian wondered if this was how drug addicts felt. Wanting what they knew they shouldn't have. Thinking, Just this once won't matter.
"Emma, don't," he said. He didn't know what he was asking, exactly. Don't be close to me, I can't bear it. Don't look at me like that. Don't be everything I want and can't have. Don't make me forget you're Mark's and anyway you could never be mine.
"Please," she said. She looked at him with wide, pained eyes. "Please, I need . . ."
The part of Julian that could never withstand being needed unlocked his clenched hands, his braced feet. He was inside the sphere of her presence in seconds, their bodies almost colliding. He put a hand against her cheek. She wasn't wearing Cortana, he noticed with a distant puzzlement. Why had she left it behind?
Her eyes flashed. She raised herself onto her toes, tilting up her face. Her lips moved, but he couldn't hear what she was saying over the roaring in his own ears. He remembered being knocked down by a wave once, pressed to the bottom of the ocean, breathless and unable to get up. There had been a terror in it, but also a sense of letting go: Something more powerful was carrying him, and he no longer needed to fight.
Her arms were around his neck, her lips on his, and he let go, surrendering. His whole body contracted, his heart racing, exploding, veins thrumming with blood and energy. He caught her up against him, small and strong in his arms. He gasped, unable to breathe, tasting the sweet-sharpness of blood.
But not Emma. He couldn't taste Emma, the familiarity of her, and the scent of her was different too. Gone was the sweetness of sun-warmed skin, of the herbs in her soap and shampoo, the scent of gear and gold and girl.
You didn't grow up with someone, dream of them, let them shape your soul and put their fingerprints on your heart, and not know when the person you were kissing wasn't them. Julian yanked himself away, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. Blood smeared his knuckles.
He was looking at a faerie woman, her skin smooth and pale, an unmarked, unwrinkled canvas. She was grinning, her lips red. Her hair was the color of cobwebs--it was cobwebs, gray and fine and drifting. She could have been any age at all. Her only clothes were a ragged black shift. She was beautiful and also hideous.
"You delight me, Shadowhunter," she crooned. "Will you not come back to my arms for more kisses?"
She reached out. Julian stumbled back. He had never in his life kissed anyone but Emma; he felt sick now, in his heart and guts. He wanted to reach for a seraph blade, to burn the air between them, to feel the familiar heat race up his arm and through his veins and cauterize his nausea.
His hand had only just closed around the hilt of the blade when he remembered: It wouldn't work here.
"Leave him alone!" someone shouted. "Get away from my brother, leanansidhe!"
It was Mark. He was emerging from a copse of trees with Cristina just behind him. There was a dagger in his hand.
The faerie woman laughed. "Your weapons will not work in this realm, Shadowhunter."
There was a click, and Cristina's folding knife bloomed open in her hand. "Come and speak your words of challenge to my blade, barrow-woman."
The faerie pulled back with a hiss, and Julian saw his own blood on her teeth. He felt light-headed with sickness and anger. She whirled and w
as gone in a moment, a gray-black blur racing down the hill.
The music had stopped. The dancers, too, had begun to scatter: The sun was setting, the shadows thick across the ground. Whatever kind of revel it had been, it was one that apparently was not friendly to nightfall.
"Julian, brother." Mark hurried forward, his eyes concerned. "You look ill--sit down, drink some water--"
A soft whistle came from farther up the hill. Julian turned. Emma was standing on the ridge, buckling on Cortana. He saw the relief on her face as she caught sight of them.
"I wondered where you'd gone," she said, hurrying down the hill. Her smile as she looked at them all was hopeful. "I was worried you'd eaten faerie fruit and were running naked around the greensward."
"No nudity," said Julian. "No greensward."
Emma tightened the strap on Cortana. Her hair had been pulled back into a long braid, only a few pale tendrils escaping. She looked around at their tense faces, her brown eyes wide. "Is everything okay?"
Julian could still feel the fingerprints of the leanansidhe all over him. He knew what leanansidhe were--wild faeries who took the shape of whatever you wanted to see, seduced you, and fed on your blood and skin.
