She didn’t move. More than anything else she wanted him to come to her and put his hands on her. She wanted to feel him against her when the space between them was no longer a space of cursed and forbidden things.
“I do want you to kiss me,” she whispered.
He closed the distance between them in one step. His hands cupped the back of her head, his mouth slanting down over hers, hot and sweet as tea with honey. She ran her teeth lightly across his bottom lip and he made a guttural sound that raised the hairs along her arms.
His warm lips moved to graze her cheek, her jawbone. “I didn’t know if you’d want me to touch you,” he murmured against her skin.
It was a pleasure just to look up at him slowly. To know that none of this needed to be rushed. She slipped her nightgown over her head and watched his face go tight with desire, his eyes dark as the bottom of the sea.
“I want you to touch me,” she said. “There’s nothing you could do to me that I wouldn’t want, because it’s you.”
He caught her in his arms and it was strange for a moment, her bare skin against his clothes, cotton and denim and metal rivets as he lifted her up and carried her to the bed. They crashed onto it together, Julian struggling out of his shirt, his jeans; Emma crawled atop him, leaning down to kiss his throat, to lick and suck at the pulse point there where she could feel the beating of his heart.
“I want to go slowly,” she whispered. “I want to feel everything.”
He gripped her hips and flipped their position, rolling over so that he was above her. He grinned down at her wickedly.
“Slowly it is,” he said.
He started with her fingers, kissing each one; he kissed the palms of her hands and her wrists, her shoulders and her collarbones. He traced a path of kisses over her stomach until she was writhing and gasping and threatening him, which only made him laugh softly and turn his attention to even more sensitive places.
When the world had gone white behind her eyes several times, he rose up over her and brushed her damp hair away from her face. “Now,” he whispered, and covered her mouth with his own as he joined their bodies together.
It was slow as he had said it would be, as it had never been before; there was no desperation beyond their desire. They lay crosswise on the bed, sprawled and hungry, yearning and touching. She stroked his face lightly, reverently: the curve of his mouth, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbones, and with every touch and moment his breath grew more ragged, his grip on the sheets tighter. Her back arched to meet him, her head full of sparks: they rose and blended together until everything was fire. And when they caught alight at last, neither able to wait a moment longer, they were one person. They were incandescent as angels.
* * *
From Mark’s room, he could see the moon, and it troubled him.
There had been so many nights on horseback, the moon riding with them as if it, too, hunted the sky. He could hear Kieran’s laughter in his ears, even now, clear laughter untouched by sorrow.
He hoped Kieran would laugh again like that someday.
He could only picture him sitting in darkness, in the blackened throne room of the Unseelie King, a bleak and lonely place. A King of shattered hearts and broken souls, solitary on his granite throne, growing older slowly through the ages of the world.
It was more than he could stand. He was grateful beyond measure when Cristina slipped into his room and crawled onto the bed with him. She wore white pajamas, her hair loose and dark. She curled up against his side, pressing her face into his neck. Her cheeks were wet with tears.
“Is this really how it ends? The three of us, all miserable?” he said.
She placed her hand over his heart. “I love you, Mark,” she said, her voice gentle. “I hate to think of your heart torn as mine is.”
“I am happier when you are here,” he said, placing his hand over hers. “And yet . . .”
“And yet,” she said. “I have an idea, Mark. Perhaps a mad one. But it might work. It might mean we could see him again.” Her dark eyes were straightforward. “I would need your help.”
He drew her up his body and kissed her; she went soft against him, her body curving into his. She was rich and sweet as honey, silken as a bed of wildflowers. She was the only woman he would ever love.
He thumbed the tears away from her cheeks and whispered, “My hand, my heart, my blade are yours. Tell me what I need to do.”
* * *
Emma lay with her head on Julian’s chest, feeling the beat of her heart slowly return to normal. Somehow most of the covers had come off the bed and were on the floor; they were half-wrapped in sheets, Julian’s free hand idly playing with her hair.
