"Blackthorns," said Ty, with a dazzling smile, and Kit knew, in that instant, that whatever he'd been telling himself about running away for the past few days had been a lie. And maybe it had been that lie that Livvy had been responding to, when she'd snapped at him outside the magic store that day--the kernel inside his own heart that had told him he might still be leaving.
But he knew now that he could reassure her. He wasn't leaving the Shadowhunters. He wasn't going anywhere. Because where the Blackthorns were, was his home now.
22
THE MOST UNHOLY
When Emma woke the next morning, she found she had managed not to tie herself in a knot around Julian while sleeping. Progress. Maybe because she'd spent all night having terrible dreams where she saw her father again, and he peeled off his face to reveal that he was Sebastian Morgenstern underneath.
"Luke, I am your father," she muttered, and heard Julian laugh softly. She staggered off to find her gear so she wouldn't have to watch him getting up adorably sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired. She changed in the office while Julian showered and dressed; they met up for a quick breakfast of toast and juice, and were off to find Annabel.
It was nearly noon and the sun was high in the sky by the time they made it to Porthallow Church--apparently what was close for piskies wasn't what humans would call nearby. Though Emma kept hearing the high voice of the piskie in her head. Killing close, it had said. Whatever that meant, she didn't like the sound of it.
The church had been built on a cliff over a headland. The sea spread out in the distance, a carpet of matte blue. Clouds brushstroked across the sky, like a ball of cotton someone had picked apart and scattered. The air was full of the hum of bees and the scent of late wildflowers.
The area around the church was overgrown, but the building itself was in decent shape despite having been abandoned. The windows had been carefully boarded up, and a KEEP OUT: PRIVATE PROPERTY: YOU ARE TRESPASSING sign was nailed to the front door. Some small distance from the church was a little graveyard, its gray, rain-washed tombstones barely visible among the long grass. The church's single square tower was cast in lonely relief against the sky. Emma adjusted Cortana on her back and glanced over at Julian, who was frowning down at her phone.
"What are you looking at?" she asked.
"Wikipedia. 'Porthallow Church is located above the sea, on the cliff-top at Talland near Polperro in Cornwall. The altar of the church is said to date from the time of King Mark, of Tristan and Isolde fame, and was built at the junction of ley lines.' "
"Wikipedia knows about ley lines?" Emma took her phone back.
"Wikipedia knows about everything. It might be run by warlocks."
"You think that's what they do all day in the Spiral Labyrinth? Run Wikipedia?"
"I admit it seems like a letdown."
Tucking the phone in her pocket, Emma indicated the church. "So this is another convergence?"
Julian shook his head. "A convergence is where every ley line in the area links up. This is a junction--two ley lines crossing. Still a powerful place." In the bright sunshine he drew a seraph blade from his belt, holding it against his side as they approached the church entrance.
"Do you know what you're going to say to Annabel?" Emma whispered.
"Not a clue," Julian said. "I guess I'll--" He broke off. There was something in his eyes: a troubled look.
"Is something wrong?" Emma asked.
They'd reached the church doors. "No," Julian said, after a long moment, and though Emma could tell he didn't mean it, she let it slide. She drew Cortana from her back, just in case.
Julian shouldered the doors open. The small lock holding them shut burst apart, and they were inside, Julian a few steps ahead of Emma. It was pitch-black inside the abandoned church. "Arariel," he murmured, and his seraph blade lit like a small bonfire, illuminating the interior.
A stone arcade ran along one side of the church, the pews nestled between the arches. The stone was carved with delicate designs of leaves. The nave and the transept, where the altar was usually located, were deep in shadow.
Emma heard Julian draw in his breath. "This is where Malcolm raised Annabel," he said. "I remember it from the scrying glass. This is where Arthur died."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." Julian lowered his head. "Ave atque vale, Arthur Blackthorn." His voice was full of sorrow. "You died bravely and for your family."
"Jules . . ." She wanted to reach out and touch him, but he had already straightened up, any sorrow he felt cloaked beneath the mantle of being Nephilim.