At least he was the only one who would have seen Emma. Mark and Cristina would have seen the leanansidhe in her true form. That was one humiliation and danger spared them all.
"Everything's fine," he said. "We'd better get going. The stars are just coming out, and we've got a long way still to go."
*
"All right," Livvy said, pausing in front of a narrow wooden door. It didn't look much like the rest of the Institute, glass and metal and modernity. It seemed like a warning. "Here we go."
She didn't look eager.
They'd decided--with Kit mostly as silent onlooker--to go directly to Arthur Blackthorn's office. Even if it was two in the morning, even if he didn't want to be bothered with Centurion business, he needed to know what Zara was planning.
She was after the Institute, Livvy had explained as they scrambled back along the beach and rocks to where they'd started. Surely that's why she'd said what she had about Arthur--clearly she'd tell any lie.
Kit had never thought about Institutes much--they'd always struck him as something like police stations, buzzy hives of Shadowhunters meant to keep an eye on specific locations. It seemed they were more like small city-states: in charge of a certain area, but run by a family appointed by the Council in Idris.
"There's seriously an entire private country that's just Shadowhunters?" Kit demanded as they headed up the road to the Institute, rising like a shadow against the mountains behind it.
"Yes," said Livvy tersely. In other words, Shut up and listen. Kit had the feeling she was processing what was happening by explaining it to him. He shut up and let her.
An Institute was run by a head, whose family lived with him or her; they also housed families who'd lost members, or Nephilim orphans--of whom there were many. The head of an Institute had significant power: Most Consuls were chosen from that pool, and they could propose new Laws, which would be passed if a vote went their way.
All Institutes were just as empty as the Los Angeles one. In fact, it was unusually crowded at the moment, due to the Centurion presence. They were meant to be that way, in case they needed to house a battalion of Shadowhunters at any moment. There was no staff, as there was no need of one: Shadowhunters who worked for the Institute, called the Conclave, were spread out all over the city in their own houses.
Not that there were many of them either, Livvy added grimly. So many had died in the war five years ago. But if Zara's father were to become the head of the Los Angeles Institute, not only would he be able to propose his bigoted Law, but the Blackthorns would be thrown out on their ears with nowhere to go but Idris.
"Is Idris so bad?" Kit had asked as they went up the stairs. Not that he wanted to be shipped off to Idris. He was just getting used to the Institute. Not that he'd want to stay in it if Zara's father took over--not if he was anything like Zara.
Livvy glanced at Ty, who hadn't interrupted her during her tirade. "Idris is fine. Great, even. But this is where we live."
They'd reached the door to Arthur's office then, and everything had gone silent. Kit wondered if he should just lead the way. He didn't care particularly if he annoyed Arthur Blackthorn or not.
Ty looked at the door with troubled eyes. "We're not supposed to bother Uncle Arthur. We promised Jules."
"We have to," Livvy said simply, and pushed the door open.
A narrow set of stairs led to a shadowy room under the eaves of the house. There was a cluster of desks, each with a lamp on it--so many lamps the room was filled with brilliance. Every book, every piece of paper with scrawled writing, every plate with half-eaten food on it, was harshly illuminated.
A man sat at one of the desks. He wore a long bathrobe over a ragged sweater and jeans; his feet were bare. The robe had probably once been blue, but was now a sort of dirty white from many washings. He was clearly a Blackthorn--his mostly gray hair curled like Julian's did, and his eyes were a brilliant blue-green.
They went past Livvy and Ty and fastened on Kit.
"Stephen," he said, and dropped the pen he was holding. It hit the ground, spilling ink in a dark pool over the floorboards.
Livvy's mouth was partly open. Ty was pressed against the wall. "Uncle Arthur, that's Kit," said Livvy. "Kit Herondale."