“So I guess you feel pretty good about yourself,” she said.
He blinked at her sleepily. “Why would that be?”
She laughed, her breath stirring the soft dark curls of his hair. “If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.”
He smiled. “How do you feel?”
She folded her arms on his chest, looking up at him. “Happy. So happy but also like I don’t deserve to be.”
His hand stilled in her hair. “Why not? You deserve to be happy more than anyone I know.”
“If it wasn’t for you, I would have done a terrible thing,” Emma said. “I would have broken all the parabatai bonds. It would have caused so much devastation.”
“You were half-crazy from the curse,” Julian said. “You weren’t thinking straight.”
“Still. I let myself be manipulated by the Queen. Even though I knew she only cares about herself. I knew it, and I let her get into my head. I should have had faith.”
“But you did,” he said. “Faith isn’t never having any doubts; it’s having what you need to overcome them.” He lightly stroked her cheek. “We all have things we regret doing. I regret asking Magnus to do that spell. I regret that we couldn’t help Ash. He was just a kid.”
“I know,” she said. “I hate that we left him behind. But if he was here—someone would always be looking for him. All it would take is some spells from the Black Volume to make him so powerful everyone would want to use him.”
“Good thing there aren’t any Black Volumes left,” said Julian. “For a while it was like a whack-a-mole game. I guess I contributed to that.” He smiled crookedly. “Oh, and I regret killing Dane Larkspear.”
“He was going to kill us,” Emma said. “You did what you had to do.”
“Ah, there’s the murderous girl I know and love,” said Julian. “I don’t know how I’ll ever make up for Dane. But I have the faith you’ll help me figure it out.”
“I believe you deserve to be happy,” Emma said. “You’re the bravest and most loving person I know.”
“And I believe you deserve to be happy,” said Julian. “So how about I believe it for you, and you believe it for me? We can believe it for each other.”
Emma glanced toward the window. She could see the first traces of sunlight in the sky. Morning was breaking.
She looked up at Julian. Dawn touched the edges of his hair and eyelashes with gold. “Do you have to go back to your room?” she whispered.
He smiled down at her. “No,” he said. “We don’t have to lie or pretend now. We don’t have to lie or pretend ever again.”
* * *
It was the first time Emma had been in the Council Hall since Livvy had died.
It wasn’t the only reason she was desperate for the meeting to be over, but it was certainly part of it. The blood might have been scrubbed out of the dais, but she would always see it there. She knew it was the same for Julian; he tensed beside her as they went in through the doors with the rest of the Blackthorns. The whole family was quiet, even Tavvy.
The Hall was filled to bursting. Emma had never seen it so full: Shadowhunters were smashed together on the rows of seats, and the aisles were filled with those who were standing; some were Projecting in from distant Institutes, their half-transparent shimmering form
s glowing along the back wall. Emma recognized Isabelle and Simon among them and waved.
Thankfully, seats had been kept for the Blackthorns by Jaime and Diego. Jaime had held an entire row by lying across it; he popped up when they approached and let them all slide in, winking at several glaring Shadowhunters who had been hoping to find a seat.
People stared at all the Blackthorns, but especially Emma and Julian, as they took their seats. It had been the same at the house the day before: strangers gawking, wide-eyed. Emma remembered what she had thought about Jace and Clary at the war council meeting: So this is what it’s like to be heroes. To be the ones with angel blood, the ones who’ve literally saved the world. People look at you as if . . . almost as if you’re not real.
As it turned out, it made you wonder yourself how real you were.
Emma wound up sitting between Cristina and Julian, her fingertips touching Julian’s discreetly on the seat between them. Now that she and Julian were no longer parabatai, all she wanted was to get home and start their new life. They would discuss their travel year and plan all the places they would go. They would visit Cristina in Mexico, and Jace and Clary in New York, and Great-Aunt Marjorie in England. They would go to Paris and stand in front of the Eiffel Tower holding hands and there would be nothing wrong with it and nothing forbidden.