"I don't know why Annabel would want to stay here," he said, sweeping the light of his seraph blade over the church's interior. It was thick with dust. "It can't be a spot with good memories for her."
"But if she's desperate for a hiding place . . ."
"Look." Julian indicated the altar, propped on a granite slab a few feet thick. It had a wooden top laid over the stone, and something flashed white against the wood. A folded piece of paper, pinned there by a knife.
Julian's name was scrawled on it in a feminine dark hand.
Emma ripped the paper away and handed it to Jules, who flicked it open quickly, holding it where they could both read by the light of Julian's blade.
Julian,
You may consider this in the nature of a test. If you are here, reading this note, you have failed it.
Emma heard Julian draw in his breath. They read on:
I told the piskies that I was living here, in the church. It is not true. I would not remain where so much blood has spilled. But I knew that you could not leave my whereabouts alone, that you would ask the piskies where I was, that you would search me out.
Though I had asked you not to.
Now you are here in this place. I wish you were not, for I was not the only thing that was raised by Malcolm Fade and your uncle's blood. But you had to see what the Black Volume can do.
--Annabel
Cristina was sitting in the embrasure of the library window, reading, when she glanced out the window and saw a familiar dark figure slipping through the front gates.
She'd been in the library for several hours, dutifully going through the books in the languages she knew best--Spanish, Ancient Greek, Old Castilian, and Aramaic--for mentions of the Black Volume. Not that she could concentrate.
Memories of the night before kept hitting her at odd moments, like when she was passing the sugar to Ty and nearly spilled it in his lap. Had she really kissed Mark? Danced with Kieran? Enjoyed dancing with Kieran?
No, she thought, she'd be truthful with herself: She had enjoyed it. It had been like riding with the Wild Hunt. She'd felt drawn out of her own body, spinning through the stars and clouds. It had been like the stories of revels her mother had told her when she was a child, where mortals had lost themselves in the dances of Faerie-kind, and died for the beautiful joy of it.
Of course, afterward they'd all simply gone back to their separate rooms--Kieran calmly, Mark and Cristina both looking shaken. And Cristina had lain there a long time, not sleeping, looking at the ceiling and wondering what she had gotten herself into.
She set down her book with a sigh. It didn't help that she was alone in the library--Magnus was in and out of the infirmary, where Mark was helping him set up equipment to mix the binding spell cure, and Dru was helping Alec look after the children in one of the spare rooms. Livvy, Ty, and Kit had gone to pick up the supplies from Hypatia Vex's shop. Bridget had been in and out with trays of sandwiches and tea, muttering that she was worked off her feet and that the house was more crowded than a train station. Kieran was . . . nowhere.
Cristina had grown used to a certain amount of controlled chaos in Los Angeles, but she found herself longing for the quiet of the Mexico City Institute, the silence of her mother's rose garden, and even the dreamy afternoons she'd spent with Diego and sometimes Jaime in the Bosque de Chapultepec.
And she missed Emma. Her thoughts were a whirl of confusion--everything
was--and she wanted Emma to talk to her, Emma to braid her hair and tell her stupid jokes and make her laugh. Maybe Emma would be able to make some sense out of what had happened the night before.
She reached for her phone, and then drew her hand back. She wasn't going to start texting Emma all her problems, not when they were in the middle of so much. She glanced resolutely out the window instead--and saw Kieran, crossing the courtyard.
He was all in black. She didn't know where he'd gotten the clothes, but they made him look like a slender shadow under the gray and rainy sky that had replaced the morning's blue. His hair was blue-black, his hands hidden by gloves.
There was no rule that Kieran wasn't supposed to leave the Institute, not really. But he hated the city, Mark had said. Cold iron and steel everywhere. And besides, they were meant to keep him safe with them, not let him slip away before he could testify in front of the Clave. Not let anything happen to him.
And maybe he was upset. Maybe he was angry at Mark, jealous, though he hadn't shown it the night before. She slid off the windowsill. Kieran was already slipping through the opening of the gate, into the rainy shadows beyond, where he seemed to flicker and vanish, as faeries did.
