Lady Midnight
Page 89

Mark looked up at his brother through his hair, his strange, odd-colored eyes gleaming. “Then I suppose I will sleep in,” he said. He gave one last glance at Emma’s closet—there was something in his expression, something disquieted—and left, closing the door behind him.
“Jules,” Emma said, “what’s wrong with you? What was that about, ‘if you two are busy with each other’? Do you think Mark and I were making out on the floor before you came in?”
“It wouldn’t have been my business if you had been,” Julian said. “I was giving you privacy.”
“You were being a jerk.” Emma slid off the bed and went over to her dresser to take off her earrings, looking at Julian in the mirror as she did so. “And I know why.”
She saw his expression change and tighten, surprise giving way to unreadability. “Why?”
“Because you’re worried,” she said. “You don’t like breaking the rules and you don’t think going to Rook’s is a good idea.”
He moved restlessly into the room and sat down on her bed. “Is that how you think of me?” he said. “Emma, if we need to go to Rook’s, then I’m part of the plan. I’m in it, a hundred percent.”
She looked at herself in the mirror. Long hair didn’t hide the Marks on her shoulders; her arms had muscles; her wrists were strong and sturdy. She was a map of scars: the old white scars from used-up runes, wending trails of cuts, and the splotches of burns from acidic demon blood.
She felt suddenly old, not just seventeen instead of twelve, but old. Old in her heart, and too late. Surely if she were going to find her parents’ murderer she would have done so by now.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He leaned back against her headboard. He was wearing an old T-shirt and pajama bottoms. “What for?”
For the way I feel. She shoved the words back. If she was having strange feelings about Jules, it wasn’t fair to tell him about them. She was the one in the wrong.
And he was hurting. She could see it in the set of his mouth, the darkness behind his light eyes.
“Doubting you,” she said.
“Back at you.” He flopped back onto her pillows. His shirt, untucked, rode up, giving Emma a clear view of his stomach, the corrugation of muscles, the smatter of golden freckles over his hip. . . .
“I don’t think I’m ever going to find out what happened to my parents,” she said.
At that he sat up, which was a relief. “Emma,” he said, and then paused. He didn’t say Why would you say that? Or What do you mean? Or any of the other things people said to fill up space. Instead, he said, “You will. You’re the most determined person that I’ve ever known.”
“I feel farther away now than I’ve ever felt. Even though we actually have a connection, even though we’re following up on it. I don’t see how their deaths could be connected to the Midnight Theater or the Lottery. I don’t see—”
“You’re afraid,” Jules said.
Emma leaned against the dresser. “Afraid of what?”
“Afraid we’ll find out something about them you don’t want to know,” he said. “In your mind, your parents are perfect. Now that we’re actually closing in on answers, you’re worried you’ll find out they were—”
“Not perfect?” Emma fought to keep the edge of tension out of her voice. “Bad people?”
“Human,” he said. “We all find out the people who are supposed to take care of us are human eventually. That they make mistakes.” He pushed his hair back out of his eyes. “I live in dread of the day the kids all figure that out about me.”
“Julian,” Emma said. “I hate to tell you this, but I think they’ve already figured that out.”
He smiled and slid off the bed. “Insults,” he said. “I guess that means you’re fine.” He moved to the door.
“We can’t tell Diana we’re going to Rook’s,” she said. “She thinks he’s a crook.”
“She’s not wrong.” The dim light in the room sparked off Julian’s bracelet. “Emma, do you want me to—”
He hesitated, but Emma heard the unspoken words. Stay with you?
Stay with me, she wanted to say. Stay and make me forget my nightmares. Stay and sleep next to me. Stay and chase the bad dreams away, the memories of blood.
But she only forced a smile. “I should get to sleep, Jules.”
She couldn’t see his expression as he turned to leave the room. “Good night, Emma.”
Emma woke late the next day: sometime overnight, the storm had washed the sky clean of clouds, and the afternoon sun was bright. Her head aching, she clambered out of bed, showered and changed, and nearly collided with Cristina outside her bedroom door.
“You slept so long, I was worried,” Cristina scolded. “Are you okay?”
“I will be once I have breakfast. Maybe something chocolate.”
“It’s much too late for breakfast. It’s past lunchtime. Julian sent me up to get you—he says he has drinks and sandwiches in the car but you have to get going now.”
“Do you think they’re chocolate sandwiches?” Emma inquired, falling into step beside Cristina as they both headed for the stairs.
“What’s a chocolate sandwich?”
“You know: bread, chocolate bar, butter.”
“That is disgusting.” Cristina shook her head; the pearls in her earlobes gleamed.
“Not as disgusting as coffee. You off to Malcolm’s?”
Cristina flashed a smile. “I shall ask a million questions of your purply-eyed warlock so that Diana doesn’t think about you and Julian or whether you might be at Mr. Rook’s.”
“I’m not sure he’s a mister,” Emma said, stifling a yawn. “I’ve never heard anyone call him anything but ‘hey, Rook’ or sometimes ‘that bastard.’”
“That is very rude,” said Cristina. There was something playful in her dark eyes. “I think Mark is nervous about being alone with the younger ones. This should be very amusing.” She tugged one of Emma’s damp braids. “Julian is waiting for you downstairs.”
“Good luck distracting Malcolm,” Emma called as Cristina strode off down the hallway toward the kitchen where Diana was, presumably, waiting.
Cristina winked. “Good luck getting information, cuata.”
Shaking her head, Emma headed down to the parking lot, where she found Julian standing beside the Toyota, examining the contents of the trunk. Beside him was Mark.
“I thought Cristina was going to be here,” Mark was saying as Emma approached. “I did not realize she was going to Malcolm’s. I did not think that I would be left alone with the children.”
“They’re not children,” Julian said, nodding a greeting at Emma. “Ty and Livvy are fifteen; they’ve looked after the others before.”
“Tiberius is angry that you are not allowing him to come with you to Rook’s,” said Mark. “He said he was going to lock himself in his room.”
“Terrific,” said Julian. His voice was rough; he looked as if he hadn’t slept. Emma wondered what could have kept him up. Research? “I guess you’ll know where he is. Look, the only one who needs looking after is Tavvy.”