Maybe it would be a short meeting? She glanced around the room, noting the serious expressions on everyone’s faces. Knots of those who had been friendly to the Cohort, but had not fought with them on the field, huddled together on benches, whispering. Dearborn sympathizers like Lazlo Balogh, who had remained in the city for the duration of the battle, hadn’t been arrested—only those who had raised weapons against other Nephilim would stand trial.
“People look grim,” she murmured to Julian.
“No one wants to sentence the Cohort,” he said. “A lot of them are young. It feels brutal, I think.”
“Zara deserves sentencing,” Emma muttered. “She stabbed me and she totally upset Cristina with that whole fake engagement.”
Julian looked over at Cristina, who had her head on Mark’s shoulder. “I think Cristina has moved on,” he said. “And Diego, too.”
Emma darted a look at where Diego—his cheek bandaged—was sitting and chatting with a glowing Divya, who had been thrilled Anush had fought on their side on the field. Interesting.
There was a rustle and a flourish as the guards closed the side doors and Jia entered through the back of the Hall. The room hushed as she moved down to the dais, her robes sweeping the steps. Behind her, wearing the flame-colored tunics of prisoners, were the captured Cohort members. There were perhaps fifty or sixty of them, many of them young, just as Julian had said. So many had been recruited through the Scholomance and its outreach. Vanessa Ashdown, Manuel Villalobos, Amelia Overbeck, and Zara herself, her expression defiant.
They filed onto the dais behind Jia, the guards guiding them into rows. Some were still bandaged from the battle. All bore iratzes. Their tunics were printed with runes meant to keep them trapped in the city. They could not pass the gates of Alicante.
Flame to wash away our sins, Emma thought. It was odd to see prisoners with their hands unbound, but even if each of them had been freely bearing two longswords, they would hardly have been a match for the hundreds of other Shadowhunters in the Council Hall.
She saw Diego lean over to whisper something to Jaime, who shook his head, his face troubled.
“We come together in a time of grief and healing,” announced Jia, her voice echoing off the walls. “Thanks to the bravery of so many Shadowhunters, we have fought nobly, we have found new allies, we have preserved our relationships with Downworlders, and we have opened a new way forward.”
Zara made a horrible face at the phrase “preserved our relationships.” Emma hoped she would be sentenced to cleaning toilets for the rest of eternity.
“However,” said Jia. “I am not the leader who can take us on that path.”
Murmurs ran through the room; was Jia really saying what they thought she was saying? Emma bolted upright in her seat and looked over at Aline, but she seemed as shocked as the rest of the room. Patrick Penhallow, though, seated in the front row, seemed unsurprised.
“I will preside over the sentencing of the Cohort,” Jia continued, unfazed. “It will be my last act as Consul. After that there will be an open election for a new Consul and a new Inquisitor.”
Helen whispered to Aline, who took her hand. Emma felt a chill go through her. This was a surprise and the last thing she wanted was a surprise. She knew it was selfish—she remembered Jem saying that Jia was ill—but still, Jia was a known quantity. The unknown loomed.
“And when I say an open election,” Jia continued, “I mean an open election. Everyone in this Hall will have a vote. Everyone will have a voice. No matter their age; no matter if they are Projecting from their home Institute. No matter,” she added, “if they are members of the Cohort.”
A roar went through the room.
“But they are criminals!” shouted Joaquin Acosta Romero, head of the Buenos Aires Institute. “Criminals do not have a vote!”
Jia waited patiently for the roar to die down into quiet. Even the Cohort were staring at her in puzzlement. “Look how full this Council Hall is,” she said. People twisted around in their seats to stare at the overflowing rows of seats, the hundreds of Projections in the back of the room. “You’re all here because over the past week, and especially since the battle, you have realized how urgent this situation always was. The Clave was nearly taken over by extremists who would have driven us into isolation and self-destruction. And everyone who stood back and allowed this to happen—through inattention, through apathy and overconfidence—” Her voice shook. “Well. We are all guilty. And therefore we will all vote, as a reminder that every voice counts, and when you choose not to use your voice, you are letting yourself be silenced.”