Cristina dashed out of the library. She thought she heard someone call after her as she ran down the hallway, but she didn't dare pause. Kieran was fast. She'd lose him.
There was no time to stop to put on a Soundless rune, no time to look for her stele. She hurried down the stairs and grabbed up a jacket hanging on a peg in the entryway. She slid her arms into it and ducked out into the courtyard.
A throb went through her wrist, a warning ache that she was leaving Mark behind. She ignored it, following Kieran through the gate.
Maybe he wasn't doing anything wrong, she told herself, trying to be fair. He wasn't a prisoner in the Institute. Maybe Mark knew about this.
Kieran was hurrying down the narrow street, slipping from shadow to shadow. There was something furtive about the way he moved. Cristina was sure of it.
She kept to the side of the road as she followed him. The streets were deserted, damp with a sprinkling of rain. Without a glamour rune, Cristina was intensely conscious of not being spotted by a mundane--her runes were very visible, and she couldn't be sure they wouldn't react in a way that would tip Kieran off.
She worried that eventually they'd reach a busier street, and she'd be seen. Her arm was more than throbbing now; a sharp pain was lancing through it, as if a steel wire was being tightened around her wrist.
Yet as Kieran moved deeper into the heart of the city, the streets seemed to grow narrower rather than wider. The electric lights dimmed. The small iron fences around the trees vanished, and the branches above her began to reach together across the roads, forming a green canopy.
Kieran walked ahead of her steadily, a shadow among shadows.
Finally they reached a square of brick buildings facing inward, their fronts covered in ivy and green trellises. In the center of the square was a small patch of ordinary city greenery: a few trees, flat, well-cared-for grass, and a stone fountain in the middle. The faint splashing of water was audible as Cristina slipped behind a tree, pressing herself against the bark, and peered around the side at Kieran.
He had paused by the fountain, and a figure in a green cloak was approaching him, leisurely, from the far side of the small park. His face was familiar: He had soft brown skin and eyes that gleamed even in the darkness. His hands were long and slender; under the cloak, he wore a doublet worked with the broken crown of the Unseelie Court. It was Adaon.
"Kieran," he said wearily. "Why did you summon me?"
Kieran gave a small bow. Cristina could sense that he was nervous. It was surprising, that she knew Kieran enough to know when he was nervous. She would have said he was a near stranger.
"Adaon, my brother," he said. "I need your help. I need what you know of spells."
Kieran's brother arched an eyebrow. "I would not set to casting spells in the mundane world, were I you, little dark one. You are among Nephilim, and they will disapprove, as will the warlocks and witches of this place."
"I do not want to cast a spell. I want to undo one. A binding spell."
"Ah," said Adaon. "Who does it bind?"
"Mark," said Kieran.
"Mark," Adaon echoed, a little mockingly. "What is so special about him, that you care if he is bound? Or should he be bound only to you?"
"I would not want that," Kieran said fiercely. "I would never want that. He should love me freely."
"Binding is not love, though it can reveal feelings otherwise buried." Adaon looked thoughtful. "I had not imagined I would hear you speak so, little dark one. When you were a child, you took what you wanted with no thought of the cost."
"No one in the Wild Hunt remains a child," said Kieran.
"It is a pity you were sent away," said Adaon. "You would have made a good King after our father, and the Court loved you."
Kieran shook his head. "I would not want to be King."
"Because you would have to give up Mark," said Adaon. "But every king gives up something. It is the nature of kings."
"But kings are not in my nature." Kieran tilted his head back to look up at his taller brother. "I think you are the one who would make a ruler, brother. Someone to bring peace back to the Lands."
"This is not just about a binding spell, is it?" said Adaon. "There is something else to all of this. Our father believes you have taken refuge with Shadowhunters to escape his wrath; I admit, I assumed the same. Is there more?"
"There might be," said Kieran. "I know you will not move against our father, but I also know you do not like him, or find his rule fair. If the throne were open, would you take it?"