Arthur chuckled dryly. "Herondale, indeed," he said. His eyes seemed to burn: There was a look of sickness in them, like the heat of a fever. He rose to his feet and came over to Kit, staring down into his face. "Why did you follow Valentine?" he said. "You, who had everything? 'Yea, is not even Apollo, with hair and harpstring of gold, a bitter God to follow, a beautiful God to behold?' " He smelled bitter, of old coffee. Kit took a step back. "What kind of Herondale will you be?" Arthur whispered. "William or Tobias? Stephen or Jace? Beautiful, bitter, or both?"
"Uncle," said Ty. He pitched his voice loud, though it shook slightly. "We need to talk to you. About the Centurions. They want to take the Institute. They don't want you to be head of it anymore."
Arthur whirled on Ty with a fierce look--almost a glare, but not quite. Then he began to laugh. "Is that true? Is it?" he demanded. The laughter built and seemed to break in almost a sob. He whirled around and sat heavily down in his desk chair. "What a joke," he said savagely.
"It's not a joke," Livvy began.
"They want to take the Institute from me," Arthur said. "As if I hold it! I've never run an Institute in my life, children. He does everything--writes the correspondence, plans the meetings, speaks with the Council."
"Who does everything?" said Kit, though he knew he had no place in the conversation.
"Julian." The voice was Diana's; she was standing at the top of the attic stairs, looking around the room as if the brightness of the light surprised her. Her expression was resigned. "He means Julian."
10
SO WILLS ITS KING
They were in Diana's office. Through the window, the ocean looked like rippled aluminum, illuminated by black light.
"I'm sorry you had to learn this about your uncle," said Diana. She was leaning back against her desk. She wore jeans and a sweater but still looked immaculate. Her hair was swept back into a mass of curls clipped by a leather barrette. "I had hoped--Julian had hoped--that you'd never know."
Kit was leaning against the far wall; Ty and Livvy sat on Diana's desk. Both of them looked stunned, as if they were recovering from having the wind knocked out of them. Kit had never been more conscious that they were twins, despite the difference in their coloring.
"So all these years it's been Julian," said Livvy. "Running the Institute. Doing everything. Covering up for Arthur."
Kit thought of his drive with Julian to the Shadow Market. He hadn't spent that much time with the second-oldest Blackthorn boy, but Julian had always seemed terrifyingly adult to him, as if he were years older than h
is calendar age.
"We should have guessed." Ty's hand twisted and untwisted the slim white cords of the headphones looped around his neck. "I should have figured it out."
"We don't see the things that are closest to us," said Diana. "It's the nature of people."
"But Jules," Livvy whispered. "He was only twelve. It must have been so hard on him."
Her face shone. For a moment, Kit thought it was reflected light from the windows. Then he realized--it was tears.
"He always loved you so much," said Diana. "It was what he wanted to do."
"We need him here," said Ty. "We need him here now."
"I should go," Kit said. He had never felt so uncomfortable. Well, maybe not never--there had been the incident with the five drunk werewolves and the cage of newts at the Shadow Market--but rarely.
Livvy looked up, her tearstained face baleful. "No, you shouldn't. You need to stay here and help us explain to Diana about Zara."
"I didn't understand half of what she said," Kit protested. "About Institute heads, and registries--"
Ty took a deep breath. "I'll explain," he said. The recitation of what had happened seemed to calm him down: the regular march of facts, one after another. When he was done, Diana crossed the room and double-locked the door.
"Do either of the rest of you remember anything else?" Diana asked, turning back to them.
"One thing," said Kit, surprised he actually had something to contribute. "Zara said the next Council meeting was going to be soon."
"I assume that's the one where they tell everyone about Arthur," said Livvy. "And make their play for the Institute."
"The Cohort is a powerful faction inside the Clave," said Diana. "They're a nasty bunch. They believe in interrogating any Downworlders they find breaking the Accords with torture. They support the Cold Peace unconditionally. If I'd known Zara's father was one of them . . ." She shook her head.
"Zara can't have the Institute," said Livvy. "She can't. This is our home."
"She doesn't care about the Institute," said Kit. "She and her father want the power it can give." He thought of the Downworlders he knew at the Shadow Market, thought of them rounded up, forced to wear some kind of signs, branded or stamped with identification numbers . . . .
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