“But I still don’t see why criminals should vote!” yelled Jaime, who had apparently taken the “no matter their age” portion of the speech to heart.
“Because if they don’t,” said Diana, rising to her feet and addressing the room, “they will always be able to say that whoever the new Consul is, they were elected because the majority had no voice. The Cohort has always flourished by telling the lie that they speak for all Shadowhunters—that they say the words that everyone would speak if they could. Now we will test that lie. All Shadowhunters will speak. Including them.”
Jia assented gravely. “Miss Wrayburn is correct.”
“So what will be done with the prisoners, then?” called Kadir. “Will they walk among us, free?”
“The Cohort must be punished! They must be!” The voice was a raw scream. Emma turned and flinched; she felt Julian’s hand tighten on hers. It was Elena Larkspear. She was alone; her husband had not come to the meeting. She looked as haggard as if she had aged fifty years in the past week. “They used our children—as if they were trash—to do the things too filthy or dangerous for them to do! They murdered my daughter and my son! I demand reparations!”
She fell back into her seat with a dry sob, covering her face with her hands. Emma stared at the Cohort, her throat aching: even Zara was having a hard time wiping the look of horror off her face.
“They will not go unpunished,” said Jia gently. “They have been tested by the Mortal Sword and confessed to their crimes. They sent Dane Larkspear to murder other Shadowhunters, and were thus directly responsible for his death.” She inclined her head toward Elena. “They murdered Oskar Lindquist that a demon might take his place at a meeting held at the Los Angeles Institute. Led by Horace Dearborn, this group used lies and intimidation to try to lead the Clave into a false alliance with Faerie—”
“And now you people are trying to lead the Clave into an alliance with the new King—how is that different?” Zara shouted, rallying.
Emma whipped her head around to study the room. Many Shadowhunters looked angry or ann
oyed, but there were those who clearly didn’t disagree with Zara. Ugh.
A voice rang out clearly, stony and cold. Alec Lightwood’s. “Because open political engagement is very different from disavowing any relationship to Downworlders in public while conspiring to commit murder with them behind the backs of the people you’re meant to be governing.”
“The Cohort imprisoned loyal Nephilim and sent others to their deaths,” said Jia after a withering glance at Zara. “We were brought to the brink of civil war.” She looked out at the Clave. “You might think I want to punish them severely, strip their Marks and send them into the mundane world they so despise. But we must consider mercy. So many of the Cohort are young, and they were influenced by misinformation and outright lies. Here we can give them a chance to again rejoin the Clave and redeem themselves. To turn from the path of deceit and hate and walk once again in the light of Raziel.”
More murmurs. The members of the Cohort looked at each other in confusion. Some seemed relieved, some angrier than ever.
“After this meeting,” Jia went on, “the Cohort will be split up and sent to different Institutes. Several of the Institutes who attended Julian Blackthorn’s war council have offered to take in former Cohort members and show them a better way. They will have a chance to prove themselves before they return to the homeland.”
Now there was an eruption of chatter. Some shouted the punishment was lenient. Some shouted that it was cruel to “exile them from Alicante.” Jia stilled the shouting with a gesture.
“Any who are not in favor of this punishment, please raise your hand or voice. Manuel Villalobos, you are not allowed to vote on this issue.”
Zara pinned Manuel, whose hand was half-raised, with a scowl.
A few more hands were raised. Emma almost wanted to raise hers and to say that they deserved worse. But then, she had spared Zara’s life on the field, and the gesture had led to all of this: had led to the end of the battle, and her and Julian’s freedom.
Queen of Air and Darkness (The Dark Artifices #3) Page 79