"Kieran," said Adaon. "These are not things of which we speak."
"There has been bloodshed for so long, and no hope," said Kieran. "This is not about my safety alone. You must believe that."
"What are you planning, Kieran?" said Adaon. "What trouble have you gotten yourself into now?"
A hand clapped itself across Cristina's mouth. Another arm whipped around her, securing her. Her body jackknifed in surprise and she felt the grip on her loosen. She jerked her head backward, felt her skull connect with someone's face, and heard a yowl of pain.
"Who's there?" Adaon spun, hand on the hilt of his blade. "Show yourself!"
Something dug into Cristina's throat--something long and sharp. The blade of a knife. She froze.
*
"We should go," Emma whispered. She didn't ask Julian what Annabel had meant. She suspected they both knew.
Something dark and slippery flashed by across the transept, something that moved with a grotesque fluidity. The room seemed to darken. Emma wrinkled her nose--the rotten smell of demonic presence was suddenly all around, as if she'd opened a box full of a horrible potpourri.
Julian's face was luminous-pale in the shadows. He crumpled up the letter in his hand and they began to back out of the church, taking careful steps, the seraph blade offering flickering illumination. They were halfway to the exit when there was an enormous crash--the two big front doors of the church had slammed shut.
Faintly, Emma heard the giggle of a piskie.
They spun around as the altar overturned. It hit the ground with a shattering thud.
"You go left," Emma whispered. "I'll go right."
Julian slipped away noiselessly. Emma could still sense him there, his presence nearby. They had paused to rune each other halfway from the town to the church, looking out over Talland Bay and the blue ocean. Her runes prickled alive now as she slipped down the row of a pew and made her way along the inside wall of the church.
She had reached the nave. Shadows gathered thickly here, but her Night Vision rune was sparking and she was finding it easier to see in the dark. She could see the overturned altar, the huge blot of dried blood that stained the stone floor. There was a bloody handprint on one of the nearby pillars. It looked wrong and horrible, inside a chu
rch like this; it made Emma think of an Institute defiled.
Of Sebastian, spilling blood at the threshold of the Los Angeles stronghold of the Shadowhunters.
She flinched, and for just that moment of memory, her focus was diverted. Something flickered at the edge of her vision, just as Julian's voice exploded in her ears: "Emma, look out!"
Emma flung herself sideways, away from the flickering shadow. She landed on the overturned altar and spun around to see a rippling horror rising in front of her. It was scarlet-black, the color of blood--it was blood, formed of clotted, sludgy scarlet, with two burning white eyes. Its hands ended in flat points like the tip of a shovel, each with a single black, curved talon protruding from it. The talons dripped with a thin, lucent slime.
It spoke. Blood poured from its mouth, a black slash in its scarlet face. "I am Sabnock of Thule. How dare you stand before me, ugly human?"
Emma was surprised not to be called Shadowhunter--most demons knew the Nephilim. But she didn't show it. "How personal," she said. "I'm hurt."
"I do not understand your words." Sabnock slipped toward her. Emma edged backward on the altar. She could feel Julian somewhere behind her; she knew he was there, without looking.
"Most don't," she said. "It's a burden, being sarcastic."
"Blood drew me here," it said. "Blood is what I am. Blood spilled in hate and anger. Blood spilled in frustrated love. Blood spilled in despair."
"You're a demon," Emma said, holding Cortana out, straight and level. "I don't really need to know why or how. I just need you to go back where you came from."
"I came from blood, and to blood I will return," said the demon, and leaped, talons and teeth bared. Emma hadn't even realized it had teeth, but there they were, like shards of red glass.
She flipped backward, somersaulting away from the creature. It hit the altar with the sound of fluid smacking against something solid. The world spun around Emma as she turned. She felt utterly cold down to her bones, the freezing calm of battle that slowed everything in the world around her.
She landed, straightening. The demon was crouched at the edge of the altar, snarling. It leaped again, and this time she slashed at it, a swift upward thrust.
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